The Humdrum History of a Life
And the power of knowing your ancestory
I spent a significant portion of last year writing on external issues. After a 20-year hiatus from “news” writing, I thought I might go there again. I lasted a week as a newspaper “editor” (a position which turned out to include the duties of editor, reporter, and head of circulation) and about five months focusing on politics here on my Substack. It was all disastrous. Threats, lies, cheats, attacks — and me lowering myself to the playing field. Piss-poor behavior all around, as is typical for politicos.
And then, I basically shut down. It is hard to be publicly creative when people are threatening your home, posting lies about you online, and sending ongoing messages that stir the already swirling shit-storm in your head. I also quit taking in local news and communications, which meant giving up the local newspapers and locking myself out of Facebook. (I haven’t logged on since November 1.)
Overall, it has been an improvement.
Instead, I have been reading my Great-Aunt Margaret’s diaries, which span almost 70 years’ worth of mostly trivial records of weather, daily chores, and simple notable life events surrounding the lives of the Mason County WV Wheelers - Margaret, Thelma (my grandmother), Ethel, Hattie, Gladys, Ray, and Otho. (Ray is not often mentioned, and Goldie never. She died of pneumonia as a teen.) Siblings raised by a single mother after their father was hit and killed by a drunk driver during the Great Depression.
I am reading the diaries in chronological order, starting with 1953. I’m now up to 1965. The diaries include notes on who visited, how many attended church, the day’s garden harvest, who was born, and who died. The diaries are perfect bedtime reading. They’ll put you to sleep in no time.
But tucked in amongst the daily detritus there are gems like, “They put a man in space today,” and “Today is JFK’s funeral.” Also little family tidbits like, “Ethel’s wash house burnt down today,” and “the hail ruined all the plants in the <just planted> garden.”
But the journals are not of much interest to anyone else. In fact, they aren’t really of much interest at all - but I am drawn in regardless. (And, this is the second entry I have written about these diaries.)
I mull the trivia of these diaries and the lives of the women (and men) of my maternal grandmother at a time when the dynamics of mother-daughter relationships are also a current dominating theme in my family. Aunt Margaret lived to 107. My mother recently celebrated her 91st birthday. The number of those who actually remember and experienced the lives I’m reading about has dwindled.
Two generations back on my mother’s side, they literally grew up “dirt poor.” I come from Thelma, the sister who married and left the country life. The one who, after a visit, Margaret noted: “really showed herself today.” Anyone who knew my grandmother can easily imagine what that might have entailed. But also, it shows the attitude towards those who left and rarely returned.
On my grandfather’s side, the McDermotts, five brothers provided for and spoiled the daughters born to them. These are the people who raised our mothers, the first generation of cousins. They then, in turn, raised us — the second cousins. In my family, the second cousins are a mix of late Boomers and early GenXers. Now, of course, there are third, fourth, and recently, a new fifth cousin. But only the second cousins, my generation, lived among and knew the original Wheeler siblings, born on a wooded farm that didn’t even have a driveway, but only a path, who lost their father too early, and a sister as well.
There’s something about knowing these generational dynamics that helps make sense of who my cousins and I are and why we are who we are. Why our family values what they value, the perspectives that we carry, the distillation and variances born from the experiences of generations prior. If we are, physically, the DNA of our ancestors, then we are also, mentally, the result of the generational experiences that got us here, molded and bent by the influences of American culture.
And here’s where I get to the point, or some moral to this story, and why it is much more difficult to write about internal musings than external events. I’m not sure I have a point. I just know that somehow, for some reason, reading the dull daily record of an ancestor helps me better understand my grandmother, my mother, my cousins, sister, nieces, and nephews. It helps me better understand myself.
Somehow, Aunt Margaret’s lackluster daily record serves as a sort of therapy. Not just due to the contents, but due to the timing at which they came to me. After picking up her daily diary habit in the last few months, I understand that the writing was more for herself than any other possible reader. Still, I often wonder if she ever thought anyone would ever read them, if perhaps they were gathering dust for years waiting just for me.
I have no final thoughts. I’m still reading, with years and years yet to cover. I’m still contemplating mother-daughter relationships and the contrast between city and country values. I think about the glorious simplicity of past lives, and a longing to return to such, about where we have come from, and where we are going. Winter is a time for rumination and contemplation, and Margaret’s journals are the perfect reading.