Years ago, my mom gave me my baby book, which has a family tree in it.  The first time I remember giving that family tree more than a passing glance was around 2010.  I was particularly interested in my Grandpa Irv (paternal grandfather). My siblings and I adored him, so I naturally gravitated to learning more about him.

Growing up, I heard him tell stories of his childhood. They were snippets, really. He talked about how his mother died when he was very young. He was raised by his father and stepmother, along with three siblings, in Depression-era Brooklyn.

As an adult, the family tree page in my baby book became my first tangible connection to these stories. It lists his mother’s name as “Simma.” I don’t recall being aware of my great grandmother’s name before seeing it in my baby book. This was the information I needed to start my family history journey.

Since then, I have spent countless hours chasing the tiniest pieces of information about her. I still know very little and, despite my best efforts, there’s a good chance that’s how it will stay. 
However, the act of consistently trying to find out more has connected me to her in a way that’s deeply personal, yet hard to put into words.

Even the little information I found makes me feel a profound sense of gratitude. I am thankful for the hardships she endured and appreciate the sacrifices she made.  I am, after all, a direct beneficiary of those hardships and sacrifices.  

When I started this journey, the goal was to put names and dates on a family tree.  While there’s value in that, I realized what matters most to me is adding color and context to an ancestor’s life. There is immense value in simply telling our ancestors’ stories – even if it’s only snippets of information.