Confession of a Chronic Eavesdropper
Uncle Claude handed me a large, cumbersome volume with the words Steinbrook Family embossed on the side binding. “This book tells our story from the beginning. I’ll leave you to it,” he said, disappearing from the room. I leaned back in the easy chair soaking in the warmth from his cheery fireplace, carefully fingering the gold lettering before opening the book. Words and images appeared and disappeared. Time passed imperceptibly as I devoured the pages, eavesdropping on my descendants immersed in the story of Jacob Steinbruchel, the initial Stainbrook who came to the U.S. from Germany arriving in Philadelphia in 1747. He obtained his citizenship; bought land in Buck County, Pennsylvania; and married. Before Indians killed him in 1757, he bore three children—Maria, George, and Abraham, forever sealing their fate and the fortune of generations of Stainbrooks to follow as American citizens.
I paused, laying down the book. On the richly carved mantel in front of me stood an authentic German cuckoo clock, its bellows and pipes striking nine. Keeping it company were two Hummel figurines, a drummer boy dressed in Lederhosen and a schoolgirl carrying a basket of flowers. The remaining mantel space was filled with a tiny bisque figurines, a heart-shaped porcelain box—its top covered with china forget-me-nots—along with a host of vintage family photographs.
I stared at the photographs, curious about the stories of the people staring back at me. I stood and walked towards them, hoping to eavesdrop on their conversations. As crazy as it sounds, sometimes I do hear my descendants talking, not so much in the tangible, literal sense but in the intuitive sense. Ofttimes, I hear what they’re not saying by studying the expressions on their faces, focusing on the details of their surroundings, or reading the scribblings on the back of their photographs. They tell me a great deal.
I confess. I’m a chronic eavesdropper. Eavesdropping is something a memoirist like me does. Eavesdropping allows me to touch the plaited link that exists between me and my ancestors—one that goes beyond time, our bloodline, and our shared genealogy.
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