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Around these parts it used to be common for families to have a single tree somewhere out in the woods where everybody would go to carve their names, and leave a testament to their existence. Kids would grow up and then take their own kids out to this tree - their trusty pocket knives in their little pockets, so that they too could join in this sacred bonding ritual.
It’s a disappearing custom even here in these parts.
Here’s our family tree, and yes, my initials are carved deep into it, the bark swollen after the passing of 40 years. I remember very clearly the day my father took me back there and stood by proudly while I added myself to it.