As it so often does, pulling on one thread of the family tapestry, often unravels a completely unrelated section. While researching a photograph from my archive, I turned to FamilySearch to verify census data addresses in an attempt to hone in on a location for the photo. Imagine my surprise when, clicking up the branches of the family tree, I encountered an alternate profile of my mother, displaying an intimate profile photo of her on her wedding day, that I did not create nor upload.

While school came relatively easy to me, life post-high school graduation did not.

I graduated at seventeen, without the first clue as to what to do with the rest of my life. I had hobbies & interests growing up, of course—primarily writing—but I hadn’t the first idea how to turn that into a career. At the time, I thought the only degrees available to pursue for writers were either Journalism or English and I wasn’t interested in either option. After working on the school newspaper, I knew I didn’t want to be a journalist, chasing down leads or making edits & layouts; and beyond teaching, I didn’t know what other opportunities an English degree could even provide. Like a lot of kids, I played “Teacher” as a child, although I wasn’t overly keen on the idea of being a teacher—particularly because, having had teachers in my family, I knew how overworked, under-appreciated and extremely underpaid the profession is in the United States. All I knew for certain was that I wanted to write stories that connected people to the past. I wanted to show readers that, although it might be ancient history to us, it’s still relevant to today’s world and still influences us and our decisions.

In the spring of 2024, I was a year post-graduation, having launched my virtual design business, yet struggling to define how, exactly, I wanted it to function and struggling to call myself a designer. I had zero clients, zero inquiries, and my social media accounts were all stagnant and unoriginal. After three years of schooling where all the answers came effortlessly, I was feeling my way through unchartered territories once again. What I’d hoped would be a fun and creative outlet—something I could do with my time outside of work that could eventually transition to my full-time focus—was instead beginning to feel like a waste of my time. I could see bits of what I wanted my business to be: heritage-inspired, using natural elements that would stand the test of time, with a focus on slower living—glimmering in the periphery, just out of reach. But each time I sat at my desk, trying and failing to force a way forward, I was left frustrated and in tears, ready to throw in the towel.

Once upon a time, what feels like a lifetime ago, I managed & maintained a genealogical-based blog that led to writing and publishing several of my works of fiction, including self-publishing my first novel, The Children’s Field, in September of 2019. After a few months pause to breathe & regroup my thoughts, I felt ready to turn my focus to my second novel, with plans to complete a rough draft, edit and publish it in March 2021. That all came to a screeching halt Memorial Day weekend 2020, when, between trips to the hardware store and  planting a vegetable garden, my father called with the news that shattered my reality. 

David Kennaley was my 3x great grandfather on my father's side. Please note: while the surname Kennaley has changed multiple times over the years: Kennaley, Keneily, Kenealy, Connelly, Canale, Connal, etc. For sanity purposes, I will be using the spelling of my grandmother's maiden name, Kennaley, when discussing the family. In other mentions, the name is spelled as it was from the document it was copied.

This past weekend, my mom and I traveled to Fort Morgan, CO for my uncle's wedding. On our return trip, we drove the prettiest two-lane highways through southern Nebraska to see the old Wildrick homestead that had been my 3x great grandparents, John Wesley and Minnie Wildrick's, and to stop by the cemetery in Cambridge, NE so I could photograph the tombstone of their family plot. We're planning a return trip because where the sod house and barn foundation would have stood was buried beneath ten feet of weeds. But as we left, it really stirred my interest. What drives someone to leave all they know, their family and friends, their lifestyle, and pack all their belongings onto a wagon, travel hundreds of miles and begin a new life?

Alice was born 21 November 1852 to Archibald and Almira (Hopson) Tuttle in Mondamin, Harrison County, Iowa. Her parents had met and were married in Hancock County, Illinois in 1850. Their oldest child, Mary was born in Illinois, but by the time of Alice's birth, the small family had moved to Iowa. Alice was followed by more siblings, another girl, Hester, was born in 1857 while they lived in Iowa. But the family soon crossed the Missouri and settled in the Florence area of Nebraska territory. Her brother William (1859), and sisters Ida (1862) and Harriet (1865) were born while the family lived there. William's obit stated that he was born in a covered wagon in Florence.

As far back as I can remember, I've had a love and passion for history, and the art and stories it creates and inspires. It makes sense, as my grandfather taught high school American History and American Government. Long before I could read on my own, I loved sitting in his lap, listening to stories about George Washington, the Declaration of Independence, and my favorite retelling, The Battle of Bunker Hill. I was forever dragging around textbooks, full of words I didn’t understand. But he’d pause in his readings so we could pore over every detail of the illustrations and paintings featured among its pages.