[The National Archives] is the raw essence of history—millions of documents attesting to the building of this nation and to the everyday affairs of common individuals. It is Americana at its best: the story of who we are and what we have accomplished.
QUESTION: My grandfather, John Charles Izard, died July 18, 1954, near Wellington, Kansas, while on vacation. He was returning to his home in Santa Rosa, California. I need a death certificate for him to obtain a Certificate of Blood from the Choctaw Nation, but I’ve not been able to find one. Neither the state of Kansas nor the state of California has a record of his death.
A look at anniversaries.
Anniversaries provide us with wonderful excuses to pause and step away from our daily business and stress. I’m so blessed to be able to recall several milestones this year. My husband, Bob, and I celebrated forty-five years of marriage in the spring.
Take a look into some cherished family heirlooms.
Pulling out my mom’s linen table-cloth for a recent party triggered memories of long-ago Sunday dinners with family and friends gathered around the table telling stories about the past.
What fires our imaginations more than the image of an immigrant ancestor’s first steps on American soil?
Human beings look separate because you see them walking about separately. But then we are so made that we can see only the present moment. If we could see the past, then of course it would look different. For there was a time when every man was part of his mother, and (earlier still) part of his father as well, and when they were part of his grandparents.
Stories. Artifacts. Memories. For a genealogist, these can be the greatest gifts ever—to give and receive. Take the box of letters my Uncle Edwin wrote from a World War I battlefield “somewhere in France.” They were packed with my mom’s treasured belongings when she moved to Mexico as a bride, and again when she moved to Texas forty years later.
Mark Twain was speaking once about his hometown of Hannibal, Missouri, to a reporter in India. “All that goes to make the me in me,” Twain said, “is a small Missouri village on the other side of the globe.”
I have never met a family historian who didn’t feel the same. Home is a place we never forget.
I’d like to think that if I had been born a family historian, I would have been smart enough to ask some basic questions of my older relatives before it was too late. But my fascination with family history didn’t start until my four daughters went to school and I finally found time to fill in their baby books—the kind with a four-generation family tree.
Each of us contributes to our own family and to the world in a unique way. Whether we are rich or poor, famous or unnoticed in history, every family member makes a difference in the life of others. We learn important lessons from lives that were less than exemplary, and we are inspired by lives that were lived to help others. Our family members are the stuff that legends and memories are made of.