A week from now I’ll be in Wales. I can hardly believe it. My sisters and I are going to see the birthplace of our grandfather whom we never knew. It may seem hard to believe, but as the youngest child of a youngest child, my grandfather was born in 1864. He died at age 90 just before I was born. He came to the United States at age 12 with only his sister. His parents stayed behind in Wales until many years later. He was a coal miner all his life. It’s hard to imagine the changes he experienced in his lifetime, 1864-1955. My sister has been making inquiries with genealogists in the family who are putting us in touch with cousins. The pull of family is very strong, and we feel the promise of a certain sense of home, of roots, of being grounded in the place we came from.
As a knitter, I can hardly wait to see the lambs frolicking in green, green valleys. As a musician, I can hardly wait to hear a Welsh choir. As a nature-lover, I can hardly wait to walk the Brecon Beacons, see the spring flowers, and hear the birds. As a granddaughter, I can hardly wait to have a real picture of the place where my grandfather was born.
To be with my sisters for more than a few hours will also be a delightful treat. Siblings are usually life’s longest relationships. I’m so grateful for mine.