On Sunday, a friend cornered me at church. She said, “Wyatt, I need to pick your brains for a minute,” and pointedly looked at two books she held in her hands. Both wore black covers and one had the date 1949 on it.

“How can I help?” I asked.

“My dad recently gave me these journals from my grandfather and great-grandfather. I figured I’d ask you what I needed to do with them before I do anything else with them.”

Now I know what she really meant was, “How do I preserve and take care of these?” And I answered that question immediately. However, before I went on my long and detailed rant about preservation and storage and washing her hands before she touched them and other standard archival practices I felt she needed to know, I should have said something else. I should have said, “Read them.”

First and foremost, I should have made sure that she planned to read them, not just assumed that she would. I should have expressed how important I think they’ll be to her and not because I think they’re important because of their age. You see, I don’t care how old they are. I don’t care if they’re from 1913 or 1949 or some other time (they are from 1913 and 1949). I mention this because sometimes people think age is what brings the value to items like these. Unfortunately, age isn’t what makes them important. I think they’re important because they’re from her family. And because of that, I truly hope she reads them. And treasures them. Those journals from her ancestors are filled with priceless words and thoughts. They’re also filled with the opportunity to feel the connection to her grandfather and great-grandfather in ways she never knew before.

Truly, how many of us who dabble in genealogy would love to have journals from our ancestors? I don’t have any. The closest thing I have is one letter from my grandfather. It’s actually not a letter. It’s a note he wrote when he annotated some sheet music for me. He wanted me to learn Stardust on the harmonica and took the time to arrange and annotate the song for me with his own arrangement. I never expected him to go out of his way for me like that. And in the end, his little note became tangible evidence my grandfather not only knew my name, but thought about me as well.

Photo from the author's personal collection

You see, it might have been easy to doubt whether or not my grandfather knew me. He lived at least 500 miles from me, had a good 20-30 other grandchildren (some of which I knew, others I didn’t), and he called every single one of us “pumpkin.” He said it in his quiet voice that almost sounded like mumbling. Every time he called me pumpkin, I wasn’t sure what to think because he called all of his grandchildren by the same pet name.

Then one day a few years later and after I grew a few feet taller, my grandfather learned I’d been dabbling in the harmonica. As someone who toured the local circuit of rest homes and office gigs with his harmonica group, this new knowledge excited him. We jammed. We learned new music. We both learned the Dances with Wolves soundtrack, which was popular at the time. We had a great time. It was our thing. Harmonicas became a special moment for someone like me, who grew up most of my life not really knowing my grandparents. You see, two of them died before I was born, the third died when I was 5, and the only remaining one resided 500 miles away. Growing up that far away from your grandparent makes you suspect when they start calling every kid around you “pumpkin.”

So after the jam sessions and the harmonica lessons died down, and my grandfather dropped me a note, one with MY NAME ON IT!, it dispelled all doubt on whether or not he knew my name. Plus it was beyond cool that he was thinking of me.

These days I wish I had more than one paragraph written in a shaky hand from my grandfather. Boy, what would I do for a journal or two? So, my friend, please forgive me if I gave you all the advice on how to preserve those journals without making sure you’re going to read them. But even more important, my friend, take it from me. Read them. Read them and appreciate the treasure you’re working to preserve.