Girl Historian.

Last night, I talked to my late grandfather's nephew. He lives in Lynchburg, Virginia on the "family farm".

I didn't know about him. Or the "family farm".



Yesterday, I found my family tree online. I was homesick. Things happen.



My great-great-great-uncle died during the Civil War at the age of 26. I had a great-great-aunt named Queen Victoria. My great-grandfather had 18 children. 15 survived.

I'm invited to the next family reunion, whenever that is.

I feel like Margot Tenenbaum. Only not adopted. I'm secretly terrified of my kinfolk, but simultaneously eager to hop a train to Altavista.



I want to show them that I can properly use a hatchet. I want to show off my Yankee fiance. I want to sing songs from the Carter Family. I want to gain 20 pounds from biscuits with sausage gravy and smoke harsh cigarettes. I want to stick my life between the pages of a Bible. I want to crochet a granny-square afghan.

Yet, this does feel a little like that episode of 'Saved By the Bell'.