Long ago, when I was a
young man,
my father said to me...
"Norman, you like to write stories."
And I said, "Yes, I do."
Then he said,
"Someday, when you're ready...
you might tell our family story.
Only then will you understand
what happened and why."
These opening lines from the movie, “A River Runs Through It”
are rather like something my dad once said to me.
“Royce, you’re the literary person in the family. It would be
great if, someday, you would write a non-fiction novel about our immigrant
ancestor, Isham McDonald.”
My father was an amateur genealogist. I say “amateur” because I’m
uncertain what makes someone a professional genealogist. Perhaps they are the
kind who get paid to research other people’s family trees. Of course, there’s
more than one way to “get paid.” There is such an emotional satisfaction
derived from family research. At least, this is my experience.
My father left such a rich legacy of written, verbal and visual resources; the result of the expenditure of some significant time and energy.
My father left such a rich legacy of written, verbal and visual resources; the result of the expenditure of some significant time and energy.
“Henry” (for that was his name) realized the momentary nature of
a life, and like too few of his ancestors decided to do something about it, and
“leave something behind” for his descendants.
He compiled a body of genealogical research which comprised
hundreds of pages of text and photos of generations of McDonald descendants. And
this was done in a day and time when the internet was still a good theory, and
research was the product of hundreds of hours spent in old courthouses and
interacting with knowledgeable human beings. And in order to assure his work
would be something more than finite, he duplicated this body of research many
times over, and placed these volumes in the hands of selected family members,
among his siblings and their children; who would, he hoped, eventually do the
same.
Over the course of several years my dad taped a verbal account
of his childhood and early adulthood in Georgia and Florida, and his service
during WWII. And in order to preserve the outdated audio tapes, I had them
converted to cassette disks, and like my father, entrusted copies to selected members
of the family. (As I listen to these recordings, it is as though I have been
given the momentary grace to enjoy some essence of his presence again).
During his latter years my dad developed his skills as a
landscape artist. And in this case I might rightly refer to him as a “professional,”
since he displayed his murals in restaurants and banks throughout the area, and
sold dozens of his works. (Several of his best paintings adorn the walls of my
own home). And I have so often reflected on the hundreds of paintings he
completed, and where they might be today.
Though I have written over a dozen (currently unpublished)
fictional and non-fictional volumes, (my own attempt at “leaving something
behind”) to date my literary contribution to family research has been limited
to dozens of one page biographies, and a couple of short stage presentations.
And to be fair, though (as I alluded) my father hoped I might, I have no
earthly idea how to complete a full-length non-fictional account of the life of
my immigrant grandfather, Isham; given the fact that I have all of six or eight
pages of text concerning his military life in Revolutionary South Carolina, his
involvement in the Indian Wars, and his, subsequent, family life in mid-19th
century Georgia.
Nevertheless, I have picked up the figurative mantle which my
father left behind, and thrown it over my own shoulders, and I believe he would
be proud of my efforts to emulate the things he was doing while he still had
time to do such things. There can be little doubt that the spirit of my father
lives on in me since I am at least equally possessed (and obsessed) with the
realization that my life is momentary, and whatever I have to do I have to do
now. I carry on in his stead, and I’m hopeful another will step forward to pick
up my own mantle when I pass from this sphere.
Not long before his own death, my dad and I traveled to South
Carolina by car. We sat in the living room of a ninety year old man who, from
his childhood, had waded in the streams and hunted raccoons in that area. This
spry old fella directed us to a particular culvert under a nearby road, and
recounted that, as a boy, as he was hunting a raccoon or bobcat, he had fallen
into what was then a rushing river. Bidding him “adieu,” my father and I drove
the two or three miles to this location, and spent time reminiscing about the primitive,
but no doubt, fulfilling and vivacious lives of our worthy ancestors; those in
whose footsteps we tread.
To say it was a rewarding trip would have been an understatement.
My father and I connected with one another like we hadn’t in the half century
which proceeded our journey. I will always be grateful for the opportunity we
made for ourselves, and the memories we created together.
My father has gone on to his rightful reward now, and I must,
one day, join him. I believe my dad would be proud of my efforts, as I have
most certainly been of his.
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