My dad traveled out to California, and set to work getting the house ready for the market. He brought home boxes and boxes of amazing family history - I've only partially delved into the first box, and there are many more! The picture above is from August, 1961, in Indiana. Dad scanned some of the photographs he found more memorable.
Since my dad is out, it's a lovely Saturday, and I have nobody barging into my time, I decided to look around history a bit. Since I'm a techie-lover by nature (and lazy) I first took a look at the photos my dad uploaded to his Facebook account. The pictures drove me to the verge of tears. I'll explain that later.
Before the two catastrophes that rocked my father's family, everything was what you'd expect in a typical 60's Indiana family. Grumps was a merchant and a golf aficionado. Gramma Sarah was the loving mother of four. Greg was the suave oldest child of the family (fifteen or sixteen in the photo above). Denise, though adopted, fit right in as the second oldest. She's standing next to Greg in the photo up there. My dad had just been born. He was a pretty chubby but optimistic baby. Kellie, my youngest aunt, had yet to be born.
I finally escaped the clutches of the soft sofa and headed down to the chilled basement for a peek in Dad's boxes. I found mostly photo albums from the late eighties (no doubt compiled by my step-grandma), "ancient" books, several Bibles, old photos of children I can't name, and letters from one friend to another. I even found a certificate of baptism for Uncle Greg when he was eighteen tucked in the pages of a well-read and well-worn old leather Bible. What brought me out of my sentimental weepy feeling was an album partially filled with newspaper clippings. All were from an old news paper, all were letters to the editor, all were penned by Grumps, and all concerned golf. Even as a girl with no knowledge of the sport, I couldn't help giggling at Grumps's rhetorically rich and entertaining letters. I'd never known my grandfather to be so, well, sassy! He criticized the new golf rules, snapped quick pokes at seemingly ridiculous regulations, and signed his name "Maury", short for Maurice.
History's a strange thing. Most think history can only be found in marbled metropolis museums, or thick, battered textbooks. I know better. I've encountered history in the weathered boxes downstairs, in the overstuffed scrapbooks, in the faded novels. What I saw and read made me giggle, wipe away tears, gasp in awe, and desire yet more. I've only stepped into one box. Who knows what treasures I still have yet to find!
To be continued . . .
