These Roots Run Deep

In 1848, my Great Great Grandfather, Frederick Heinrich Krueger, fled a tumultuous and revolution stricken Germany to begin a new life in the United States. He landed in New Orleans, took a boat up the Mississippi River to St. Louis. There, he travelled up the Missouri River and landed at what was once known as Kruegersville on the north bank of the river in Warren County, Missouri.

The surrounding counties of Franklin, Osage and Gasconade were all settled by other German immigrants all wanting a new life. The majority of my family is still spread across these four counties and my immediate family now resides in Washington - just downstream and on the south side of the bank from the former Kruegersville. In an area filled with small towns like Frankenstein, Herman, Krakow, Rhineland, Berger and Augusta, it's very hard to ignore the German influence.

On August 28, my grandma passed away and the next day I found myself on a plane back to Missouri. It was a strange visit given the circumstances, but it was nice to see my entire family again. We're a large group of people, and the last time that we had all been in one room together was about 12 years ago when my grandpa passed. The week was filled with family conversation and time with my new great nepew (yes, GREAT nephew). There were obviously all of sorts funeral matters to deal with also.

The most daunting and depressing of tasks was going through my grandmother's possessions which my mother and her two sisters handled. Each day, after hours of going through boxes and organizing, the rest of us got a report on the findings. $160 was found stuffed in a cookie jar ... envelopes filled with cash hidden in the back of drawers ... various pieces of old jewerly with notes describing their origin and significance ... a box of diaries describing almost every day of my grandma's life, etc., etc. There was also a long note - in addition to the will - which detailed what possessions every member of the family would be given. It even had a list of the names of the pallbearers.

Yes. Grandma was organized.

Then there were all the pictures. Photos of my childhood. Ghastly newspaper clippings of my high school theatrical exploits. Snapshots of my mother's babtism. A 100+ year old picture of my Great Grandma and her sisters in beautiful, frilly dresses alongside their brothers in what looked like lederhosen. The guest book from my biological Grandfather's premature death in 1953. A whole mess of memories.

The item that really intrigued me though, was my Grandma's birth certificate. It's a large piece of pale yellow parchment, intermittent with beautiful soft-toned graphics, and written by someone with a flare for calligraphy. It was also written entirely in German. And for some strange reason, I was instantly ashamed that I couldn't read it.

As a child, I was always reminded of my German roots not only because my Great Grandparents still spoke the language, but also by the heavy potato and meat based meals I always ate. The stern, non-smiling portraits of all of my elders was also a pretty good indication. So, if starchy recipes and the hard, stoic demeanor of my ancestors were somehow passed through our bloodline, why wasn't the German language?

I know. It's a very silly question, but please stay with me...

It's widely understood why we share the same hair color or skin tone as our parents. For example, my nephew, Joe (who will be 21 next month),  is almost a mirror image of his father, Alan, and genetics can easily explain why. But Joe also shares several unexplainable characteristics of his biological father like certain facial expressions and his walk. These traits seem even more mysterious given the fact that Joe has only seen his father a couple of times since he was about 3 years old.

Taking this argument a bit further, I also find it very interesting that the vast majority of my family still lives within 50 miles of the very spot that My Great Great Grandfather declared home over 150 years ago.

My family likes it there, but I felt as if all of my adolescence was focused on getting out of Missouri. I made a couple attempts when I was old enough, but there always seemed to be some strange force that pulled me back. What is it then that makes me feel so attached and drawn to a place that I hated so much as a child? Is there some sort of honing device implanted in our genetic code?

For a while, I thought it was my budding psychic abilities that gave me incredibly weird feelings of deja vu in the areas surrounding my hometown - and even in a few select neighborhoods in St. Louis and New Orleans. When I become as gifted as my hero from TV's "Most Haunted" - medium and psychic Derek Acorah - I may be able to answer these questions. But until then, I'll take advice from Project Runway's Tim Gunn, and carry on.

I'll make it work, too.

I got back to California last Tuesday. Two days home from work and a doctor's visit  that week quickly reminded of all the allergy problems that I have in the dreadful state of Missouri and make me dread going back. But after my recovery, my long, jam packed commute back to work this week was a clear indicator that Californians can and will be downright assholes at any given opportunity - especially on a crowded freeway. And that makes me yearn for the laid back attitude of my hometown. So, all week my conflicted mind has been questioning why I'm living in Long Beach, California - 1800 miles away from home.

It's probably only a combination of dealing with grandma's death and bad case of homesickness. So with the help of a little common sense and some codeine cough syrup, I've come to the conclusion that there will probably never be any easy answers to all of my silly questions regarding my home and my heritage.

More than likely, I share some physical trait with my Great Great Grandfather. But I'm certain that I have my Mother's eyes, my Father's mouth, and my Grandmother's superior sense of fashion. I'm also certain that my blood runs thick with all sorts of other things that I can't explain.