My Family, My Teachers

To all the teachers in my family, and all the things you taught me -

If you're very, very lucky, family are just friends you didn't get to pick yourself - they were already in place when you arrived, like the furniture and 70's shag carpeting. Unlike the carpeting, the teaching has stuck around for far longer, with far-reaching consequences that even my parents would never have guessed at.

To Pop - you wanted to be a musician, but you came back to the family farm when your parents told you it was time to settle down. You were restless, but you were a darn good farmer, and you taught me to pay attention to seasons and clouds and what they meant. You taught me good husbandry, and it wasn't till I was going to college that I even had an inkling that there was such a thing as "bad husbandry." That's just how you did things, because that was the Right Way To Do It. It showed in the quality of yield that we got consistently each year, in soil quality, in produce, and most importantly - you fed your family. You didn't demonstrate love a lot; males in our culture just didn't Do That. But we knew all the same, you loved us fiercely, cared about our lives, and settled into being one of those knowledgeable wise old men that the neighborhood consulted. And you read, and read again, and read some more, to keep on top of the changing world you lived in. You spanned the Wright Brothers' flight to space shuttle launches, and you lived to see kids and grandkids and great-grandkids.

To Grenny - all you wanted was to have the world love you and to feed everyone. Meals were on the plain side - plain people, plain food - but it was nutritious and plentiful. But, wow, could you bake! Fasnachts (a type of potato doughnut we make for Shrove Tuesday) and pies and cookies were amazing when they came from your hands. I didn't do well with cooking (I've been kicked out of five kitchens and counting), because I fought against the "barefoot pregnant and in the kitchen" stereotype that women were given when I was growing up, but I did learn some tricks and tips anyway despite myself, and they come in handy now that my health is such that I have to cook from scratch. I still miss your milk flatchers and your dandelion dressing, and quietly sitting in the quilt room watching your hands fly through the cloth, and a sharp shiny needle trailed by a shiny white thread.

To Grumum - you took no guff from anyone, even when perhaps you should have. To my utter horror (and secret delight), I've inherited your cackle. And your wild hair that just doesn't behave. And your house, which makes me wonder if I'm turning into another you. You taught me to curse in seven languages, only two of which are still spoken. You showed me how to kick up a fuss, though I had to learn the proper times and places to do so on my own. You would tell stories - of things that happened long ago, of what the neighbor did, of things that happened when you were younger. I learned the tempo and pattern of a good story, and in telling it, and when to be dramatic. And when to add flair to the story, but not so much to make it unbelievable. I learned that bitterness and anger can be a trap that I should avoid, and to take a different path when things happen to me just because I have boobs. And how to dress down an ignorant male in public, with dozens of witnesses, and make him enjoy it....if only because he didn't understand the language, but the audience did, and I watched their eyes widen as you questioned his alleged parentage. You taught me a love of archeology, and of old things and forgotten languages and the need to keep digging - if we don't understand the past, we'll never figure out the future. And you even taught me that cackle when many of your theories were finally proven, years later, when you'd been ignored because you weren't the proper gender to present a theory "properly."

To Uncle P - dang it, you were cool when the phrase "experimental archeology" wasn't even in use yet. I watched you bloody your knuckles learning to flint knap, and cook questionable things on the stove that I knew for certain never to eat, and the sheer determination of getting the proper tools for the job, even if that meant making connections through friends of friends all the way to a London jumble sale back before cell phones and internets and online auctions. Of all the books I now own for DIY craft projects, the one that I categorically refuse to own is for flint knapping. I learned by watching out the window of your own bedroom, because you wanted privacy to swear in Lenni Lenape, and not corrupt your brother's kid...too much. I learned them anyway. And now I've taught more classes in experimental archeology than I care to admit, and I'm no longer afraid to try dyeing with this or that, or spinning monarch silk or mammoth hair just to see if it can be done. (Yes to both, in case you're wondering.)

To Uncle T - you gave me my first piece of good jewelry for Christmas. I put it in the tackle box I got from my dad that same Christmas, after declaring to all that it was fake. It wasn't fair to you, to be so tactless. Yes, the ruby was a synthetic, but the gold was most definitely real. And no longer in that tackle box, it's in my fire safe with many other precious pieces of jewelry I've been given over the years. My funky eyeballs that apparently spotted that synthetic when I'd never seen a real ruby have not deserted me, and I've learned tact and discretion in the jewelry shop.

To Aunt M - I didn't know I got this from you till I learned at your funeral, but I pick up a rock or sand sample from every place I visit. I didn't know you did the same thing! Or maybe I learned so young I don't remember. It led to a fascination with geology that led to the jewelry and gems that have made my career, and I didn't even know I had you to credit for it till you were gone.

To Dad - my love of nature and all things biological I owe to you - except that part that Mom played, reading me National Geographics while I was still in the womb. But you took that starting point and ran with it: hunting, tracking, fishing, migration, identification. You don't need to hunt or fish anymore to feed your family, so you still take great pleasure in catching fish, then letting them go again. You taught me how to stand up for myself and fight off a bigger attacker, which came in handy when "wrassling" with boy cousins and friends who thought they could pull one over on the only girl. The one time I got shot at, you vanished so fast to have a "chat" with the moron that I worried about his continued health (surprisingly, all the idiot needed - and got, at length - was an hours'-long lecture on gun safety. He was never that stupid again.) You taught me to shoot a gun, taught me to run off feral dogs, taught me to catch fish and frogs and snakes with my bare hands, taught me the joy of the depth of loyalty in a scrawny dog. You taught me how to care for sick critters, and to this day you shake your head at the variety that finds its way to my door. You taught me to listen to their languages, and figure out what they're saying, because they definitely communicate in squawks and whines. I'd say the hummingbirds have taught you rather well, considering they come right up to your face now every year to inform you that they're back, and fill up the feeder post haste, yes?

To Mom - what can I say? You are one heck of an amazing woman. You were the first female to go to college on that side of the family, and you had to do it all on your own. And against every obstacle put in your path - you had to still live at home and finish your farm chores, pay for it yourself so got a job and only really had time to study when it was slow, and STILL pay a tithe to your dad for the privilege! You not only got that degree, you turned around and chose the best option for a girl graduate, taking teacher over secretary or nurse. And you were an AMAZING teacher, so much so that we can't go anywhere without people coming up to you and commenting on things you did with them when they were in school. You and Dad told me that I could marry anyone I wanted to, when I was terrified that I'd have to marry a guy with the same last name as my first name, because I could not think of any other worse crime. You banked enough to take me on trips and feed me new foods, so I could learn there was a world outside our own culture. You kept your promises, even when it hurt, and gave me more privacy than I asked for before I knew I needed it, to show you trusted me. You gave me supplemental teaching when you saw I was bored with the school pace, challenged me to think when I really didn't want to, and let me suffer consequences when I slacked off. And you made sure I could go to college without the crippling burden of student loans, so I could become the second female to get a degree. And to top it all off, you found the time to teach me to teach others.

I am a distillation of my family, a bridge from past to future, a teacher like many of my aunts and uncles and cousins, and a curious creature that works hard to overcome stereotypes of all shapes and sizes. And I owe the most to my family for what they taught me, the ones mentioned here and the ones I didn't, for the lessons I was given that made me the person I am today.