"A Box Of Photographs"

Grave site of Walter (great-grandfather), Annie
(great-grandmother) and William Alexander (great-uncle)
Walker located at St. Andrew Cemetery, Orillia Ontario

(Originally written April 1, 2012)

I’m perusing a stockpile of photographs - some recent, some now becoming shockingly advanced in years, and a few which are downright ancient that compel me to marvel at the rapid passage of time.  The horrifying reality, which begins to set like concrete that was poured when I was a child, is that I’m not going to live forever.

Each time I pull these photographs from their coffer, the number of souls captured in them who have since passed on increases, and I recognize that each one lost took with them a wealth of information of the past that can never be retrieved.  What remains of them is whatever physical or psychological impressions they have left behind for us, and we are lucky if we have some piece remaining – any piece – of their story.  I am blessed that my father gave me countless firsthand memories (forty-one years’ worth) and plenty of artifacts that regularly bring them to mind.  But I will never again be able to hear him tell tales of his childhood days in Amherstburg or anecdotes from his post office years.  I can’t take him on a road trip so he can guide me through his old neighbourhoods and describe to me in a way that only he can what his world was like while he lived in it many years before.  I would give up a lot just for the opportunity to sit with my father one more time and listen to his experiences.  But this time I would write down every syllable – recording it for posterity.  How true it is that we don’t fully realize what we have until it is gone.

It is that thought that plants a peculiar sense of obligation in my soul to capture as much of my history as possible, especially that part which predates my own existence.  But there is also utter curiosity.  Who wouldn’t want to know where they came from and how they got here?  And there is so much to be gained by delving into one’s own blood line besides attaining an enhanced knowledge of oneself – to learn of distant relatives and make new connections, to see how our ancestors related to their world that it might give us insight into how we relate to ours, to increase our knowledge of history, to keep our ancestors’ memories alive, to leave a legacy for our descendants, and… simply for entertainment.

Or… adventure.  I do not know where my research will take me or who I will rub eyeballs with along the way.  I don’t know how far back in time I will be able to travel.  And I don’t know, of the numerous skeletons I will undoubtedly find, how many will turn up in the ancestral closet (hopefully a myriad – those stories make for a great read).  I do however, know that I have a good base on which to start building my history, and that I still have an abundant supply of domestic resources.  Much legwork can be eliminated with finger work, as I am fortunate enough to have the internet at my disposal.  But the real legwork will produce the real experience.  Nothing would match the sensation of standing at the grave site of a great-great-great-grandfather whom I had never known and realizing the same genes he owned are in me; or the wonder of shaking hands with a complete stranger who could tell me, “you’re great-great-great-grandfather… was also mine”.

And so a lifelong project begins although I know it will never be finished.  Time will continue to turn long after I’m gone, and many more stories will be told.  Here’s hoping the history uncovered in my lifetime is not forgotten.