ancestral journey

Last time my brother was in Oregon, he stole a box of cassette tapes from my dad's closet. Twenty-two tapes which contain the voice of my grandfather from an interview done by my father when he was 18. The tapes were lost for years. When the box finally re-surfaced, the astronomical cost to convert the tapes to digital files made the project impossible.

My brother wanted to do it for my dad's 50th birthday on October 29th but he didn't have the tools or the funds for it. Fortunately, at this wonderful establishment of higher education where I work, in a small corner of the library, a mac lab sits with all the equipment necessary to convert the tapes- for free!

So here I sit, tucked away in a quiet corner, listening to the stories of my grandfather's life. Hours walking hand-in-hand with this deep gravely voice, re-living the life of a man who died six years ago.

It makes me feel somewhat insignificant. This man's death seemed to shatter the world for my family. My dad fell apart in a way I've never seen. Two thousand one hundred and nineteen days have passed since he died and the story of his life doesn't get told very often anymore. And that makes sense. You can't use all your time sitting around and thinking about the lives of the people who have already died. You have your own life to live!

I don't ever tell the story of the man who was my grandfather's dad. I didn't know him. He has never directly affected my present moment. For some reason that makes me feel extraneous. Within two generations, almost everything about my life will be completely inconsequential. Sometimes I feel like that matters and sometimes I feel like it doesn't.

Right now I'm at the part in the story where my grandpa's plane got shot down right outside of Munich during WWII. He was free falling through the clouds when the 9th tape ended. I didn't have time to record another hour but I listened to the first five minutes of the next tape. He pulled his parachute and when it opened, it snapped his boots clean off his feet. The wind blew him over a few smaller German villages as he lost altitude and he began to see Germans running after him with pitchforks and clubs. I absolutely had to leave right at the point that he hit a tree, fell to the ground, and could see men, women, and children through the woods, all spread out in a line looking for him.

I have embarked
on an ancestral journey
with a man whom I loved
but am just beginning to truly know.

His stories enchant me.
His country accent and grammar enamor me.
Understanding him helps me understand
my father
and maybe
parts of myself.