WRITE ME A STORY

My father, Henry McDonald, was ‘into’ genealogy, as I am after him. 

In his later years he compiled a wonderful family volume dating back to our ancestors who fought in the American Revolution, and which included dozens and dozens of standardized pages with the names of the paternals and maternals of various nuclear families, their children and relevant informational data. And to avoid any hint at boredom, the six inch binder was filled with a myriad of family photos. Having finished a research volume containing hundreds of names and an immense amount of data, he duplicated 15 or 20 of them and gave them out to his siblings and other relatives; who, in turn, are expected to pass these binders down to their children, and children’s children.

More than once in the decade which preceded my father’s ultimate departure from this life, he made a request of me.

“Royce, I’m counting on you to write an historical, non-fiction volume about our family.”

It was apparent from our conversations, re. this topic, that he expected me to give the most time and space to our immigrant ancestor, Isham McDonald.

And as a result, I would always respond.

“Daddy, I’d like to help you with this, but there’s simply not enough material to do it.”

I mean, I had some basic facts to work with. My 3x great grandfather was born in Ireland in 1747. His parents, (whose names are not known) originally hailed from Scotland. He sailed into Charleston, SC before the American Revolution. He fought the British under the command of Lt. Col. Francis Marion. After the war he moved to South Georgia. He died in the home of his son, William, in 1845.

Tell me, how do you create a non-fictional book out of the information contained in one paragraph? Not being a sooth-sayer and not having access to a time machine, well, it was simply beyond my power to do so.

And to be fair, during my father’s waning years I compiled a tremendous amount of genealogical research of my own, and relegated it to hard drives which I intend to pass down to those who come after me. Not only this, but I have written a couple of dozen non-fiction (unpublished) volumes, including my autobiography, doctoral dissertation, counseling memoirs and devotionals; for a total of 5,000 pages or more.

But for all of it, I have not written the sort of book my father requested I write.

Did I mention that in the twenty years prior to going on to his eternal reward my dad generated several hours of audio tapes in which he recounted his childhood, military service and family life?

(Well, he did).

Interestingly enough, daddy made me aware of these tapes, and after his death I transferred them to cassette disks, so as to assure their availability to posterity. 

I say, ‘interestingly enough’ since only yesterday, as though I were some genealogical Indiana Jones, I discovered several more of my father’s tapes mixed in with other miscellaneous audios. Of course, I intend to upgrade these tapes to the more modern media mode, as well.

On a somewhat peripheral note, a few days before she died I asked my mother if she wanted to listen to one of my dad’s audios, and this time around she seemed interested. Thus, on such and such a day, I took one of the tapes and my old recorder to the nursing home, and ran one of his childhood stories. 

After about 10 minutes my mother expressed that it was enough. Speaking for myself, I have found it rather poignant to hear my father’s familiar voice again; a voice which no longer has the capacity to verbalize anything.

Following is an excerpt from a newly discovered audio.

"The next day they brought big craft in there to the edge of the sand bar and pulled a cable to us and attached it to our boat, and they rescued us. The only damage was to the propeller. The boat wasn’t hurt. We had a storm coming in there and to keep from tearing up our crash boats, we had orders to move them up river to Brooklyn. We went up river and tied up by a ship. Then the boatswain took off, and we were left to watch the boat. We were right by a bar, so we decided to take turns doing some drinking. My friend went on over, and came back in an hour; all beat up. I asked what happened. He said, ‘this fella beat the h_ _ _ outta me.’

I said, ‘I’ll go see about that!’ I went over to the bar, and got a drink and looked around and I said, ‘My buddy was here a while ago and someone took a notion to beat up on him, and I want to know who it was ‘cause I’m gonna take care of things.’ And this sailor stood up and said, ‘Well, if you want some of what I gave him, I’ll oblige ya.’ I walked over to him, and we were about to ‘have it out.’ He knocked me down so fast, I couldn’t get up. I slunk out of there and went back to the boat. 

We spent the rest of the night on the boat. This boat was about 80 foot long. I had never run it at all, and he hadn’t either. Well, this boat we were tied up to was about to leave, and I told them I didn’t know how to run our boat. The ensign said, ‘Well, I’m gonna untie you, and you can do as you please.’ Here we were floating in the bay, and neither of us knew how to run the boat. I cranked it up and somehow I got it docked without tearing it apart. I wonder to this day how I did it since I’d lied about my age, and I wasn’t nothing but a 16 year old boy. 

…But I did it. "

(from “The Life and Times of Henry McDonald”)

Granted, my dad’s diction, grammar and syntax never were all that polished, his South Georgia dialect was a bit raw, and like me he spoke in a somewhat wearisome monotone, but it was all Henry. And I love it.

Not being perfectly content with the existence of my father’s recorded voice, I determined some time ago to transcribe the tapes and commit the finished product to hard drives and to paper. Need I say that I have already transcribed the latest audios?

(Well, I have).

As I have previously implied, my dad asked me to write a book about his family; a task which I, regretfully, felt unable to make happen. 

However, it occurs to me that, (at least posthumously), my father and I have collaborated together to write that book. 

Granted, the major focus of those ‘three score and ten’ pages isn’t, as he’d hoped, our long dead immigrant ancestor. But rather, the hero of the little volume is a man of our time, and one whose life and deeds do not have to be fabricated or guessed at.

If God saw fit to give me a couple more minutes with my dad, I can imagine what I’d say,

“Daddy, you know that book you wanted me to write? Well, we got ‘er done, and (drum roll)… you were both the writer, and the main character.”

I cannot know if it will ever be published, or simply remain in the family, but it was a privilege to honor him and perpetuate his memory in this way.

*(On another note, yesterday was the 5th anniversary of my father's passing and poignantly enough it was also yesterday that I received the proof of my new book, "A Man's Tribute to His Devoted Dogs"). 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 37. Copyright pending

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