This morning had me digging through the back of the closet for the ratty old cardigan I wear around the house. There’s a chill in the air, a sure sign of the changing seasons.

As I fired up the computer for the day, I glanced out the window and saw a yellow leaf fly by.

I’ll no doubt be getting my daughter’s Christmas list soon. She asked for mine awhile back. Bless her heart, this isn’t one-sided.

I asked for a DNA test. For some time I’ve wanted one of those Ancestor profiles.

Not that I suspect any surprises. My linage is fairly well documented as far back as just about anyone would care to go – with the possible lack of explanation for my gypsy soul.

I, like pretty much everybody in these United States, come from a family of immigrants. In my case two sets of great-grandparents made the trek from Germany. My mother’s maternal linage arrived a few generations earlier and traces back to Scotland and Ireland. My grandmother, my father’s mother, made the journey solo at age 18.

I recently watched a movie about a young woman in similar circumstance, and it pulled my heartstrings as it portrayed the fear and courage of leaving all she knew to venture into the unknown. Even a stout sense of adventure didn’t prepare her for waving good-bye to her mother and sister for what very well could have been the last time.

In today’s age of global communication that type of farewell is virtually unimaginable, and I seriously doubt many of us would have the guts to do it. Yet, they did. They crossed the ocean to a strange, new place. Unsure of the future. Restless in the present. Discarding the past.

They came and they built what we have today. My people tilled farmland, built schools and churches, nurtured young communities. They raised children that would go on to hone their dreams. They fought wars against their homeland, aligning their allegiance to the new world. In my father’s circumstance he, my uncle, and their first cousins in Germany all fought in WWII.

They learned the language and culture, sometimes slowly, the progress manifesting itself in the next generation. Future fully assimilated generations would wear their heritage like a badge, a source of pride. Reveling in the favorite family dishes, music, and religion.

Current political banter tries to paint immigrants in a bad light. That’s nothing new. To paraphrase a television talking head, “Americans always take issue with the last group to come.”

The Italians, the Irish, the Chinese, the Hispanic – all faced discrimination in their time.

Yet, here we are. Two, three, four generations later – living, working, loving, breathing, and creating the backbone of our communities and our country. How easy it is for us, when searching for political ammunition, to forget those earnest faces – excited for a new life, yet yearning for home and familiarity.

How easy it is to wipe the image of that last ship bridge wave from our consciousness; the tears streaming down the hopeful young face.

How easy it is for us to vilify the newcomer.

The people who settled this land were filled with courage, and strength, and hope. They denied themselves comfort and worked tirelessly to create something new and wonderful.

Isn’t that just the type of people this country needs?