Went rummaging in a nightstand drawer for a bookmark this morning and discovered a small envelope of treasures: my grandfather’s last driver’s license; his WWII Selective Service card (they were desperate — he was 45) and tiny portraits of my grandmother, my mother and her siblings. It came at a good time — right on the heels of a weekend of some family hurtfulness.
This probably doesn’t qualify as genealogy research; I know as much about the people in that envelope as I do my own spouse and children. But seeing them after the events of this particular weekend, it made me feel connected to family again.
And there is the offbeat pleasure of seeing one’s mother at about 11 or 12, in the awkward state between juvenile and maturity; and then at about 15, defiantly beautiful.