I went to a family reunion this past weekend. You typically need rosters at my family's family reunions, because my grandmother had 13 brothers and sisters. I don't know why, but before I got into genealogy, I just couldn't keep everyone straight.

Now that I know how people are connected to one another, it's somehow easier to keep it straight.

At the end of the day, my aunt drove me out to the house where my grandmother grew up.

Along the way, she told me my great grandfather, Tom Kimrey, didn't buy a car until after World War II, when he bought a surplus jeep. She said she didn't know if he ever learned how to drive it, although several of his daughters did. We pulled onto Kimrey Lane and drove all the way to the end. It was cool to see a street named after one of my ancestors, even if it was on the edge of a booming metropolis of 74.

The house was a humble affair. It's a four-room house, with a kitchen, living room and two bedrooms. The living room doubled as the master bedroom. There was no running water. The house had a tin roof and tarpaper on the sides. A brick pattern was etched into the tarpaper. My aunt showed me where the pot-bellied stove used to be, and where my great grandmother Sallie Groves' pump organ used to sit.

The whole house was probably smaller than my kitchen and my study put together. And Tom and Sallie raised 13 kids in it. (One died very young.)

I guess standards of living have changed a bit over the course of four generations.

At any rate, seeing that old house gave me some idea of why my grandmother and great aunts and uncles were the way they were about some things. Sharing a bedroom with six other people changes your perspective about things, I guess.