A few months ago, Mel spent the evening making some home-made applesauce with the apples from our tree in the backyard. He used his grandmother’s recipe. The apples are tart and small and delicious if you have a lot of time to work with them. He peeled and chopped about 40 apples and we ate all the applesauce for dinner. I remember my grandmother having containers and containers of home-made applesauce. I wonder how my ancestors managed to preserve so much food. For the last couple of years, I have been working to try to put some food away. I am shocked by the volume of food that is required if I want to eat it during the winter. I buy what I consider large quantities of things–a bushel of tomatoes, a flat of strawberries, and they disappear as I make jam or sauce. That is kind of what happened with the apples. I have been judging myself by a tough standard, I realized. I am the first woman in my family to continue in a career after I married. The women I admire who were fantastic at putting food away were housewives. If it were my job to put food away, I imagine I would be a fair bit better at it. I picture them never really sitting down, but then I think of the handwork my grandmother did–always making something–and I realize she had to sit down for that. And she watched her soap operas. I am not sure her life was quite as full as I thought it was. She had some down time I think. I spend my time in front of a computer. It is ironic that I work and feel lazy because I can’t do all the tasks women from previous generations...
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I always feel a little odd when I think about my “roots.” Same with blood and blood lines and “family ties.” It is because I am adopted and I simply don’t know how to “hold” these words in my soul. I simply haven’t ever been able to make a decision about how to think about these concepts. I have always known it would be easier if I had some… conviction about it. It is the indecision that comes with having to choose which family to identify with as my connection to the past, my ancestors. It leaves me feeling a bit lost. I know I could decide to call either my biological family my “roots” or my adopted family my “family ties.” But neither quite feels true to me. I have always been comforted by the stories in both families that I am a tiny bit Cherokee. Somehow by having the same lineage in both families, it is true. I feel connection to the possessions of those I loved and those of their ancestors that they loved. I feel less connected to family reunions, family trees, and the concept of “ancestors.” When I was 21 years old my birth mother searched for me. I met her and much of her family. They were nice people and I enjoyed visiting with them. I was in a relationship with them for a while and then for a variety of reasons backed away for a number of years. I reconnected with my birth mother a few years ago. It is a fairly casual relationship now–we talk by phone a few times a year. I have liked the concept of genealogy and tracing roots since I first heard of it. I love the idea of being a detective, tracing people through genealogical lines and learning their stories. But I always stop before I engage because I wouldn’t know which family to trace. Neither feels right. My biological family because it is lacking the love—I don’t really care how...
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