Echoes of the Willow

By Michelle Allen

This morning felt ordinary. Brewed coffee, sunlight warming the boards of the deck, the faint hum of bugs waking up with the land. I measured, wrote, adjusted plans, and scribbled reminders. I sent another grant email, swept dust from the doorframe. And for a moment, I wondered: was today typical?

Lately, my days seem to nest inside each other—a rhythm of tasks, tenderness, and things I’m learning as I go. There’s comfort in that repetition, but also a quiet pulse of change. A railing repaired, a neighbor’s encouragement, a note in the mailbox with a name I’d never seen before.

That name led me back into my ancestry research—a trail I’ve been following with both curiosity and care. I’d been tracing the LaFleur line through Michigan, reaching back to Frank LaFleur, son of Pierre and Odile, whose roots stretched from Québec through Ontario. His marriage to Lula Newberry tethered the name to mine, grounding the northern branch with certainty and rhythm.

Yet recently, I felt a pull toward the southern story: Jean Baptiste LaFleur of Louisiana, whose life unfolded in the bayous of St. Landry Parish. Similar timelines, shared surnames, a whisper of connection—but after careful review of lineage records (especially those on WikiTree), the documented paths diverge. For now, the ties remain parallel, not braided.

But here’s the thing: even unanswered questions honor the legacy. They speak to the heart of this work I’m doing—restoring space, piecing together memory, holding room for the in-between.

Whether I’m curating welcome baskets filled with local goods or imagining a walking trail that invites guests to pause, it all feels like slow ancestry. Work stitched into land and longing. Letters to those who came before, and those yet to arrive.

It was a day that nodded toward connection. A day where dust was swept, but so was doubt. A day that whispered: even in the most familiar rhythms, you are building something worth remembering.

Today I honored names that shaped me: LaFleur, Newberry, Amandy, Birr, Engel, and Kieslich. Through my husband’s heritage, Allen and Schudlich, I also carry Saunders and the legacy of Sarah Ann Otush Quay Ob No Qua Smith Saunders—a name that feels like wind moving through forest, layered with strength and story.

These names stretch across borders, languages, and generations. I may not trace every line to conclusion, but I walk with them. And in return, they walk with me—through dust swept from floorboards, through blog posts typed late at night, through moments that seem typical but hold the heartbeat of legacy.

So was today typical? Perhaps. But typical is not the absence of meaning—it’s the soil from which it grows.

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