In past posts, I have mentioned my interest in genealogy and some of the amazing things I've learned about my ancestors. I wish I could take credit for these discoveries, but the truth is I've had a ton of help. My cousins (one in Ontario and a newly found one in England) have shared the results of their digging, and they've done lots of it. I've also received assistance from message board genealogists who just like helping others. And, of course, it was the Quest Team from my local genealogy society that uncovered a whole new branch of my family tree this past spring. I'm still coming to grips with that one. It feels like I've been given a giant treasure chest, filled to the brim. It's overwhelming.
Until I began delving into my family's past, I had no idea it would affect me as deeply as it has. Yes, these people are long dead, but as I find out about them, they come to life again, their sorrows become mine, and I often find myself hurting for them. That might sound crazy, but it's true. What can I say? We writers are empathetic creatures. It's a hazard of the trade.
In my search, I have come across so many fascinating ancestors. A grandmother who quietly gave up the love of her life to marry a man 30 years her senior, because it was the practical thing to do. A grandfather who was placed in Dr. Barnardo's orphanage when his mother died and was later sent to Canada as a home child. A grandmother (on my husband's side) who spent the last 30 years of her life in the Weyburn Mental Hospital (the word psychedelic originated there), yet no one in the family knows why she'd been committed. My family, as well as my husband's can be traced back to the late 1600's. The mind boggles just thinking of all the stories there.
Which brings me to my current dilemma. Actually, it's not a dilemma anymore, since I've made a decision about how I shall proceed. The problem is how others are going to react to that decision. You see, I've decided to write a novel (we're talking fiction, people) based on the life of one of my great grandmothers. Her name was Alice Maria, but in my novel, she will be called Jane. As I put together the pieces of Alice Maria's life, it struck me what a hard road she'd travelled. She was born into the worst part of London, the East End, in 1869. Her whole life she knew nothing but poverty and filth. She worked in a button factory. She married at 20, had three children who all died in infancy, after which her husband left her for a woman who lived down the street. She then cohabited with a man who gave her two children, then went off to the Boer War. Upon returning, he married someone else and had seven children with her. As far as we know, he was never in touch with Alice Maria or her children again. Then Alice hooked up with another man, who worked part time as a carman. Their first child died. The next two -- a boy and a girl lived. During the next pregnancy, Alice Maria fell down a flight of stairs carrying a tub of water, putting her into labour. She and the baby both died. Alice Maria was 38 years old.
How can I not tell that story? BUT, there is no way I can find all the facts of her life in order to make it a biography. Therefore, I've decided to massage the basic story and turn it into a novel that resembles my great-grandmother's life. I'm fine with that, but I don't think my genealogy associates will be. Afterall, genealogists are seekers of the truth, and I'm messing with that. My Ontario cousin has already made her plea -- "Do you HAVE to make it fiction?!!"
On the bright side, my mother, an empathetic soul in her own right, is enjoying the early scenes I've written. They make Alice Maria/Jane come alive for her and provide some semblance of sense to a life riddled with hardship.
My apologies to diligent genealogists everywhere. I shall continue to look for the truth, but in the meantime, I have a novel to write.