You hear it everyday, or perhaps only I do. But someone has to look at you from time to time, smile in that curious way, perhaps shake their head and say “Where did you come from?” And usually I have no pat answer, or I come up with something ridiculously to disarm the question. But you have to sit down eventually and ask that question of yourself. Where did I come from? Pardon the dangling participle, but you have to formulate most of that answer before you can determine a direction for continued movement.
So me. Where did I come from? From my parents, a wonderful couple still married after over forty years, mom and dad to two sons born thirteen years apart. Different challenges met beautifully. My mother is of Lookout Mountain stock, though she made her way through business school to land a job at TVA, one that would last her adult life. One she still tends even now, post retirement. My father is from South Georgia, high school education bringing him into his own life’s work at Combustion Engineering, moving him from third shift boilermaker to quality control supervisor. He is also retired, and also still works.
I resemble my paternal grandfather, Albert Ezra. His photo taken presumably at Tybee Island in 1917 is kindly familiar, since I look at the same face in the mirror eighty some odd years later.
He fought in World War I in the Sixth Calvary. Apparently he was a communications officer in France, but he never liked talking about the time he spent there. Often he would reduce the experience to three simple observations: “We were cold, we had to steal cabbages from farms, the Red Cross took our food.” But he had tons of other stories of growing up, courting my grandmother, going fishing. He loved the Braves during their dryest spell in the early 80s. So much so that we had cable television brought up the steep driveway to his house near Chickamauga Park. I wish often that I would have asked more questions, begged for more stories, but he was there for our family until the age of 98.
So now I am struggling to do what I can here in Atlanta. My brother has a wife and two amazing sons, my nephews that I adore. My cousin has a baby on the way, and perhaps she will take my request and time the birth to match my impending March birthday. After all, I read an excerpt from “The Velveteen Rabbit” at her wedding, so why not do me this little favor? Our family has gotten into the habit of celebrating our heritage and love with reunions on a semi-regular basis. And little by little, my brother appears to be making headway on some kind of family tree. So eventually, we will all know where we have been.
But in the meantime, I have nephews to amuse. And that gives me more hope that I can often handle.
