When my father died I “inherited” my extended family’s
photos. There must have been at least a
thousand pictures, dating back to the beginning of the 20th century.
In addition, there were written records and sundry other mementos. My parents
never threw anything away. Such fascinating
information can be coaxed from those records. For example, it cost my parents
$2.35 a day for my mother’s maternity stay in the hospital when I was born.
Automobiles were priced in the hundreds, not ten thousands like they are
today.
There are WPA notices and old ration books. The ration books brought to mind one of my
most trying experiences. When I was in the terrible twos I tore up the ration
stamps, requiring that my parents bring the torn stamp remnants and the naughty
child before a judge to replace them. It
was years before I could deal with the trauma. The memory is sharp nearly 70
years later. To this day I get panic
attacks when called for jury duty! Not all inheritances are pleasant.
After sorting through my photographic legacy, I put
some aside and attempted to relieve my embarrassment of riches by giving
hundreds of photos away. I gave the oldest person in each of the families the
photos to keep or to distribute amongst their children or siblings, or perhaps
to toss. I still have several hundred
pictures, wonderful and painful memories of people loved, feared, dead. When I die the memory of many will die with
me; they truly will be gone. No one will
want, or even care about, the smiling, laughing, crying faces that meant so
much to me.
Old photographs are a responsibility. Which can I
keep a bit longer? Which should be
tossed? I know most must go, holding no illusions about passing the photos on
to my son. He does not care about those strangers. Yet I know these mementos
could mean something to the right person. I feel that I have a last responsibility
to the dead to find that right person. Sometimes I get lucky.
In a recent
rummage down memory lane I found a song written by my great-uncle, the owner of
a formal wear establishment. It was funny, written in broken English, an
advertising ditty. But it was my Uncle Frank speaking out one more time. I sent it around to my millions of cousins
via email and was amazed at the response amongst Uncle Frank’s grandchildren.
The emails whizzed back and forth with wonderful
memories of young children gathered around the radio on Saturday, waiting to
hear the ad so they could sing it along with their grandfather. Their memories gave us a glimpse of family
life we never knew existed. Efforts were
being made to locate a tape recording so younger descendants of Francesco could
once more hear their grandfather singing and playing the mandolin. That sheet of music with its lyrics meant a
great deal to my cousins who had nearly forgotten the fun they had had with a
grandpa once more alive in their memories.
What of all the other pieces of family history and
fond memories? I believe that a person
is never truly dead while someone remembers them. It has been the privilege of
the 20th century to retain memories of the common man in ways never
experienced before. Since then ways and
means multiply and subsequent generations will have the capability to store and
access memories of parents, grandparents, friends, children in new media. If
they so choose. Will 21st century
lives be shared and preserved? I hope
so. I fear not.
