After writing about historical and
semi-historical things the past few days (actually, the past few
months, seeing as how this is turning in my “Summer of History" ™
) I starting thinking (which, as we all know, can be a dangerous
thing)—in 30 or 40 years, am I gonna be one of those old people who
young people visit to listen to all their old stories about how
Marquette “used to be” way back in the 1990s or the 2000s? And,
if so, will my stories be of any interest to them, the way the
stories I hear from old people these days are to me?
I don’t know why, but I’ve started
thinking about that recently. One of the greatest resources that I,
as a history buff (and occasional researcher) have found, are the
memories and recollections of the people who actually lived through
or made the history about which I’m interested. Sure, you can read
about, say, the storm of 1938, but it really doesn’t come to life
until you hear the story of a young man, then a student at Northern,
who was stuck in his fraternity house because he couldn’t drive his
car anywhere, yet found the inner strength to slap on snowshoes, trek
four blocks through the cold, and buy a case of beer. Oh--and he did
this three days in a row.
Now, to me, THAT’S the side of
history you never get to read about in “official’ sources, and
that, to me, is actually the most interesting side of history.
That’s why, when Loraine goes to talk with people who knew the men
& women she’s researching, I tag along, and see what I can find
out about other important moments in local history. You never know
when asking a person one question might trigger something that’s
been buried deep down in their memory, just waiting for the right
moment to pop back up to the surface.
What’s funny is that the people who
share these anecdotes really don’t think they’re sharing anything
worthwhile. They’re just telling stories of a few of the thousands
of everyday incidents that make up their lives. To them, it’s just
one of many things they’ve gone through in 60 or 70 or 80 years of
living; to me, though, it’s a vital part of local history.
And that’s what I’ve been thinking
about recently. When I’m sitting in my hovercraft rocking chair in
2045, talking to a young person interested in what happened 40 or 50
years ago, which one of my little experiences—an experience which
I’ve probably forgotten about even now, in 2019—will they find
fascinating? Is there a small part of my life, which I groan about
now, that will make them laugh? Have I taken part in some activity,
or have I met some person that, years from now, will have as much of
an impact on future generations as, say, the storm of 1938 has on me?
Will I be able to tell the story of someone I know now, who then
goes on to cure cancer, become the first person to walk on Mars, or
who dies tragically in some future conflict?
I just hope that, in 30 or 40 years,
I’m able to share as much information with anyone who’s young and
interested as I’ve been able to gather from speaking with all these
wonderful people over all these years. That, I guess, would be one
way of “thanks” to them for everything they shared with me, back
when I was young and interested.
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