My wife Sara has gathered close to four generations of wedding photos from our family. They're meticulously hung in our dining room. Its actually impressive to see. She put a lot of work and money into it. Last night a new aquaintance examined them. This is nothing new. They intrigue people. A dozen friends had gathered at our house and Jared, whom I hadn't met till that night asked when my family had come to Montana. No one had really asked me that before. I gave him a blank gaze and just didn't quite know what to say. My own genesis wasn't immedietly apparent to me. The question ferreted out a measure of shame in my mind. I should know these things. I should know them because I'd been told the stories before and now I realized I just hadn't listened.
The thing about your own personal history is that it's complicated. The story spider webs into the past along a myriad of lines and chances. It's difficult but I'm given over to knowing it now. Wendell would. It looks like I'll be paying a visit to my 90 year old grandmother.
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