A Leg in the Peg

Can't seem to spit one out.  Here goes nothing.

Today I visited the cemetery in Winnipeg where my great-grandparents are buried.   Paul Paulson, and his wife, Gudna  (Not entirely sure how to spell that Icelandic name).  We had to get the plots and the layout and thank god there was someone at the admin building because we never would have found them otherwise.

Standing there, the Paulson name beyond my toes made me feel so appreciative that these two particular people, whom I've never met, met, and had babies.  13 of them actually.  My grandpa, René, was one of them.   And as each family tree works, he went on to meet my grandma, Irene, who made my mom, Denise, who met my dad, John, and so on and so on.  Meanwhile, the fork of heritage on my dad's side had been working it all out too over the years and destiny with a splash of lust stepped in and boom, here I am.

Here we all are.  And what a nice place to be.

Being away from home is treating me well and it's making me want to stay.  The grass is always greener I suppose, but it seems that a lot goes on in Winnipeg over the summer.  Folkfest, Fringe, and a ton more.  I'm just getting a taste of it, but taking in as much as I can while I'm here.

We went over to my Aunt Kay's house yesterday, she's the last sibling of the Paulson clan other than my grandpa left.  At 76, she laughed and cussed and told us wonderful stories as we sat in her 1960s kitchen drinking boxed wine and eating appetizers, looking at old black and whites.  This is a heritage trip.

Knowing where we come from and seeing the people who make up our story is a special experience and I'm so happy to be doing this.  Tomorrow we're heading up to Gimli, where the Icelandics originally settled back in the day, where I'm guessing my ancestors came through on their way to little ole' Winnipeg.

I picked up a pin Tuesday that says "I heart WPG."  Indeed I do.  Indeed I do.

Dirty Three,

Katie