The Questions Left Behind: When Family History Reveals What We Can Never Know

Yesterday's visit to my mother's house turned into one of those moments that make all the years of research and writing worthwhile. My aunt, who lives there too, came into the room clutching her copy of "The Last Wagon" with the kind of eagerness that only comes from discovering pieces of your own story you never knew existed.

The questions flowed naturally, each one revealing how deeply the book had touched something in both my mother and aunt. But it wasn't just the answers they sought – it was the dawning realization that their family history was richer and more complex than they'd ever imagined. The biggest revelation? The existence of Jess and Bessie, two siblings of Frank, Pier, and Jay Bird had somehow faded from our family's collective memory.

"Why didn't anyone tell us about them?" they asked. It's the kind of question that haunts family historians – those gaps in our knowledge that may never be filled. As I explained to them, I could only theorize: "I suspect that the older siblings had married and moved on with their lives long before the younger siblings. They went in different directions and led different lives." Sometimes, in the ebb and flow of family life, connections become distant, stories get lost, and whole branches of our family tree fade into shadow.

What struck me most was watching their expressions as they processed this information. To them, these weren't just names on a page—they were aunts and uncles they never knew they had. This raised even more intriguing questions: Did my grandfather know about these siblings of his father? How much of our family history was intentionally left unspoken, and how much simply slipped away with time?

This is exactly why I wrote "The Last Wagon." Yes, it's a historical account of our Romani family's journey through America, but it's also a conversation starter. It's a tool for families like mine to begin asking these important questions before it's too late before the stories and memories fade completely. Watching my mother and aunt engage with their history, seeing them piece together their own understanding of where they came from – that's the real gift of this project.

I may never be able to answer all their questions, and some family mysteries will remain just that—mysteries. But what matters most is that we ask these questions now, share these stories, and preserve what we can for future generations. The book has become more than just a family history; it's become a bridge between past and present, between what was lost and what can still be found.

To all the families out there with untold stories, I hope my journey encourages you to start asking questions, to start digging, and to start preserving your own family narratives. Because sometimes, the greatest gift we can give our families isn't just the answers we find – it's the questions we help them ask.