Since there is too much to do and not enough to start with in regards to the Lake James service learning projects, it is imperative that we, as researchers, ask several questions about both the project as a whole and our individual projects. First, one of our main concerns is: What is the context of this book? Sure, Lake James is the focus. However, we know little more than the eight or so areas of interest being researched for the book. In class we discussed ways to tie our research topics together, but the idea of uniting the "chapters" with a fictitious family makes me cringe. I suddenly envision a project resembling the awful ACPL genealogy tutorials. No, no, that will not do. At least in my mind.
So, what are other ways to make the "chapters" more fluid? One possible organization is chronologically, but I doubt Flaim and Jim want something that reads like a historical text. Another way to organize the book would be to start with Paultytown and move clockwise around the lake. A problem with this organization may be gaps in development, but I think this is the best organization for a coffee table book.
One crucial thing to consider when organizing this book is audience. The fictional character scenario might be mildly entertaining, but it appeals to a younger audience, an audience that may not even be interested in coffee table books. Conversely, a clockwise organization that is semi-chronological appeals to an adult audience, an audience that Flaim and Jim seem to want to target. Afterall, one of their largest aims is to preserve the older cottage-style ways of living on Lake James, as opposed to the newer McMansion-style living.
In sum, service learning for this project must entail extracting Flaim and Jim's envisioning of this book and giving back as much targeted research as possible. What we really need from them is a storyboard. Without it, we can only offer heaping folders of potentially tangential research.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
A Box About Boxes
(Chapter 7, Box 28 Action)
When I visited my parents in January, I came across a box of old letters that had been given to my father (Brian Jasch) after my great-grandmother (Nettie Ludington) passed away in 1998. The most logical arrangement for this collection was to arrange the letters chronologically according to the date they were posted.
April 9, 1951: postcard to Nettie from Chuck (my grandfather).
September 15, 1954: hospital bill for my father when my grandfather decided to keep him.
1956-59: Brian's immunization card.
May 9, 1965: homemade Mother's Day card made for Nettie from my father.
1972?: my father's enlistment card for 2 years of Regular Army Enlistment.
Unmarked: postcard to Nettie from Brian.
January 16, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
February 5, 1973: postcard to Nettie from Brian.
February 24, 1973: postcard to Nettie from Brian.
March 7, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
June 1, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian in which he mentions his girlfriend, Sandy.
June 2, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
June 8, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
June 29, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian in which he tells her of his upcoming engagement to Sandy.
August 16, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
September 25, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian in which he tells her to not tell Sandy about his "German chick."
October 4, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian in which he tells her to apologize to Sandy about his German chick; he wants to be with Sandy when he returns home.
October 12, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian in which he talks about the German chick and tells Nettie once again to not mention his girl on the side to Sandy.
November 5, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
November 15, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
December 21, 1973: letter to Nettie from Debbie regarding the twin boys she had with my
father and her plans to marry him when he returns from Army service.
February 11, 1974: letter to Nettie from Brian.
March 22, 1974: letter to Nettie from Brian.
September 11, 1974: letter to Nettie from Brian.
November 14, 1974: letter to Nettie from Brian in which he tells her of his plans to move out when he returns home.
March 31, 1980: Nettie's invitation to Brian and Joyce's (my mother) wedding.
Though the contents of the box were originally haphazardly strewn inside the airmail box they originally arrived in back in 1998 (many letters needed to be matched to their corresponding envelopes), organizing them for the first time made many things clearer for me. Most importantly, I found proof that my father had two children with a woman immediately before entering the service. He had apparently promised to marry her when he returned. However, throughout his time stationed in Fort Polk, LA and in Germany, he had promised two additional women he would marry them. He had a long-term girlfriend with whom he broke up and got back together with several times over the two year span of letters. He also had a German girl on the side.
I was surprised that my father confided all of this in Nettie (his Ma). What must she have thought of it all? All I know is that Grandma Nettie could hold her secrets--she took as many as of them as possible to the grave. My dad, of course, just snickers and turns red when I confront him about all of this. His nose flares and twitches in a way that prepares me for a lie or a cover-up of some sort. My mom just pretends she doesn't hear it all. I guess what surprises and frustrates me most of all in this family history research-business is how strongly people want to cover up and/or deny their pasts. All I want to do is figure out where I came from before it's too late. At least this box of letters tells me a few things no one else is prepared to.
When I visited my parents in January, I came across a box of old letters that had been given to my father (Brian Jasch) after my great-grandmother (Nettie Ludington) passed away in 1998. The most logical arrangement for this collection was to arrange the letters chronologically according to the date they were posted.
April 9, 1951: postcard to Nettie from Chuck (my grandfather).
September 15, 1954: hospital bill for my father when my grandfather decided to keep him.
1956-59: Brian's immunization card.
May 9, 1965: homemade Mother's Day card made for Nettie from my father.
1972?: my father's enlistment card for 2 years of Regular Army Enlistment.
Unmarked: postcard to Nettie from Brian.
January 16, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
February 5, 1973: postcard to Nettie from Brian.
February 24, 1973: postcard to Nettie from Brian.
March 7, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
June 1, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian in which he mentions his girlfriend, Sandy.
June 2, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
June 8, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
June 29, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian in which he tells her of his upcoming engagement to Sandy.
August 16, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
September 25, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian in which he tells her to not tell Sandy about his "German chick."
October 4, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian in which he tells her to apologize to Sandy about his German chick; he wants to be with Sandy when he returns home.
October 12, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian in which he talks about the German chick and tells Nettie once again to not mention his girl on the side to Sandy.
November 5, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
November 15, 1973: letter to Nettie from Brian.
December 21, 1973: letter to Nettie from Debbie regarding the twin boys she had with my
father and her plans to marry him when he returns from Army service.
February 11, 1974: letter to Nettie from Brian.
March 22, 1974: letter to Nettie from Brian.
September 11, 1974: letter to Nettie from Brian.
November 14, 1974: letter to Nettie from Brian in which he tells her of his plans to move out when he returns home.
March 31, 1980: Nettie's invitation to Brian and Joyce's (my mother) wedding.
Though the contents of the box were originally haphazardly strewn inside the airmail box they originally arrived in back in 1998 (many letters needed to be matched to their corresponding envelopes), organizing them for the first time made many things clearer for me. Most importantly, I found proof that my father had two children with a woman immediately before entering the service. He had apparently promised to marry her when he returned. However, throughout his time stationed in Fort Polk, LA and in Germany, he had promised two additional women he would marry them. He had a long-term girlfriend with whom he broke up and got back together with several times over the two year span of letters. He also had a German girl on the side.
I was surprised that my father confided all of this in Nettie (his Ma). What must she have thought of it all? All I know is that Grandma Nettie could hold her secrets--she took as many as of them as possible to the grave. My dad, of course, just snickers and turns red when I confront him about all of this. His nose flares and twitches in a way that prepares me for a lie or a cover-up of some sort. My mom just pretends she doesn't hear it all. I guess what surprises and frustrates me most of all in this family history research-business is how strongly people want to cover up and/or deny their pasts. All I want to do is figure out where I came from before it's too late. At least this box of letters tells me a few things no one else is prepared to.
Questioning My Fieldnotes
(Chapter 2, Box 8 Action)Saturday, January 31st, 2009
2:00 p.m. 27-degrees and sunny
Fort Wayne to Angola, IN
Outskirts of Angola: There are dense trees covered in a thick layer of white snow. The roads are hilly and winding. People are out on the lakes ice fishing and corn stalks poke through the snowcovered fields.
Crooked Lake: 290West to West Shady Side Road. Mobile homes and McMansions sit side-by -side. There are no kids, no traffic, no people outside, just bare trees with golden brown clumps of leaves fluttering in the wind. The roads continue to snake along the lake and many snowmobilers are darting over the ice in patterns.
Lake James: Paulty Town East: There are mobile homes and a church with a health center. Between the crowded homes there is an island upon which sits one house. The further we drive, the bigger and newer the houses are. Sowles Bay: There are lots of trees and a few pricy homes and there are many tiny cottages clumped together. After a patch of trees we come upon many more expensive houses and a marina. Other neighborhoods: Red Sand Beach (where we see a deer), Glen Eden Springs (up on a hill), and Cruscoe Point (private).
I haven't been back to Angola since I left it nearly five years ago. It is bright and bitterly cold. It's weird how much my memory of this place has been erased by the events of the past five years.
What surprised me: I was surprised by how big the Lake James area is and how, during the entire time I lived on Crooked Lake, I had never once driven the short distance to Lake James, even by accident! I also saw more deer than people on the drive around the lake. It appeared as if no one was even living out there.
What intrigued me: In Fort Wayne, most neighborhoods are clearly divided into lower income, higher income, and ridiculously huge income areas. However, on Lake James, all of these housing types seemed to be intermixed, especially in Paulty Town. How do these different types of lake people coexist? How do the wealthy people not look at the patchwork mobile homes in disgust, and how do the cottage dwellers not resent the three-story mansions that now block their lake view? What a mystery.
What disturbed me: Honestly, I was disturbed by all the mansions. They looked so out of place on the lake. Yes, some of the smaller dwellings were old, some had definitely seen better days, but when I think of lakes, I think cabins and cottages, not giant estates. Especially giant estates that sit unused for eight months out of the year. Privatizing such large parts of a natural resource seems ridiculous to me.
Camp Freewrite
(Chapter 2, Box 4 Action)
As Erin and I begin to work on our big Lake James project, I must think back to my childhood. For those of you unfamiliar with the topic Erin and I will be writing about, we are writing about the history of Camp Pokagon with a focus on some of the boy's and girl's camps in the Lake James area. Like many of the children who played on the beaches of Lake James, I, too, once spent a weekend of my summer at camp.
At age 10, I was a second-year member of the Campfire girls in Holland, Michigan. My particular troop originated from Maplewood Elementary School, which was located just a few short miles from Lake Michigan. During the school year many of us Campfire girls worked hard at many projects to earn patches and beads for our Campfire vests (similar to Girl Scouts). We learned about recycling, learned photography, practiced using our imaginations, visited a real news station in Grand Rapids and later filmed our own program on public television, and even learned how to make homemade candy. However, nothing beat preparing for our first weekend (well, at least my first weekend) away from home to earn our badges for learning real camping skills.
I remember learning to tie at least ten different types of knots, learning how to start a fire with sticks and brush and also with pieces of flint, and learning the different plants on nature walks near the dunes of the lake. I remember staring in amazement at the bunk beds stacked three high that wrapped around the room of our cabin, and I remember unrolling my green sleeping bag on a bunk that was literally less than two feet from the ceiling.
The most fun of all, as I imagine it is for all young children, was the nighttime. Outside we built a fire as big as we were and set out immediately making Smores. Even though I never liked Smores, making them was exciting. I'd see how long I could hold the marshmallows over the fire before they erupted into flame and oozed down into the glowing embers below. After Smores were classic campfire staples such as star gazing, rounds of "Koombaya" and ghost stories. Under the full moon we also carried our flashlights on a nighttime hike that was punctuated with the shrill shrieks of pre-adolescent girls who swore they just had heard an animal/murderer/ghost following us through the woods.
The last day of camp was filled with equal parts rain and sorrow. I had to leave this entirely different way of life and head back into the city where I'd be learning nothing other than reading, writing, and arithmetic in the fall; where nighttime would be filled with orange light pollution and random music from the cars that sped past my house; and where my bed was just another mattress covered in New Kids on the Block bedsheets. I wonder if all those kids who spent their summers on Lake James felt the same as I did.
As Erin and I begin to work on our big Lake James project, I must think back to my childhood. For those of you unfamiliar with the topic Erin and I will be writing about, we are writing about the history of Camp Pokagon with a focus on some of the boy's and girl's camps in the Lake James area. Like many of the children who played on the beaches of Lake James, I, too, once spent a weekend of my summer at camp.
At age 10, I was a second-year member of the Campfire girls in Holland, Michigan. My particular troop originated from Maplewood Elementary School, which was located just a few short miles from Lake Michigan. During the school year many of us Campfire girls worked hard at many projects to earn patches and beads for our Campfire vests (similar to Girl Scouts). We learned about recycling, learned photography, practiced using our imaginations, visited a real news station in Grand Rapids and later filmed our own program on public television, and even learned how to make homemade candy. However, nothing beat preparing for our first weekend (well, at least my first weekend) away from home to earn our badges for learning real camping skills.
I remember learning to tie at least ten different types of knots, learning how to start a fire with sticks and brush and also with pieces of flint, and learning the different plants on nature walks near the dunes of the lake. I remember staring in amazement at the bunk beds stacked three high that wrapped around the room of our cabin, and I remember unrolling my green sleeping bag on a bunk that was literally less than two feet from the ceiling.
The most fun of all, as I imagine it is for all young children, was the nighttime. Outside we built a fire as big as we were and set out immediately making Smores. Even though I never liked Smores, making them was exciting. I'd see how long I could hold the marshmallows over the fire before they erupted into flame and oozed down into the glowing embers below. After Smores were classic campfire staples such as star gazing, rounds of "Koombaya" and ghost stories. Under the full moon we also carried our flashlights on a nighttime hike that was punctuated with the shrill shrieks of pre-adolescent girls who swore they just had heard an animal/murderer/ghost following us through the woods.
The last day of camp was filled with equal parts rain and sorrow. I had to leave this entirely different way of life and head back into the city where I'd be learning nothing other than reading, writing, and arithmetic in the fall; where nighttime would be filled with orange light pollution and random music from the cars that sped past my house; and where my bed was just another mattress covered in New Kids on the Block bedsheets. I wonder if all those kids who spent their summers on Lake James felt the same as I did.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Hiccup
Last weekend I was supposed to visit Aunt Ginnie and all of her siblings; however, the trip was canceled. In fact, I doubt I'll be able to reschedule it. When I called Aunt Ginnie last week, I was shocked to find out that my Uncle Chet (her husband) had suffered a heart attack while he was shoveling snow and soon after underwent open heart surgery.
I am glad to hear that Uncle Chet is recuperating well, in fact, I'm almost chuckling to myself. Before you think I'm some horrible, sadistic person, let me explain. Chet and Ginnie have been married for over half a century, and even though I've only known them for half that time, nothing about them has ever changed. They've lived in the same house, with the same furniture, and with the same habits. One of these habits has always been to ignore their respective ages. So when my kids visit them, Aunt Ginnie, at age 83, can be found RUNNING during an hour long game of tag on the front lawn. Yes, running, not shuffling or speed walking--running! It comes as no surprise that Uncle Chet, at age 84, would spend his winter mornings shoveling away the heaps of lake effect snow that Chicago has been so kind to usher over to Michigan City this season.
Will everything change now? Will Ginnie and Chet finally slow down?
One thing is for certain, my project may have just changed. Without the final and most substantial interview, I may be left with only a few stories--not nearly enough. And a draft is due next week. Yeah, I'm not freaking out or anything...
I am glad to hear that Uncle Chet is recuperating well, in fact, I'm almost chuckling to myself. Before you think I'm some horrible, sadistic person, let me explain. Chet and Ginnie have been married for over half a century, and even though I've only known them for half that time, nothing about them has ever changed. They've lived in the same house, with the same furniture, and with the same habits. One of these habits has always been to ignore their respective ages. So when my kids visit them, Aunt Ginnie, at age 83, can be found RUNNING during an hour long game of tag on the front lawn. Yes, running, not shuffling or speed walking--running! It comes as no surprise that Uncle Chet, at age 84, would spend his winter mornings shoveling away the heaps of lake effect snow that Chicago has been so kind to usher over to Michigan City this season.
Will everything change now? Will Ginnie and Chet finally slow down?
One thing is for certain, my project may have just changed. Without the final and most substantial interview, I may be left with only a few stories--not nearly enough. And a draft is due next week. Yeah, I'm not freaking out or anything...
Friday, February 6, 2009
Our Extraordinary Mail
Every day in residential America, millions of adults approach small magical boxes located outside their homes and apartments with fear, excitement, and disappointment. This custom ceases to fascinate me. In fact, the daily interaction between Americans and their boxes is so amazing that it must be examined and shared.
The practice of going to the box has occurred throughout my entire life and, as I have been told, it has occurred throughout America for a couple hundred years. It seems that going to the box is inevitable and unavoidable, because otherwise almost no one would do it.
The slips of paper that appear magically in the boxes by the day's end usually seem to have an upsetting quality. The person sent or compelled to gather the paper bundles will shuffle through the paper slips and often display olympic disapppointment. Occasionally, a slip of paper will cause the person holding it to smile, laugh, or even dance. Positive interactions are most likely to occur the bigger and more brightly colored the papers are. This is a rare occurance. Even rarer is the day when no paper bundle is to be found in the box. Oddly, this also has a negative impact on the emotions of the paper gatherer.
Once the papers have been gathered and brought into the person's dwelling, the papers are distributed. Men, women, and children each receive a share of these papers and the emotive quality of each piece of paper never seems to lose it's potentcy. The emotional interactions with the papers keep occuring no matter how many people in the house or apartment touch the papers.
Once each recipient has either throughly examined his or her paper slips or dismissed their contents entirely, the papers are stored. Some people place the paper bundles on bureaus and in desks, or on top of refrigerators and in cabinet drawers. Others throw the entire contents away in waste baskets. Some people cry and burn the slips while others cry and store the papers in shoeboxes. This practice of storing the papers is so complex, but one thing is clear: Americans will do whatever they have to to deny that these paper bundles ever existed.
Once or twice a month Americans will procure magic paper bundles of their own and place them back into the box located outside their residence. Once again, the outgoing papers are interacted with in the very same manner that the incoming papers were.
In conclusion, this look at the magic practice of receiving and sending paper bundles has certainly shown that millions of Americans will subject themselves to daily disappointment despite the terrible odds of ever receiving a happiness-producing paper. Perhaps this ritual is reflective of an overall American tendency to seek out happiness in the most unlikely places.
The practice of going to the box has occurred throughout my entire life and, as I have been told, it has occurred throughout America for a couple hundred years. It seems that going to the box is inevitable and unavoidable, because otherwise almost no one would do it.
The slips of paper that appear magically in the boxes by the day's end usually seem to have an upsetting quality. The person sent or compelled to gather the paper bundles will shuffle through the paper slips and often display olympic disapppointment. Occasionally, a slip of paper will cause the person holding it to smile, laugh, or even dance. Positive interactions are most likely to occur the bigger and more brightly colored the papers are. This is a rare occurance. Even rarer is the day when no paper bundle is to be found in the box. Oddly, this also has a negative impact on the emotions of the paper gatherer.
Once the papers have been gathered and brought into the person's dwelling, the papers are distributed. Men, women, and children each receive a share of these papers and the emotive quality of each piece of paper never seems to lose it's potentcy. The emotional interactions with the papers keep occuring no matter how many people in the house or apartment touch the papers.
Once each recipient has either throughly examined his or her paper slips or dismissed their contents entirely, the papers are stored. Some people place the paper bundles on bureaus and in desks, or on top of refrigerators and in cabinet drawers. Others throw the entire contents away in waste baskets. Some people cry and burn the slips while others cry and store the papers in shoeboxes. This practice of storing the papers is so complex, but one thing is clear: Americans will do whatever they have to to deny that these paper bundles ever existed.
Once or twice a month Americans will procure magic paper bundles of their own and place them back into the box located outside their residence. Once again, the outgoing papers are interacted with in the very same manner that the incoming papers were.
In conclusion, this look at the magic practice of receiving and sending paper bundles has certainly shown that millions of Americans will subject themselves to daily disappointment despite the terrible odds of ever receiving a happiness-producing paper. Perhaps this ritual is reflective of an overall American tendency to seek out happiness in the most unlikely places.
Women and Genealogy
As I began working on my family history project (and I still feel as if I'm quite new to it), I quickly discovered three family members who have done some research in the past. My great-aunt Ginnie was the first person who introduced me so-to-speak to my great-great grandparents Freyer. Through a few lengthy phone conversations and one five hour visit that almost never happened, I discovered within Aunt Ginnie a desire to pass down the stories and facts that she had acquired over the past nine decades. She spoke to me with urgency, yet simultaneously with an immense sadness. "So many things I wished I could have asked your gram, Hidi. You know? Back then, no one ever thought to ask these sorts of things," she said more than once as she drove me through the neighborhood in which she has spent her entire life.
At the end of our visit, Aunt Ginnie pointed me in the direction of her sister-in-law, Caroline (Rebac) Jasch, who has also been practicing genealogy for sport over the past twenty-five years. Though I have yet to see the culmination of her research, it was fun to speak with her over the phone. I think the last time I had spoken with her was as a shy 8-year-old on Easter Sunday. My mother would dress me in these frothy pastel nightmares and in stockings that ran just by pulling them on and then parade me in front of relatives at Aunt Caroline and Uncle Ed's. Aunt Caroline scared me back then. She was always yelling at someone as she filled tables with dish after dish of food I was not about to ingest. I ate a plateful of dinner mints. Now, on the other end of the phone, there was Aunt Caroline yelling, "Ed! Get down, Adolph! Get the damn dog outta here! I gotta get outta this room. Yer Uncle Ed's got the set turned so loud, I can't hear a thing. He's trying to make me watch those shows and I don't want to watch those shows. That's better. Your Aunt Gin tells me you're doing a project. Now, you, see I've got a lot of information over the past twenty-five years. I can e-mail it all to you..." Yes, all of this and I hadn't said a word to her since Uncle Ed had passed her the phone. I could only smile to myself thinking about how little she'd changed.
The third woman in my family who works on genealogy is my great-great aunt Bernice. (I should add that she is not likely a Jasch by blood, but was raised as one, and as far as I am concerned, she is a Jasch). I have never met or spoken with my Aunt Bernice. My Aunt Ginnie tells me that she lives in Utah and has done a lot of work on the Freyer side of the family.
In my family, these three women are the only people who actively engage in genealogical research, either through historical societies, like Aunt Ginnie, through online resources, like Aunt Caroline, or through libraries, like Aunt Bernice. This leads me to believe that genealogy, at least in my family, is a gendered practice. That said, there are many factors that lend this "hobby" (as they define it) well to females. Most of these women spent the majority of their lives raising few to no children, only one that I know of was ever seriously employed outside of the house, and none of them have been employed over the past several decades. Also, my family of origination is very traditional in the sense that there are women's things and there are men's things. The passive practice of passing written and spoken things down from generation to generation has always fallen under the category of women's things, whereas the active practice of hunting and fixing things has generally fallen within the scope of men's things. From this, I will assume that, traditionally, genealogical practices are typically gendered.
At the end of our visit, Aunt Ginnie pointed me in the direction of her sister-in-law, Caroline (Rebac) Jasch, who has also been practicing genealogy for sport over the past twenty-five years. Though I have yet to see the culmination of her research, it was fun to speak with her over the phone. I think the last time I had spoken with her was as a shy 8-year-old on Easter Sunday. My mother would dress me in these frothy pastel nightmares and in stockings that ran just by pulling them on and then parade me in front of relatives at Aunt Caroline and Uncle Ed's. Aunt Caroline scared me back then. She was always yelling at someone as she filled tables with dish after dish of food I was not about to ingest. I ate a plateful of dinner mints. Now, on the other end of the phone, there was Aunt Caroline yelling, "Ed! Get down, Adolph! Get the damn dog outta here! I gotta get outta this room. Yer Uncle Ed's got the set turned so loud, I can't hear a thing. He's trying to make me watch those shows and I don't want to watch those shows. That's better. Your Aunt Gin tells me you're doing a project. Now, you, see I've got a lot of information over the past twenty-five years. I can e-mail it all to you..." Yes, all of this and I hadn't said a word to her since Uncle Ed had passed her the phone. I could only smile to myself thinking about how little she'd changed.
The third woman in my family who works on genealogy is my great-great aunt Bernice. (I should add that she is not likely a Jasch by blood, but was raised as one, and as far as I am concerned, she is a Jasch). I have never met or spoken with my Aunt Bernice. My Aunt Ginnie tells me that she lives in Utah and has done a lot of work on the Freyer side of the family.
In my family, these three women are the only people who actively engage in genealogical research, either through historical societies, like Aunt Ginnie, through online resources, like Aunt Caroline, or through libraries, like Aunt Bernice. This leads me to believe that genealogy, at least in my family, is a gendered practice. That said, there are many factors that lend this "hobby" (as they define it) well to females. Most of these women spent the majority of their lives raising few to no children, only one that I know of was ever seriously employed outside of the house, and none of them have been employed over the past several decades. Also, my family of origination is very traditional in the sense that there are women's things and there are men's things. The passive practice of passing written and spoken things down from generation to generation has always fallen under the category of women's things, whereas the active practice of hunting and fixing things has generally fallen within the scope of men's things. From this, I will assume that, traditionally, genealogical practices are typically gendered.
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