A dear younger relative of mine is interested in family history. I’ve been looking through boxes of papers and pictures to find answers to his questions and I’m running onto things I’ve forgotten. Yesterday, I re-discovered the picture that puzzled my brother Richard and me. The original was on a postcard as were many of the old-time photographs. This is a snapshot of some men standing at a cemetery. They evidently had finished the irksome task of hand-digging a grave. But where is the cemetery? Who were the men? What was the year?
Other papers and pictures surfaced in my search. Each document represented a real, living person in a particular moment in each life. As I looked at these remnants of the past, I thought that time travel would be useful. I’d like to talk to these people and hear their answers to my questions. Since this isn’t possible, I spin my own tale about them. This must be how historical fiction is born. It would be fun to write.
Sometimes an old newsreel makes its way to the television screen. The voices of Winston Church, Franklin Roosevelt, President Truman come through the air waves and I see and hear the actual person. No such newsreels exist of my long ago family. All I have are documents and photos but I’m grateful for them. These are snippets of lives, of people who lived, breathed, solved problems and relished triumphs. They faced hardships but they came through them. I’m grateful for their courage and for the inspiration they are for me.
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