Several years ago, I inherited my grandparents’ 1830s farmhouse. Located in one of the oldest parts of Plainfield, its historic significance has always meant something special to us. My grandmother spent decades researching the property’s various inhabitants dating back to the 1700s, traced nearby old roads and even found the neighborhood’s oldest cellar holes deep in the woods. The house itself is a repository for at least six generations, with photos and documents dating back to my great-great grandfather.
Sorting through the house’s attics and closets is like conducting an archaeological dig and we’ve found some historical gems – like rare books and old maps, as well as gorgeous textiles, trinkets and heirlooms. I’ve come across touching reflections on tragedy and proud relics of celebrations. It’s been a journey back through family stories, except I’ve been able to pick up and hold many of the props I’ve heard so much about.
A lot of these things have since been donated to historical societies, colleges and museums. But I’ve held on to other tokens of our past – mostly because of a fear I have that while the fragile pieces of my family’s life will be appropriately preserved in megapixels and megabytes they may still be lost forever as the tangible, important chapters of the people they represent.
And in this age of downloads and tablets, even my own children may someday miss the significance of holding an 1865 Harper’s Weekly containing a poignant post-Civil War holiday message to all men and women; or reading the eulogy delivered at the funeral of poet e.e. Cummings; or viewing Harry S. Truman’s tribute to my great-grandfather – a renowned member of the Norwich University faculty. My family had links to all these things.
These finds have certainly offered me bragging rights, but they’ve also spurred friends and colleagues to delve into and preserve pieces of their own family histories - with a few unexpected consequences.
Two years ago, I was sharing an old city directory of Barre with a friend. In it, he spotted a black-and-white illustration of an advertisement for Rock of Ages - apparently by the famous illustrator Norman Rockwell. Following research and publicity from an article I wrote, Rock of Ages allowed its three original Rockwells - commissioned decades ago – to be viewed by the public. This brought forth an outpouring of community pride for Barre’s history and the granite industry. Citizens were very excited to learn about these valuable pieces of art history.
Early Vermont textbooks inspire discussion about how certain academic subjects like geography, history and spelling were (and are) taught in Vermont's schools. A piece of rare sheet music for “Hail, Vermont” by Josephine Hovey Perry of Barre results in choral groups dusting off the former state song to perform around the state. The pride over these little treasures is contagious.
Our past defines us – even if it is hard to appreciate its value today and the influence it still has on where we go next.
