Living History

“Time is not a line, but a series of now points.” Taisen Deshimaru

Life is not normally a series of earth shattering events. In every life there are moments that leave you shaking. The sudden death of my Dad on May 4, 1999 and the expected, but not yet, death of my Mom on May 26, 2010 are two shattering events in my life. I am now going through the house they lived in for so many years because it has to be sold. Today I made a discovery that has me shaking not in sorrow but with joy and anticipation.

The trunk is old and battered. I was looking for old suitcases to put my mothers clothes in that we are giving to charity and sitting way in the back and covered with other things I saw it. An old childhood memory of seeing my Dad with the trunk when I was very young came back. I was his only girl and we were very close. I remembered asking him about it and he told me it was his memory trunk. He kept things in there from when he was young and from his time in World War 2. I haven’t seen the trunk for many years but I remember an early visit out here when he showed me where it was at.

I opened the trunk today to see what was inside. There are stacks of letters tied together that Mom wrote him right after they got married and he had gone overseas during the war. There was an acceptance letter from Wabash welcoming him on the GI Bill. There were pictures and letters from family members who have been gone for many decades. It is the story of the man known as Jack Lloyd Wilson who married Mary Jane “Pat” Hughes. I am getting bubble wrap to make sure all the old things are safe and that trunk will go down to North Carolina with me. I will scan all the old letters and photos and other things that my Dad treasured before time destroys them. One of the things I found in the trunk was my Baby Book that my Mom made for all the children. She thought mine had gotten lost years ago but Dad kept it. There can be no stronger request for me to handle Dad’s history then that. He once said he wanted me to take over his genealogy because I was the only one of the five children who was interested.

That trunk is his story. In the battered trunk are the things that Dad thought were precious. Things he didn’t want to part with. The scrapbook of the beginning of my life is in that trunk. It is my Dad’s way of telling me that I am the one he trusts to take care of his treasures and tell the story of one man’s hopes and dreams. It is an honor and absolutely terrifying at the same time.