You Like to Write Stories, Don't You?

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 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.

“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 And in order to preserve the outdated audio tapes, I had them converted to cassette disks, and like my father, entrusted copies to selected members of the family.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-19^th 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. There will come a day when people preface their sentences about me with, "He was..." I believe my dad would be proud of my efforts, as I have most certainly been of his.
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By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 22. Copyright pending

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