My Dead Friends...The Beginning

So...I started writing this blog because I wanted to jumpstart my writing again, and I wanted to write about my house. I want to write about my house because I know there's a 'book' in here somewhere... Now that I know my days with my house and all its history may be limited, it's time I started writing about the topic I originally set out to write about. It's interesting, why we put things off...I have no idea. Fear of failure, fear of success, not know the 'right' thing to say, not letting the words come from a higher place? Perhaps it's any or all of these things...

When I first came here, I didn't love my house. Ok, that's not exactly true, I did love it but I didn't connect with it. There really wasn't that much to connect to...for all that I knew about its history, I didn't know much about its 'people.' Once I began to learn about them, I didn't have a bit of trouble finding a connection to the house itself. Now, I love it...but not in the way that you love a possession. I love it because it's a part of history; it's a stewardship, to care for it, and I don't take that task lightly. But I'm realizing more and more that to have a life of my own again, I will have to let it go. This is another doorway to grief, and I'm not ready to open it yet, but soon that time will come. Maybe saving this writing until now will help me in my release of my home. I hope so...

In the beginning, I knew very little about this place. It had belonged to a family named Jameson. The father of the man who owned my house had been a Missouri Congressman (the first, I believe), and he was also well-known locally for defending a slave girl named Celia, on the grounds of sexual abuse. The Jameson who lived here was also an attorney, but eventually started a livery business as well, and eventually the family owned a local Ford dealership. The house itself was in the Jameson family from 1861 until 1986 (or thereabout). Anyway, a LONG time. That's pretty much all I knew. Only a couple of photos remained from the 'old' days, no letters, no journals, no nothing. The man who lived next door to me had grown up here, but being in his 80s and a bit 'crotchety,' he claimed he didn't have any other information about his forefathers. That was so not true....

When he died 2 years ago, his children found letters, photos, newspaper articles, all boxed up in his office. Perhaps he never read them; perhaps he really didn't know what he had. But he had a lot. I used all that information as a starting point--I went to the library and looked at old newspapers; I started transcribing the letters; tried to identify the photos. I'm happy to report that although the local townfolk might not agree with this, I am probably the prominent authority on one of this town's founding families. I also love them as if they were my own. Seriously. They have become my friends, even if they are all dead. They have taught me so much about life, and loss, and the things that were important back then. Mainly, family. Today, with our blended families and our lives in all parts of the country--and the world--we understand so little about what it meant to be 'close' and to depend on each other; to value your history, and your relatives, and to want it to be handed down to future generations. But they did, and in learning about them, I've come to value those lost values as well. So in future entries, I will try to start sharing not only how they've helped me, but also these people whom I've come to know as friends. I hope you find something in our stories to help you regain a sense of connection to your own family and history. Because I truly believe, beyond anything, connection is what it's all about...