Wordless Wednesday - Moment of Zen

© 26 Oct 2022, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

 

October is National Family History Month

Before you can celebrate Family History Month shouldn’t you at least have a working definition of the term, family?  Some define family as those individuals who live or have lived together in one dwelling. Some define family by a minimum number of shared centimorgans. And some use the heart to set the parameters for who is and isn’t family.

Karen Ferry in Make Me Believe wrote, “Family isn’t whose blood you carry … It’s who you love and who loves you back.”

Fifteen years ago, I struggled with my own definition. Below is the post I wrote  My words were true then, and they are true now.

(FYI – I no longer am a Grey’s Anatomy aficionado, and the number of grandchildren has mushroomed from that mere puny four.)

In honor of Family History Month:

 

For National Family History Month — One Definition of Family

For someone who professes a great interest in family history, I have dragged my heels on mentioning the fact that October has been designated as National Family History Month. As I mentally planned this post, I intended to link you to some terrific ideas on how to celebrate the month.

Instead, I find myself squirming about writing on the subject. Preferring instead to put the laptop down, and go foraging for something to eat, or something interesting to read. Or, when I finally make myself sit with laptop in hand, I suddenly feel the need to find spoilers for “Grey's Anatomy,” or a good recipe for crock-pot Chili or googling about any errant thought that flitters through my brain — anything but writing this post.

The sticking point for me is I'm suddenly self-conscious about the definition of family. If human beings conducted their lives in a nice orderly fashion, and if we all lived to be ninety, the concept of family would be easy. But we don't. We sometimes die in automobile accidents, or get cancer, or we find the love of our life isn't, or we somehow derail a perfectly good life for liquor or drugs or lust. I'm not making judgments; I'm stating that human beings lead messy lives. And these messy lives have consequences, one of which is that the definition of family gets bruised and muddied.

 Is a favored uncle by marriage who died more than 40 years ago, still part of my family? Is the aunt of my youth, no longer married to my biological uncle still my aunt? The grade school project of making a family tree seems innocent and straight forward, unless you happen to be an adopted child, or a foster child, or child of a blended family. What tree does that child make? What genealogical chain does he follow? What family history should she celebrate?

Dr. Joyce Maguire Pavao, author of The Family of Adoption, talks instead of a family tree, a family orchard that includes as many trees as necessary for an individual's identity. The concept allows for both biology and reality, for inclusion of nature and nurture. In my family, it allows the man who adopted my grandfather when he was 10, and whose last name I carried until I married, to be recognized and honored in our family orchard. It allows my orchard to include four beautiful grandchildren for whom I am not grandmother by blood, but rather grandmother by heart. It is a concept I embrace.

Until Next Time — Happy Ancestral Digging!

Note: This post first published online, October 11, 2007, at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The Fremont News-Messenger.

 © 11 October 2007 & revised 20 Oct 2022, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder

Happy 70th Birthday, Dear Ruby! 🌹

 

Take a moonlit night on the banks of the Potomac, a few bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Wine, our guardian angel, Jim (also procurer of the aforementioned wine), my alcoholic infused babbling tongue, and a very long walk back to our Dorm, and presto change-o, you became Ruby. 

In truth, the actual metamorphosis happened the next day.  We dragged ourselves to Jim’s part time gig at the local pizza parlor, feeling a trifle worse for the wear. Jim came to our booth and asked, “So who is this Ruby chick?” What? There was no Ruby. “Well, she,” his fingers pointing at me, “kept calling someone, Ruby.” The light dawned.  My slurred midwestern twang version of Roomie, sounded like Ruby to his Southern accent accustomed ears.  After that, you were officially, Ruby. 

Fifty one years ago was the last time we celebrated your birthday together. 

Honestly, it seems like yesterday.  You came North to be in my wedding, and a year later, I went South to return the favor.  Life was so busy, and we lost touch.  

I chose a school that was six hours away from home.  A school where I knew no one. I made a lot of friends, but the four of us – you, me, J and K – were our own Fab Four. 

I learned so much that year.

I learned that  frozen daiquiris are yummy.

I learned enough swear words to make a marine blush.  (That was mostly, J.  That girl was a swearing savant.  Although, my personal favorite, and one I would continue to use, was your “Well, F—k a red and yellow duck.”)

I learned that it takes beaucoup quarters to call a boyfriend who was spending several months in Europe.  You sold your beautiful red jacket, your clogs, your gorgeous purple dress, and I don’t know what else to Vicky, to feed the machine.  It was a good thing that W came home when he did, or goodness knows you would have been left with only your undies and your slippers!

I learned that yes, Virginia, you can squeeze a mattress through a second floor window to the ground below when Vicky and Hawaii did just that. I don’t know how they explained the missing mattress. But… Not my monkeys, not my zoo.

I learned that sometimes, having a messy closet, can actually be a good thing.  You brought that little black and white TV back for the second semester. It was strictly verboten.  Our RA, who was normally a big stickler for following the rules, agreed to overlook it when you slyly suggested that she was welcome to come down and watch her favorite soap opera. 

The problem was, we were assigned a new house mother that semester, and she was doing a surprise inspection.  I happened to leave our room to go to our wing’s bathroom and there was Miss W. with our R.A., Mary.  Mary was standing behind our new housemother, frantically doing a pantomime for my benefit.  When I got back to the room, I told you what was happening and we quickly hid the TV in my closet, which was, as usual, a disaster.

 We made it more of one, throwing clothes off hangers, grabbing more clothes out of my drawers to cover the TV, and putting some on the floor to complete, “The Look.”  We had just finished when a tapping at the door ushered in Miss W. and Mary. Oh Lord, Mary’s eyes were practically popping out of their sockets as she looked around for that TV.  Miss W. went to your closet first  She did a thorough check. Then she came to mine.  She took one look at the disaster, sniffed, and then left the room. I bet we sat there hyperventilating for a good five minutes.  I don’t remember.  Was that an expulsion offense?

I learned, thanks to your insistence, that I did not need full make-up to go to the dining hall for breakfast.  You would pace the room back and forth until I was ready.  Oh, the pressure!

I learned that forming a study group really made getting decent grades a snap.  The fact that the four of us were all El Ed majors meant we had the same courses, and often the same class.

I learned that I could easily do a 7:10 AM class if it was history.  (The professor loved my papers.) But a 11:10 Friday class in English, just interfered too much with my life.  (That professor hated my papers.)  

I learned that while the movies make it look like throwing a burning object into a waste basket easily smothers the fire, in real life that only works if the basket isn’t already full of paper. Duh!

I learned that a good friend will sit on the bathroom floor outside your stall, patiently explaining – well, never mind, no one else needs the details, but you’ll remember what I am referring to. You, dear Ruby girl, were such a good friend!

I learned that I could go somewhere I had never been; where I knew no one; and find my own tribe.

I hope your birthday is wonderful, Ruby.  You are the first of our group to hit that milestone. The rest of us will bravely follow you.  I think of you and J and K often.  I am sending you virtual hugs and good wishes on the wind.

Terry

© 17  Oct 2022, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

Ancestry’s New Chromosome Painter – Close but no Cigar!

 

I really wanted to give a thumbs up to Ancestry’s new Chromosome Painter.  (Although a Chromosome Browser would make me much happier.) Sadly, Ancestry has missed the mark.

My mother, my brother and I have all taken Ancestry’s DNA test.  And yes, we are the appropriate centimorgans match to show mother and child, and full siblings. Therefore, I should be a half-match to my mother’s ethnicity, on each chromosome.  My brother should be likewise.  As for my brother and I, we could be a full match, a partial match or no match depending on which segments we inherited from mom and which segments we inherited from dad.

Here is what our ethnicity looks like for each of us on Chromosome 12. 

Mom: 

Me: 

Brother: 

The color on this chromosome is deceptive in that mom’s colors represent Germanic Europe for her parent 1 and Scotland for parent 2.

My colors on the same chromosome represent Sweden and Denmark for parent 1 and England and Northwestern Europe for parent 2.

My brother’s colors represent Sweden and Denmark for parent 1 and England and Northwestern Europe for parent 2.

You can see that each of us has a green component to our Chromosome 12, but the green stands for different ethnicities on my mother’s chart as opposed to my brother and me.  In our case, green denotes England and Northwestern Europe, while on my mother’s chart it denotes Scotland. 

Looking at this, you might draw the conclusion that my brother and I are a full match on this chromosome, but we are not. 

By looking at all the chromosomes I can tell that for me, my mother is represented by parent 1 and my father is parent 2.  My brother is the opposite.  Parent 1 for him is my dad, and parent 2 is my mom. How do I know this?  My mother has no Eastern Europe or Russia in her ethnicity, but my father’s German side (half of his DNA) also has some Kashubian thrown into the mix.  Kashubian’s were one of several Slavic tribes that settled in Pomerania along with Germans.  Dad gets this mixture from his maternal grandparents who emigrated from Pomerania in 1906.

On my chromosome painter all the Eastern Europe and Russia show up on parent 2, while for my brother, they show up on parent 1.  Which means according to Ancestry, I received my Sweden and Denmark ethnicity from mom and my England and Northwestern Europe from dad.  My brother, on the other hand, received the Sweden and Denmark ancestry from dad, and the England and Northwestern Europe from mom.  Confusing, yes?

Because I am a visual person, I put all our chromosome ethnicities on a spreadsheet. I coded each ethnicity with a specific color so that I could see immediately where we matched and where we didn’t. 

My mother and I don’t match ethnicities at all on Chromosomes, 1, 12, 13, 14, or 15.  My brother and she do not match on Chromosomes 4, 7, 10 and 12. 

Below you can see Chromosomes 12, 13, and 4 for each of us.                                                                                                                                                         

Logically, not matching ethnicities with my mother on specific chromosomes does not make sense.  I give Ancestry a B for effort, and a D for execution.  The worst part, it makes me question all their ethnicity assumptions.  They have tagged me with Scandinavian (now Sweden and Denmark) since I first took the test in 2012.  I have yet to find a Swede or Dane in the family tree. 

Until Next Time . . . 

© 15 Sept 2022, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

Wordless Wednesday - Looking fine at 90!

😀💕👏

 © 14 Sept 2022, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

Happy Birthday Mamacita

Song: “Mother Like Mine” sung by The Band Perry from their album, Pioneer

© 23 August 2022, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

Ancestry's new Chromosome Painter (Beta Addition)

 

If you have been on Ancestry lately, you may have noticed this banner.

  

Ut oh, I thought, I’d better make sure I had captured the last update before it disappeared. Ancestry’s last “refresh” took away my smidgen of Welsh ethnicity, which I will admit, bummed me out. Oddly enough, my brother gained Welsh ancestry on that last refresh.  He always gets all the cool stuff!

In that last update, Ancestry had split my inherited Ethnicities to a specific parent, which they cleverly called, Parent One and Parent Two.  I am a visual person, and Ancestry obligingly gave me a lovely pie chart of this. 

Of course, they couldn’t tell you if Parent 1 was your mother or if Parent 1 was your father, but luckily for me, I know my mother does not have any Eastern European & Russian Ethnicity so,  . . .

We have a winner.  Clearly, Parent 2, is my father since only Parent 2 shows Eastern European and Russian Ethnicity.  My mother, is therefore, Parent 1.

But, it gets better.  On the same page, there is now a tab that says Chromosome Painter Beta.

Because it is in Beta mode, I don’t know if everyone has this tab for their DNA ethnicity results, but if you are interested, check it out.

Below is what mine looks like.

Be still my nerdy DNA loving heart.   Let’s see if Dad is still Parent No. 2.  Below is the same chart but with only the Eastern Europe and Russia Ethnicity showing.  As you can see, Dad is still Parent No. 2. 

Okay, I admit it.  This is pretty cool.  I can’t wait to see what happens with the August 2022 update. However, as cool as this is, I still want my Chromosome Browser.  Are you listening, Ancestry? 

© 3 August 2022, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa l. Snyder