Until about the middle of the 20th century, most homes in the English-speaking world had a family Bible—often the old “King James Version” of 1611 with its poetic Elizabethan speech. It was often the only book in the house. In theory, it would be read aloud during morning and evening family prayers, which usually consisted of a Psalm, a passage from one of the gospels, and the Lords’ Prayer, followed by a sung doxology. In reality, it was not read very often, but it remained a place to keep genealogical records and important documents, like marriage licenses, birth certificates, and certificates of baptism, as well as deeds, important letters, and contracts. Barnes & Noble sells this cool-looking family Bible pretty cheap on its “classic editions” table, along with other culturally significant works like Aesop’s Fables and the Complete Fairytales of the Brothers Grimm and…the Star Wars Trilogy. (Do you see a common thread here? Pick your meaning-making meta-narrative!) I bought this one a few years ago because I liked the look of it, and also I wanted a place to keep a brief record of our ancestors…
Another thing I like about this B&N Bible is the classic illustrations by Gustavo Doré. If you want a Bible for actual reading, this is probably not going to be your first choice. Of course you could read it, but it’s huge, and the language is outdated, and there are no footnotes, or glossaries, or appendices to help with historical contexts and cultural interpretation. (People misunderstanding the Bible is how you get fundamentalists and haters, as current history is proving.) Mostly, this edition is for show—a family heirloom for occasional reference, and perhaps a place to hold documents, and most especially a place to write out your family tree. Like all the big old family Bibles, it has a few pages at the front where you can make note of births, marriages, and the names, dates, and locations of grandparents and great-grandparents.
That was mostly what I wanted: to write my family tree out in cursive and to have a place to keep it. (I always loved my own handwriting and still do—even though it’s less elegant and practiced than it used to be.) The trouble was, I really only knew my lineage as far back as my grandparents. Do most people know the names of all 8 of their great-grandparents? I do now! But I didn’t until I decided to write it all in this family Bible. What do we really know about the very people who made us who we are, whose DNA we share, whose life-quests, and preoccupations, and personal choices undoubtedly still shape us, even though we’ve never met them? Get past grandma and grandpa, and most of us know very little about where we come from. This was certainly the case with me. So, I had to do some digging, for which the Internet was far more helpful than my parents, who are in their early 80s.
My father’s maternal grandmother died on Christmas morning when I was 8, and she's the only great-grandparent I remember. (This isn't her; this is my father's paternal grandmother, whom he barely knew, but whose grave I found very close to my place up north--like 3 miles away.) She loomed large in family legend. My father and his sister absolutely worshiped her. She would come to stay with them for a few weeks at a time when they were children. I remember her as a frail, withered old lady with a single long silver braid wrapped like a crown around he top of her head. She looked ancient, older than water. Turns out, she was only 75 when she died. A 75-year old in the 21st century Pittsburgh suburbs probably has a TikTok account and kick-boxes for exercise. Why did people look so much older back then than they do today? The actors who played Archie and Edith on “All in the Family” were only in their 40s! By modern standards, they looked to be in their 60s.
Oh, they were scoundrels, my ancestors. Scoundrels, and scallywags, and rascals—if you’ll pardon the strong language. Both of my parents failed to recall the names of their own grandparents, aside from their maternal grandmothers (which is an interesting commentary on the American family). My mother and father both grew up in homes without cars, so it’s not like they drove to grandma’s house each year for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I was only able to find them by looking up my own grandparents, whom I knew well, then finding the names of their parents in their old online obituaries. It was fun connecting the dots, filling in the old, half-remembered stories, as best I could, and writing it all in the family Bible. Oddly, 2 of my 8 great-grandparents are buried very close to my place up north. That’s a quarter of them! I knew they were from that area originally, but I enjoyed whizzing about the January countryside in search of old cemeteries and graves. It was especially fun to make the grave-searching excursions in our oldest car, which I sometimes call “the wheelbarrow,” pictured above. It’ll be an antique next year.
Actually, I call it a wheelbarrow, but our 2002 Honda Accord might be the best car I’ve ever owned, even still at 270,000 miles. It often sits unused for weeks at a time, but it always fires right up. And it’s got that great old car smell inside. Down in Pittsburgh, people look at you judgmentally for driving such an old and unsightly car. Up north, these old Hondas are in demand because they run forever. When our mechanic offered to buy it off us, two weeks ago, I decided it’s time to start taking better care of the thing, maybe even get it repainted.
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