I was now 52, and not only were all my grandparents gone, so were both my parents. (My dad had died more than 15 years earlier—before either of his own parents.)

Without realizing any connection to this state of affairs, I began taking an interest in my family tree.
 
I already knew a bit about my mom’s side of the family—descended from a Dutchman who came to America in about 1640 and settled in New Jersey—from something my spinster great aunts had written up.

I’d heard about a house in New Jersey where some of those ancestors lived, which had been turned into a museum by the local historical society.  I made the drive to see it for myself.

I had a dream the night before of what it might look like:  yellow clapboard siding with white trim, and windows with many small panes that were typical of colonial-era homes, which I envisioned as sitting on a tree-lined incline above the road.

The actual building turned out to lie a good distance from the road, on absolutely flat ground, in a clearing that was ringed by trees, but at a distance. It was painted a gold color, though, with white trim—and of course, it had those typical Colonial-era windows.  (What homes didn’t, in those days?)  Something I didn’t anticipate was the two-part Dutch doors, where the lower portion could be closed while the upper section stayed open to let in the breezes.

When I stepped inside, I was almost immediately greeted by a costumed member of the historical society, who trotted out a little speech about the history of the place and, after a perfunctory glance around the main room, proposed to take me upstairs to see a demonstration of spinning.

I explained that my ancestors had lived in the home, and all I really wanted to do was to spend a little time in the main room, taking in the feel of it.  She replied that she had to go back upstairs, and she wasn’t allowed to leave visitors alone in any part of the house.  Then we arrived at a compromise:  I could stand just outside the house and stick my head in through the upper portion of the Dutch door.

Although the furnishings in the room weren’t the original ones (but were authentic period pieces), I got a pretty good sense of what living in my ancestors’ home must have been like.  My eye was especially drawn to a chair and writing table near a window, where I wondered what kinds of things my ancestor might have written.  Were they all business records and letters to family members, or might there have also been some ideas?

There was something special about being in a place where I knew for a fact my ancestors had gone about their daily lives—a kind of feel or mood or, well, energy about it.  I imagine other people have had the same sensation when they go back to Ireland, or whatever the “old country” is for them, and encounter their ancestors’ homes.

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