As the son of a genealogist I have a lot of "great" memories of being dragged to this cemetery or that house where a dead relative used to live. I like those memories a lot better now than I did as a kid when my friends' families were going to Disney and I was watching my parents spin through dusty rolls of microfilm. I know we also went to parks and camping and fishing and all the "kid" stuff, but I still roll my eyes when my mom starts in about whose cousin is buried where, just like some of my kids do when I start driving back roads looking for a mud house I heard about. Today my ten year old got a double dose when we took my mom to see her grandparents' old homestead in Pueblo Colorado and I discovered that they had an adobe barn.
The dust you kick up as a kid has a way of sticking to your soul. My sister rolled her eyes at my parents' weird hobby every bit as much as I did, but she is now a full time genealogist dragging her kids with her on quests for names in courthouse basements, and one of my daughters is working on her engineering degree so she can design and build earthen buildings. I guess it all comes back home.
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