The prompt this week -- "Rooted" -- is inspired by the name of Sunday Scribblings participant Gautami Tripathy's blog. It's a wonderful word; I love visual of tree roots sinking deep into the soil -- it's such a great metaphor for our connection to our land or culture. Write about your roots, or your rootlessness perhaps?
He was in the attic rooting around through boxes of old clothes, discarded furniture and other assorted miscellany. His parents never threw anything away. When things became outdated, or passe they would be put in the attic, the cellar, or the garage. Books were always stored in the attic where they were less likely to succumb to mold and mildew. There was the problem with rodents. He recalled the time his father found one of his books partially destroyed, like some one had had a book sandwich for lunch. Flummoxed at first, he soon discovered a mouse boudoir neatly lined with bits of what once were pages in a book. From that day on he made sure that there was an amble supply of dried blood thinner available for their easy access. Any subsequent visitors of their ilk found a less than hospitable abode to take up winter housekeeping in.
Ahha, there it was, the book he's been looking for. He'd been sure in remembering that his father had spent years compiling an extensive family genealogy. Of course he'd expected to find it in the library, not in the attic. In fact he'd spent two days rummaging through his dad's library before finally checking out the attic. How or why it ended up in the attic was beyond him. His mother had probably put it up there, after dad died, when she had tried to put some order to his father's haphazard filing system. Which is to say, he adhered to no filing system at all. She would have seen no reason to to keep the genealogy record in the library, having thought his time spent researching his relatives and ancestors a waste of time.
His father had grown up in this house, as had his father before him. In fact, his great grandfather had built this house himself.
His father had been right though. He'd told Limerace that someday he too would feel the pull to know his past; where he came from, who had come before him. He's said, "son, I put down roots here, anchored myself to this place. Your mother and I raised a family here and we prospered. You may not settle here, but you'll always be from here. All of your life you will have a sense that you are a part of this place, this town, this State. That feeling of belonging to a place is what I call being rooted. In time", he continued, " you'll put down your own roots, and raise a family. Your seed, your offspring, will always say 'I'm from here or there'. It's good to feel that you belong."
And so, here he was, sitting in his father's attic reading the family tree, tracing his past. He read about many places where his ancestors had put down roots, and he felt connected. He read about Phillipe Couillard de Roque-brun who had been rooted in Auch, France. He thought to himself, It's time to go back home and visit my roots.
Hmmm, Limerace wondered if he might be related to D'Artagnan.