The thought of it kinda blows my mind.
As you know, I've been doing lots & lots of History Center stuff this summer. And after putting some notes away from an older person I spoke with regarding a tour I gave, 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 (like the one with whom I spoke) 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 it 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 2050, 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 2024—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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