Got a text from a cousin yesterday enquiring as to the names of the parents of one of our great grandparents. I knew them. Almost off the top of my head. Peculiar bit of information to have. But I enjoy genealogy as did my late wife who was active in the Daughter’s of the American Revolution, and when I say, active, it’s in every sense of the word. I also had an aunt who loved genealogy and she was the one who first rang my bell on the subject.

I’ve been thinking about genealogy recently because in my geology studies time is the issue. And if you think its hard to comprehend the plethora of great-great grandparents you might have try thinking about something that happened on earth a million years ago. And imagine what it’s like for an eight year old child to look up at you and be told you’re 77, more than nine times the child’s age. Incomprehensible comes to mind, as in, hard to fathom.

And even now, at my age, things are still snapping into place. For instance, I didn’t realize this until yesterday, but my father’s maternal grandmother, a woman I knew well, died the same year my mother, his wife, died. 1968. That would have been a hard year for my dad, but in the self-centered ignorance of youth those two events have always seemed far apart, disconnected. I feel bad now for never asking my dad how he weathered that year and for never feeling sorry for him. I guess all that remains is for me to try and do better with what time I have left, and being compassionate seems a good way to make up for my oversight.