After my mother passed away, I inherited a family photo album that had it’s beginning somewhere in the late 1800s. Within its delicate pages contain the photographs of many of the deceased relatives on my mother’s side. Some of these folks go back six generations! This family relic is an absolute treasure. It has become quite the conversational piece.

The old family album. Notice the impressed leather cover and the brass locking mechanism on the side. 

One of the original owners of this book was my great, great, aunt Maud. She actually took the time to write down the names of each person in the album – making sure the spellings were correct and the names were complete. I am so thankful she did that! Without this information I would have absolutely no idea who these people were and what their relationship is to me and to everyone else in my family. Maud lived to be 98 years old and was born in 1884. I had the pleasure of knowing her when I was a child. (I’m only 37) I have many fond memories of her at the family built, colonial house, where she lived in Pittstown, New Jersey. Walking into her house was literally like stepping back in time. My family history goes way back to pre- revolutionary times here in America. Maude is the only person from her generation that I ever really knew. Without her, these pictures may have gotten lost in the vast timeline of history with no connecting point to give them context and meaning; reduced to nothing more than interesting photos of strangers long gone.

My great, great, aunt Maud. This picture was probably taken at around 1893. I’m guessing.

Even though this family album is very informative and captivating, I can’t help but feel a gnawing sense of frustration. Why would I be frustrated? The more I study these pictures, the more questions I have that bring no immediate answers. Who really are these people? What did they have to say? What were their beliefs? How did they live? Would I see some character qualities in them as I see in myself? What were their personalities like? The questions follow one after another.

Sadly, this scrapbook, although very fascinating, is like an announcement to a theatrical show that can never be seen. The marquee is lit, but the theatre doors are closed to that period of time. Sure, I know their names. I can see what they wore and guess what they may have been like, but I’m still left wondering. There is a disconnect that runs between these generations and mine. Are the real memories of these family members going to live on? Surely their lives were worth something! In a larger sense, all of our memories are just one or two generations away from total obscurity. What are we doing to make sure the next generation understands the previous?

These are some pages from the book. Notice the old guy on the left? He is my great, great, great, grandfather, Daniel Christy Little. (Six generations ago) The other folks are basically a mystery to me.