Pieces

The puzzle of my kin has filled in a bit more. Not that I will ever have all the pieces - no one ever does, but I'm finding a small warm joy in this ray of contact from a cousin. I've always liked cousins. She's only eight years younger than me, I'm sure we must've met. Not that either of us would remember, but there had to be a funeral in there we were both brought to.

She says my mother's family has always been dysfunctional. My father's side will always be worse for me. But I grew up feeling like I'd missed out on the more intelligent, interesting and funny side. I wanted to belong more with them, but I was too young, met most of them only at the numerous funerals of great aunts and uncles and grandparents. My father kept contact minimal, and ranted about how he thought they treated him. To hear from a cousin who grew up amid them to call them dysfunctional, eases that loss. I maintain that my paternal side was deeply fucked up, and the maternal side not half as bad.

I never looked into my genealogy for the plain reason that I didn't like any of my alive relatives, I didn't think I'd like the dead ones any better. That, and when I worked at the Burton Historical Collection - I learned to loathe most genealogists. They were picky, ridiculous pedants, and messy - as a group. Some of them were lovely folks, a lot of them probably. But I remembered the horrible ones more. Knowing where I came from, and why it was as poisonous - that I wanted to understand. I'd still like to do the genetic maps - to find out where my genetic ancestry originated. That's facts, that's data, that's interesting.

Work still busy, which is good. I have a job.

The thick ice on the drive between the houses is finally melting. Enough that D could hack away blocks, and the tires didn't slip coming home.

Another long weekend, and welcome.