By Pattie Mihalik

There are so many people who amaze me by how much they know about their family’s genealogy.

My friend Jeanne, for instance, has charts and books detailing the lineage of her family back to the early 1700s. She also has accounts of one of her ancestors who was said to be present for the birth of Abraham Lincoln.

How exotic and how extraordinary that sounds to me.

I am so chagrined by the little I know of my family’s history. Partly that isn’t my fault because of circumstances. But part of my vacuum of knowledge about my family’s roots is because I failed to ask questions while I still had the chance.

Last year I had the thrill of a lifetime when my two daughters and I traveled to southern Italy to discover our roots. I was like an excited little kid when we traveled to Squillace, the village where my grandparents lived before they came to America.

The only thing my grandmother ever told me about her village was that everyone was poor with little chance of getting ahead. That’s why they came to America. I imagine they felt rich in America when they lived nicely among those who had come from the same village.

I’m surprised my grandmother never told me her village was beautiful. They lived above cliffs that ended at turquoise blue water. I wondered why she never mentioned the beach.

My sister thinks it’s because the adults were consumed with earning a living or putting food on the table. Only the kids went to the beach.

I do know that “the beach” back then wasn’t regarded as a place to luxuriate in the sun and have fun. That was a later-day concept.

While I didn’t go there knowing the exact house where my grandparents lived, instinct and my heart took my feet to an area on top of the narrow mountain road where I actually “felt my ancestors.”

A kind, elderly parish priest offered to tell us more if I told him the name of my great-grandparents.

To my everlasting regret, I don’t have the slightest idea. I do know my grandmother’s maiden name, but that’s about it.

Why was no one in my family curious about our Italian family? By the time I wanted to know, everyone had passed away.

My father’s lineage is even sketchier. His father died while he was still in his mother’s womb, leaving her with five children to feed. The only family stories I ever heard were about what they did to survive. In fifth grade, my father had to quit school to work in an independent mine to help support the family.

Once, I found a newspaper that said Frank and Victoria Trotsky opened the first store in their town. They would have been my father’s grandparents, but they had passed away before he could get to know them. Here’s what shocked me. The newspaper article said they were Jewish. My dad said that was rubbish. His mother was in a Catholic convent before she dropped out to take care of her parents. All were Catholic, he said.

Oh how I longed to know more about that mystery. But once again, everyone had passed away before my curiosity kicked in.

For Christmas, my daughter Andrea enrolled all of us in Ancestry.com. I expected absolutely nothing to come from it because I couldn’t even list my ancestors’ names or where they came from.

When my results came back, I was quite surprised to see what my DNA revealed about my ethnicity. I thought it would show mostly Italy, but Eastern Europe, probably Poland, was more prominent. It said Caucasus and the Middle East were part of my DNA story.

I figured it verified my old theory about Jewish great-grandparents.

But what floored me most of all was “extremely high confidence” that another member was close family. Not thinking anything would come from it, I dropped the Michigan man a line. Turns out he knows more about my family’s roots than I do for one very amazing reason: His great-grandparents and mine are one and the same.

When he was kind enough to send me his extensive family tree, some of which originated in my father’s hometown, I saw some of the names I remembered from my childhood.

From his genealogy chart I was able to fill in the blanks about my grandparents and great-grandparents.

While he was able to find most family graves, all of which were in Catholic cemeteries, he couldn’t find those of our great-grandparents. But he agrees with my dad: There is absolutely no chance they were Jewish. I’m still confused. Would a newspaper make that up?

I am ever so grateful I know a lot more about family roots than I did before. Out of the blue, ancestry.com also came up with two of my first cousins as well as other close relatives.

Those of you who have a firm knowledge of your ancestry, and those who have stories to go with it, have such a gift. If you don’t, and if older members of your family are still alive, it’s not too late for you.

Ask questions. Know your roots.

We can better know who we are when we understand where we came from. Or, from whom we came. That’s what fascinates me.

Contact Pattie Mihalik at newsgirl@comcast.net.