~:: Vanishing Point ::~

A coupla things I’ve learned, pretty much too late:

1.  Mostly about film  photography: if something is worth shooting, it’s also worth the little extra cost and trouble that goes into finding a good lab to do the processing. Things being what they were, I used the cheapest, most convenient places—and now, as I go back through my kids’ childhood, I see the cost of that: fading, color shifts, the loss of detail. I can work around much of it, but not all, and every photo I took because I loved the face and the moment – partially lost to me now because the lab used exhausted chemicals or the wrong mix, or because a machine made the decisions in the printing – is a small grief to my heart. Do it right while you have the chance.

2. I am a genealogist and family historian.  Also a daughter. I don’t have a degree in these things, just thousands of hours in the practice of them. Though I’m pretty sure I didn’t practice being a daughter any better than I practiced piano. Here is one thing I’ve learned: there is a day when it simply becomes too late.

You have questions; whether it’s about your great-great-great grands or your own childhood, questions are inside of you. For a million reasons, we tend to shove them on the back burner—sometimes, maybe, because the asking would be too emotional.

Andrew Jackson Sneed and Mahalia Ann Smith Sneed

Then, one day, your mother doesn’t recognize you anymore. That’s when  those questions float to the surface with a vengeance.  On that day, you will sit three feet away from her, looking right into her face, and know that you are now stuck with questions that there will be no answers for.  The easy ones (Mom, how did you feel when?  Mom – why did you move around so much?  Or where did you go to school? Or tell me again that story about – because I forgot to write it down and I loved it and I can’t remember the details.)

Years ago (read: the normal state of a genealogist), there was a knot in my genealogy I could not get by.  It was that knot that drove me to read through the entire body of equity records for Abbeville, South Carolina over a five year period, taking notes on EVERYthing. And I learned a lot during that time.  Made a lot of friends (albeit long dead ones and some – new cousins and fellow researchers – still alive). Learned not to sue over ridiculous things that, two hundred years later, some smart-aleck researcher would be bound to roll her eyes over, reading about it.

Then (very long and complicated story made short), I found Era.  Era Morgan Davis.  She was just about ninety years old when I found her, living in Pickens County, South Carolina. A girl of great spunk and charm. She’d married a Davis and had spent years running around the county interviewing every Davis person she could find, pumping them for their memories and names of relatives. (I can picture her sitting on a person’s porch in the heat of the summer, a light cotton dress, maybe an iced tea on the table in front of her, delicately fanning herself with an index card.)

She was the one who undid the knot for me.  After twenty five years of fruitless search, one conversation with her and I had my answer.  We have been friends ever since. Last we wrote (email), she was living alone, her husband – a first world war vet – dead these last five years, on the family farm.  Every day, she walked the woods at the foot of the farm and sat at the computer, answering genealogical questions.  We made each other laugh. She forwarded me a funny thing right at the end of September.

Just at Christmas, I realized that I hadn’t written her for a while.  Sent her a note. And only two days ago realized I hadn’t heard back.  So I wrote again, day before yesterday. But as I sent it, I felt odd. So I googled her name. I attached the word “obituary” just in case.  Three Era Davis bits came up – I mean three different people. All born in the same decade – 1911-21. All in the south.  All three had obituaries.

She had died just twelve days after that last thing she’d sent me.  But this is not a sad story. The day she checked out, she had been on the computer, answering people’s questions.  And I imagine, that glorious September morning, she’d walked the woods. She was flipping ninety-seven years old by then.  That makes her sound like an old lady, doesn’t it?  But she would have make one heck of a best friend, that one, whatever age she was.  And, to be sure, she lived till she died.

But it’s sad for me.  If I’d only known (yeah – she’s ninety seven, what else did I need to know?), I’m sure there were tons of questions I should have asked.  I should have flown there, visited, hugged her, looked at all her research, walked the woods with her myself.  It is just so weird to have lost her.  The emails didn’t even come back.  They just shot off into the ether – seen by – ????

So that’s what I learned: the connections we human beings have are amazing.  The meaning we can have in each other’s lives – even if we’ve never met face to face – is nothing short of miraculous.  A joy, a gift, a blinking surprise worth celebration.  Not to be taken for granted.

So thank you, I say.  To my beloved family, and friends known both in person and in only written presence: thank you.  You are the salt on my avocado. The melted cheese on my – anything.  The light of my eyes.  The joy of my days.  I’m just sayin’ –

While I still can.

(I was going to try to find a picture of Era somewhere – but there aren’t any on line.  Evidently, she didn’t do facebook ((meant to be wry)). But her name is plastered all over thousands of people’s genealogical records as a source.  So now I’m thinking, if somebody wanted to see the shape my life took, what would they find?)

Four gens of womens – my womens.  Including me.  And Gin, as a dumpling. I am now the oldest mind of this family. Kind of a shocker.