Post Number 1000 !

 

Me and my father in Iowa  1960

 

 It snuck up on me, my 1000th  post and I thought really ? 1000? Did I say anything profound in any way?

I suppose only time will tell. Centuries from now when some alien creature digs up all our old files out of the ground or more likely pulls them out of the nebulous "Cloud" storing so much digital data, will they find anything we bloggers write of any historical value? Perhaps.

I've been conducting my own archeological dig of late in the form of old photos. Over the years I have been blessed with the title of family historian which is just a nice way of saying, "Here, YOU hold onto all this stuff and then when there is a big fire and its all lost we'll know who to blame."

My father on floor 1929,
his sister Teresa in crib

Not true. No one said that to me; its just that nasty voice in my head spewing garbage. Instead of ignoring it as I can do (like I've never dealt with voices in my cranium before) I am tackling them head on. The photos have been pulled from all their hiding places: boxes, closets, cupboards, envelopes shoved between books, between the pages of books etc... I have collected them, sorted them and given all the duplicates away. I have cried over a few of them, laughed over most of them and felt so blessed to have so many memories literally at my fingertips.

My parents at their wedding, 1956 with
my grandparents and my Aunt Teresa

Which you are not supposed to do you know, finger your photos. I learned that in 6th grade health class I think. Something about body oils hurting the image. Let me tell you these images were damaged by a whole lots more than minute body oil secretions over the years. When I think of the smoke, the alcohol, the paints (my father the artist) the basement humidity, the attic deserts, the travel from state to state and house to house over decades and decades, it is a miracle that any of them survived at all.

My two aunts and my grandmother
Teresa, Bernadette and Josephine O'Shaughnessy

Now, due to the constant pestering of our oldest son, I am finally scanning them all into my computer, labeling them and resorting them for inclusion into an archival, acid free, PVC free, photo album. After years of horrific abuse these photos will likely go into some sort of irreversible shock when their faces touch such holiness. But, it is time. Life is rushing by me and organization beckons. This next generation is entitled to a (somewhat) intact past.