In the beginning...

History introduced itself to me when I was 16.

That’s many years back. It’s an era that is now studied in the history books. It’s weird having grown up enmeshed in history to now be a part of history. 

Millennials think they know what went on back then. They don’t. Since I lived it, the Beatles phenomenon, the Viet Nam war, the changes in the culture from conservative to liberal, Playboy, Jim Jones, the first guy to walk on the moon, et cetera, well, it’s difficult to relay the emotions of those that witnessed these things first hand.

In the study of history, it’s always difficult to relay the way people felt about the big things that happened.  I mean I can never, truly wrap my head around the Black Death. Clinically, I get what happened. But how the hell do you understand the picture of walking down your village street to see dead people laying on the side of the road, in addition to carts stacked high with bodies wending their way to a mass grave? What is it like to stand in a room seeing your father die, along with your sister?   How do you cope with the fact that in a town that once held 400, only 250 are left?

You do not so much cope as you endure. 

My cousin’s husband told me the story of how he held his best friend in his arms whilst he bled to death during the Viet Nam war. That is Boomer history. Uncomfortable stuff that happens thousands of miles away, whilst on American soil, we line up to see the Rolling Stones during their first tour of the United States.

That was the summer my mother told me there was no such thing as boredom as long as there were books to read. My mother had two built in bookcases in her living room, full of books. She pointed to them, and then left the room. I picked out a certain book with a title that reached out to me. “Pick me” it said. Who could turn away from a title that was a dichotomy. War and Peace. I opened its pages and a passion was ignited. 

University life introduced me to my other half. Ancient stories. Homer and his ilk. Oh, I knew I was damned. 

Periodically, people would tell me to study practical things. 

Me? Be practical? Surely you jest. On the other hand, I can paint a house and patch its walls? Can you do that? 

Perhaps I should have taken up plumbing. In a way, that is what I did, because when you nose in, deeply, into the past, you see all sorts of shit.

Well, back to my being the Boomer. Truth is, I was born out of time. Or born to explain it. I came into this world an Old Fashioned, and I will leave it in that way. As one of my readers once but it, “You are an antiquarian.” He summed that up nicely. 

Many Boomers, as a blowback to all things modern, organized history. Groups like the SCA and historical sites putting costumes on their site historians. We weren’t keeping the fires of the past burning only in books, but in the laying of hands on it as well. There is something about wearing a corset that gives one a true appreciation for the modern world. Deep breathing is a chore when dancing in a tightly laced corset. On the other side, standing up straight with excellent posture is easy wearing a pair of bodys, as corsets are also called. 

Here am I, a grandmother sitting at her desk with the history of my family spread out in front of me, realizing family history, is history. It is a personal myth and a public story.

From me, expect reverence, and irreverence, for the past. Expect no romantic takes, and absolutely no political correctness. The good, the bad, and a few uglies stand around in the murky past. I love the good and the bad. Nonetheless, it is the uglies we want to avoid in the future.

That’s why we study the past. That’s why I teach the lessons of history.