Ancestry | alesiablogs

Should someone ask you, “Who are you? Who are your parents, your grandparents, your great-grandparents?” Would you answer, “What’s in a name anyway? Is your name important to you? Did you ever struggle with your identity or search for your ancestors?”

Alesia at home in the photo taken 2021

Let me answer that your name makes you special, different from anyone else. It is our most important, unique identity which separate us from the crowd. The ancient of books declares every creature has an identity, even mankind. Where in our family tree could we be found generations yet to be, were it not for a name?

How unique we are, to pass on with not only our name, but parts of our personalities, idiosyncrasies and alas heritage. So shall we not expand our imaginations as we unfold our majestic closet of skeletons, or rather a colorful fantasy of generations.

We are all called to do something special in our lives and with our lives, something that no one else can do in quite the same way. People research their family trees for many reasons. Some are just curious, others have a deep interest in history; many trace there genealogy as a leisure hobby; but this research has expanded beyond fairytales of whom many were told a cover up story.

Should someone ask you who you are now after a DNA test, what would you say if you found out you are not who you were told for over a half century? As a huge history buff, looking back at Napoleonic times, we know he divided and conquered. Much upheaval occurred in those historical days and if he needed to make a kingdom, change names, and create order as he saw it, that is exactly what he would do. One such example he had power in his time was the Knightly Order. This potential to change peoples’ titles or names was something you would think only the kings of yesteryear could do, but in fact it is something that has been done since the beginning of time.

Who I am was chosen for me. It brought good along with rewards and regret of which I can not change. As it were, my vivid imagination allows me to peek in the window of the past to see what it may reveal of family I never knew. In today’s terms, ghost kingdom comes to mind thanks to the top series This Is Us.

So please indulge me as I describe my kingdom for a moment to you:

I dreamt I saw a huge gate where my unknown family was waiting for me. The only problem was the gate was on a high rocky plain that I would need to scale. So there I went climbing up with every ounce of strength I can muster. Getting to the gate and peering through grand window, I saw through. The spaces in front of me were of vast gardens waiting to be explored. I could also see multiple zig zags of trails to a majestic landscape where flowers were blooming as far as my eyes could see.

Stop. Reality Check.

I sat down before I really looked through the gate. I was not sure what the view was going to be. I realized I had a magical spell of my own doing placed on me and my imagination could take me anywhere.

Should someone ask you if you will go through that door, what would your answer be? Where do you find your satisfaction? Is it finding a prince in a kingdom in a beautiful garden or a man in prison looking downward in despair?

So many questions. Some answered . Some with no answer. If you do not mind me giving you a little advise before entering your Ghost Kingdom, think about changing your eye glass prescription. The view may look so much clearer, although that is if you have a good eye doctor.

To learn more about Alesia’s work in the field of knowing your genetic identity, mental health, and education please go to www.righttoknow.us and feel free to write her there if you need a referral or assistance in your own search for truth.

There is old time history in those Kentucky hills. If one is lucky enough, you might hear of it told in a story or two by your kinfolk.

“Go on now, help me get my shoes off,” in distress papaw asked the girls.

Jeanette unlaced her grandfather’s left boot and June the right. They tugged until the boots fell to the wood floor.

Mama knew her daddy was short of breath. Her girls were too young to understand, but they knew something was not right. Jack was even younger at 9 years.

Mama secretly told Willie her husband to go on now to a neighbor’s home to call the doctor. He returned shortly never making that phone call. Willie had heard the dinner bell rung by mama. It was the S.O.S. that her daddy was gone.

My Dad’s first cousin pointed out to me where papaw’s farmhouse used to set.

Night before last, the family had went down to papaw’s house to visit. Papaw said he was not feeling well. For the first time ever, he decided to spend the night at his daughter’s home. Little Jack strolled alone with grandpa back to his parent’s farm after the rest of the family had left to go back early. Jack loved Papaw. He knew Papaw always had a good story to tell. That day, he did not know that it would be his last he was to hear.

Stories and long tales are family favorites of mine. Some of them are sad, but more often there is a good laugh to be had by all. Jack was my dad. The girls were my aunts.

Recently on a trip back to Kentucky, I had the opportunity to attend my family reunion and my Aunt Jeanette’s 90th birthday party which just so happened to fall on the same day.

I was able to shock my Aunt coming in from Seattle. I kept it a secret.

I was able to visit the family farms and see the old cemetery that dates back to my four times great grandfather. He is buried way back in the tall trees far from anyone.

This map is from public records showcasing the farm highlighted in blue with the number 62-37 77-9. You can see open fields, but in those woods is where the cemetery actually has our ancestors.

Three years prior to this visit, the cemetery was cleaned up. This time I saw the place after very little work had been done to it. I thought I would share in pictures a bit of what I saw along with a story that makes us all wonder about what it must have been like growing up on a farm. You see 911 was just not available and as a matter of fact many of these farms still have no 911 addresses attached to them. It is as if time stands still when you think about it. But we all know that is not true.

In the next few days I will be writing about the adventures involved in finding the exact location of the cemetery. Public records do not include the cemetery notated when I made reference to it with the folks who hold this information in the courthouse.