My family’s biennial reunion took us on a long weekend trip to the hills and valleys of southwestern Pennsylvania recently. Not only did about 75 Mausts (including in-laws and outlaws) indulge in lots of good food and family fun, but we got in touch with our roots — so to speak.

I’ve never been too caught up in the whole family-tree chronicle, tracing names through the genealogy section at the library or looking up old cemeteries. But that was exactly what the reunion organizers had planned, as we set out that Saturday morning — dividing up in several groups sized for minivan transportation. We soon made our way around the Pennsylvania countryside and one of our first stops was an old farmstead where my granddad was born, and soon after we were led to the home where he was reared and to another house where great-granddad was born. And so it went, stop after stop we learned about our ancestors from our history buff Pennsylvanian cousins, taking lots of pictures of buildings and ourselves along the way.

We even visited the Maust Cemetery where many of my ancestors were buried, located now on the backside of an Amish farm high on a hill overgrown with weeds. The cemetery itself was actually mowed where the frail tombstones were still secure.

The intriguing thing about seeing these old homes where my ancestors were born and reared was that there were families living in them yet today — mostly Old Order Amish families. After meeting a few, I would say they were the meaning of the words “Old Order.” The local Amish families in our own community would seem like Paris Hiltons living in Beverly Hills-like homes.

These homes in the hills, now 100 years old plus, were dilapidated and in a state of ruin, and the folks inside were obviously poor and living in squander. For instance, after asking to use the restroom, my aunt was led to the “outhouse,” which would have been satisfactory — except it was an actual “outhouse” type toilet inside the house where there was no running water. She simply passed on the opportunity to wash her hands in a basin filled with dirty water.

It was awesome taking in the whole ancestory experience. Although these families and the neighbors in the area were friendly and hospitable, I’m not sure Springs, Pa., or nearby Grantsville, Md., could ever be home. I’m grateful after my grandparents’ meeting while students at a Virginia college and their eventual marriage, they chose to live and raise their own family in Daviess County, Ind. — a place I’m proud to call home.