The Tombstone Kid
I have three daughters. Each of them is beautiful, talented, independent, caring and only slightly genetically modified by me. Daughters number 1 and 2 have children of their own now so that has given me 7 grandchildren. My modification process is undergoing it’s second phase in these grandchildren and the results so far are outstanding. Peer review is also highly in favour of worldwide acclaimation at my obvious excellence of performance in this arena.
Daughter number 3 has an unlimited amount of children who she cares for in her work in child protection and her role as family historian.Did I influence that? Did I genetically modify her to become this or is it a process of evolution that I had no control over? Hmmm. Let me think on it….
She was born on my 29th birthday and I will never forget our first meeting when I held her tiny body in a blanket against my chest and whispered “Hello Kristy”. Just me and her in the public hospital ward trapped in a moment of time and space that was only ours to share. Of course I did the same with my eldest daughters too but for some reason, knowing that I would not be having any more children after Kristy, I had to savour that moment of meeting for a very long time. She snuggled in and we began our adventure in life together from that moment.
Well she damn near almost wore me out from that moment on. It was “learn me mum, learn me” over and over again. She was like a small human version of a vacuum cleaner and leaf blower all in one. Information would get sucked in or get swept aside to pile up for later when she would go back and do another suck of it to extract what she wanted and blow off the useless bits once more. An endless cycle of feeding and regurgitation.
As she grew she became impatient. Things had to be done immediately and precisely and with an outcome or the world had to stop spinning. This genetic trait really evidenced itself on our trips to cemeteries. As the three girls all sat in the back of the car on the trip to wherever it was we were going, Kristy hogged the talcum powder and God help any other child who tried to get it off her. Once we reached the gravestone I wanted to find, she’d be the first there throwing the talc all over it to find the long faded inscription.
When the obligatory call of “Come and get your photo taken with your great great great grandfather” arose and the Instamatic whirred into gear, the resulting photo developed at the chemist the next week would really tell the tale of genetics again. The eldest daughter wouldn’t be in it. She would have been off hunting lizards or picking flowers or trying to calculate who the oldest person in the cemetery was. The second daughter would be in it because this was her opportunity to pull a face or expose some body part or otherwise show the traits that come from ‘the other side of the family’. But Kristy would be standing there, covered in powder from head to foot, like a soldier at an Anzac Day service with the gravestone as her weapon.
During her teenage years she obviously did what all teenagers do and that is, go completely bananas. Those years are the years we parents stick our fingers in our ears and sing Lalalala more often than not just so we survive. As the girls became independent I had more time to do my research. Life held adventures for them all and Kristy had other things to occupy her mind so I did my genealogy research alone for those years. All the girls came out of the teenage years practically unscathed and they continued on their way into adulthood as I got into genealogy in a big way.
I’d bore them with stories of this ancestor or that convict and they would politely listen and then change the subject. Until one day Kristy visited me and said “What’s with this family history thing?” And off we went, together. Did I do this to her or was it pre-programmed into her DNA? Whatever the reason, I don’t mind. It’s wonderful to have your child want to be involved and to actually enjoy doing your hobby with you. She gets quite a few looks when we go to various places to research. She’s been asked if she is lost by staff members, and has been told that the cafeteria is down the corridor, but more often than not she gets the plain, and I think quite rude, question “Why are you here?”
She takes it in good humour but it does wear a bit thin on me at times as she is treated like an infiltrator into some hallowed society by the older members who feel uncomfortable with a youthful appearance sharing their space. Never mind. That’s their loss. I’m very happy with my Tombstone Kid and if she wasn’t doing this with me, I’d feel like I’d lost a vital piece of my puzzle.