Love Among the Archives

I don’t suppose there is anything more lovely than a face completely taken over with the joy of discovery. There is a shine to the eye, an urgent little swiftness to the voice, and a slight, almost imperceptible ‘back and forth’ swing from heel to toe that signifies someone quite pleased, not so much with himself, as with the sudden magical quality of the world in which he fortuitously finds himself. Such was the face before me as I waded through the guests at a housewarming party with my chardonnay in hand.

The house was old, wonderfully French in design and made of weathered brick. It had a glorious wrought-iron fence all around it topped with golden fleur de lys. It had little rooms and hallways to satisfy even the most discerning of romantic souls. It belonged now to the proud new owners, my good friends the Renniers, who were still glowing from the good fortune of landing such a beauty. I was there to rejoice with them, although being newer friends, I did not know many faces in the crowded rooms.

In the hallway down from the kitchen is where I saw that shining face, a face that beckoned me to stop and say hello. The owner was a tall, thin man with a smile behind his glasses; a face that knew no strangers. His lovely wife stood next to him. They were peering at a framed picture with the same intensity I would read a poem. I found them instantly intriguing. The frame in his hand was his gift to the homeowners. It held the history of the house from first to last. It had lovely architectural drawings of the metamorphosis that had taken place through the years, and official looking papers and deeds, and some handwritten signatures. All these were tastefully arranged behind the glass. It was, as I found out later, an archivist’s dream come true. And it struck me what a lovely gift to give to a happy couple and their children. The history of their house and all that went on there through the years. That was the day I discovered that there was a romance beyond poetry, literature, fine art, and drama. A romance conjured up by the mere word: archives. And all the drama, beauty, and downright glory of everyday human beings that can be found there among the ‘stacks.’

That face, as it turned out, belonged to my now dear friend, Greg. Since that first meeting, we have had several lovely dinners together and celebrated a few feasts with our children in tow. He and his wife Jane turned out to be as gracious as I suspected. The unique aspects of our growing friendship with an archivist have been delightful. Just as a composer always seems to have melodies running through his head at odd moments; just as a poet asks for a napkin at the dinner table to write down a verse that has suddenly inspired him; just so is the archivist. When we had dinner once at an Iranian restaurant, Greg pulled these old, lovely Iranian stamps from his pocket for us to enjoy. They were quite gorgeous. At another dinner, I produced an old German prayer book from my purse and placed it triumphantly before his eager eyes. He told us many things about it. This is a man who THINKS in archives, and it is quite charming. He guided us once through an ancient cemetery here in St. Louis and managed to weave a marvelous story of the people in it and the times they lived in. It was really in every way enchanting.

Greg has set before me a new facet of the beautiful that is quite worthy of our attention. The study of the archive. It is at once history, but a history in the hand, so to speak. Real deeds from long ago land deals, maps of cities that show the movements and tastes of peoples we call our ancestors. Letters crinkling in the hand with Edwardian script lacing the pages. Marriage licenses signed by hopeful, happy couples of the past. Old, worn Bibles with pressed flowers marking favorite pages. It gives us connection to history. It makes us curious. It gives us the best and perhaps worst of who we are as human beings – in our very hands to touch and feel and see.

I thought the world needed to know Greg. I thought the world needed to know what an artistry archivists possess. So, I asked him if I could sit him down and pose a few questions and pass on his answers to the Dappled Things readership, who have a distinctive penchant for the beautiful and welcome it. Being the ever gracious man that he is, he agreed. And thus, below, is our conversation together.

What is it about digging in archives that gives you that inner excitement?

The anticipation of the search and recovery operation, after even simply traveling a few blocks across town or miles across the country and finally being able to view, and actually touch, the treasured document, is literally heart pounding. This thrill of unearthing a new record group is, by nature, generally muted by the rules of silence and the still of the repository that is the archivist’s usual lair. I follow all due decorum, but mind you, I am dancing a jig within. Faded scrolls and loose papers pulled from their enclosures speak to my soul in ways I can’t describe. It has always been so, as it turns out. When I was in 7th grade, I remember taking a career assessment where I learned that the best job suited for my likes was that of a librarian/archivist. No young boy wants to be saddled with such a prospect, so results were not disclosed. Seeds were planted early despite my prayer for drought.

What are your favorite kinds of archives? Maps? Letters? Architectural plans?  

The County Courthouse is my preferred treasure house. In America, as most legal documents were initially signed and filed at the county courthouse, it’s like walking through an open time capsule of beautifully written materials. As one who’s “dug in” at these county landmarks for stretches of time, I can attest to an almost audible exhale in the untying of strings binding musty packets and the slow, deliberate reopening of compressed ledgers. Judgment books, lien books, tax books, mortgage books, plat books, orphan and circuit court docket books, poor house books, in all their smelly and dusty finery echo the personal actions and trials of a citizenry past. Today, especially the documents in those southeastern American counties with fewer financial resources that have miraculously escaped annihilation during our Civil War, maintain archival materials and court proceedings often undisturbed for hundreds of years.

How is archiving a way to understand our beauty as human beings? Both in the great things we do and even the small things like an invitation or an old, discovered grocery list? 

National, state, and local archives preserve the actions of great leaders while challenging us to question prevailing opinions. Findings in published historical accounts/biographies, and cultural precedents, equally and urgently implore us to recount the ordinary actions of the ordinary man. And here’s where I go deep. When researching the ordinary individual, I want to know where they lived, where they attended church, who they married; equally, who were their neighbors, how many animals did they own, and where are were buried? The biography of the ordinary individual chock-full with the triumphs and tragedies of their walk.

Probate records, most importantly, being the final snapshot of the life. Up until more recent times, handwritten final estate sales accounted for every item sold for payment of any remaining debt of the deceased. The final listing on many lists of sales will mention “the dead man’s clothes” in which the widow is presented with her husband’s clothing. A release of dower accounts, the transfer of wealth from one generation to the next in the family. The yeoman farmer who partitions his land to his sons and daughters while ensuring the safety of his widow. An invitation to a cotillion ball listing the managers of the event giving us insight into the social circle of one invited. A store ledger entry detailing the purchases of silk, wool, and linen with the detailed costs of things, and settlement of the account. The daguerreotype of the couple taken on the frontier, or the ambrotype of the Civil War soldier left behind with his sweetheart back home. The fraktur of the birth of a child in its detailed splendor. The ornateness of the court scribe who records the transactions of the citizenry of the county for decades without blemish. Souls already lost to this world speak to me through this ephemera, and I seek to tell their stories.

What was your most amazing find? Something that made you go WOW!

I worked for a time at a local library which allowed patrons to order microfilmed church registers from around the world. One day an elderly man with a heavy Polish accent and his American born wife came in to view a microfilm of a Polish church register dating back some hundreds of years. The very demanding man simply wanted to find his actual birth date recorded in the church baptismal register as he further shared his story. When he was a small boy, some soldiers following the fall of Poland to Germany in WWII had arrested his parents and hauled them away while he and his sister were at school. He never saw his parents again. Kind neighbors of the family risked their own lives and took the children and hid them in a root cellar for the duration of the war. The man spent his whole life never knowing the exact date of his birth. After a short time on the microfilm scrolling through the filed register, we finally located his baptismal entry in the church register which also listed his date of birth. The years of not knowing coupled with this final discovery emotionally swelled up in this man as nothing I’ve since witnessed. Any of my own discoveries seem trivial when stacked up against the beauty of this man’s simple discovery. The record allowed him to breathe as never before.

How did you come to your present passion of finding old Bibles and searching out ways to return them to their original owners?  How did it all start?

I had already been reuniting families with their stories for decades, so I guess it was simply a matter of time before an opportunity to return a family heirloom arose. Some years ago, my brother contacted me asking me to come and see something special he had been given. As a collector of Missouri Brewaria, he understands the value of older things. My brother had a friend whose father had recently died, and in his estate was a very large, old Bible he had found when demolishing an old house. The friend wanted my brother to help him find out what to do with the Bible, as it contained family information within. My brother contacted me. The Bible printed in the 1880’s contained marriage, birth, and death recordings for the descendants of a couple united in marriage at Mason City, Illinois in 1871.

A little bit of background here might shed some light. In the late 1800’s, the printing of large Bibles where family vital statistics could be records became commonplace. Door to door salesman trudged across America peddling these Bibles to families.

In the back of the Bible were numerous tin types and carte de visite’s (CdVs) neatly tucked in the photo pages with the names carefully labeled below. Locks of hair, funeral programs, bus tickets, receipts, needlework, newspaper obituaries and grammar school report cards were some of the items tucked within the pages of the fifteen pound Bible which was in near perfect shape. I knew my mission, and my brother sent me on my way. Within two days, I had reached a woman in Las Vegas who was a direct descendant of the couple. Having researched her ancestors for years, family photos were scant. Photos breathe life into those static ahnehtafels that family researchers lug around and prop up.

How do you go about this practically speaking - finding the owners?

Being a bit of a purist, I start initially at the county level where the earliest family event recording in the Bible occurred. Most counties across the country have historical/genealogical societies which contain contact information for individuals researching family lines. In the instance of my first reunion, the small county historical society helped me locate the descendant of the family. Researchers in these counties are living and breathing catalogues of the families of the early settlers. Next stop if not met with initial success is social media. Facebook hosts any number of pages for the postings of family Bibles, photos & heirlooms seeking reunions. Once posted, a frenzied attempt by followers ensues to track down an interested descendant. One gentleman in particular who is simply a face and a message has located family members for me within days of the initial posting. It’s simply the thrill of the hunt. I get it.

If either scenario fails, I’m left to trace the individuals myself. Employed tools include the usual genealogical haunts (Ancestry, Family Search, FindAGrave). The personal reward for this apostolate of sorts remains high. The Bible itself is the backbone of our Judeo-Christian Society, so any small role I can play in putting them back into the family edifies me.

How do the owners react when you do find them?

Any or all of the following reactions might apply: Are we related? Do I know you? How did you find me? Where did you find it? At what Goodwill store did you say it was turned in? Are you a scammer? Is there money inside? Explanation of my intentions quickly turn to comfort and ease on the part of the recipient. Many are family historians themselves, so they quickly recognize the jargon employed.

A particular reunion story involved a family in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. The connection quickly followed my social media posting by a man who was immediately intrigued. I shared that this particular Bible went back to the early 1800’s in rural Pennsylvania and contained a number of original photos in pristine condition tucked in the paper frame pages in back. He was absolutely thrilled that I had tracked him down. So, arrangements were made for him to have it, but not so much for him, but for his aging mother. He had shared that she recently lost her sister on top of rapidly losing much of her memory. His only hope would be for the Bible to serve as a much-needed topic of conversation, his own efforts being numbered less and less. It did, and he filmed it. She paged through it blown away by the detail in the illustrations and lingered long on the family record pages where her parent’s marriage was recorded. At the realization that she was the last living member of the family who carried the surname, she paused and reflected. Elder care givers often advise the dearth of conversation they experience when working with our elderly populations. The time capsule this family received ignited fresh conversation into their daily routine even if just for a few hours. The son reported later seeing his mother still paging through the giant Bible days after its receipt.

If someone has a child who is interested in archives what advice would you give to get them started? 

It’s not easy. Archives rarely attract the young because we go about selling and packaging it the wrong way. We assign humdrum topics for research in the classroom and turn them loose into an archive or library although now sadly eclipsed by the internet. I think the far better approach is the insertion of a family history project into the curriculum. Conversations spark interest especially with elderly family members who might otherwise be disconnected to the family.

This, then, was the extent of Greg’s and my conversation. I came away with a new wonder that there was yet another rabbit hole leading to the beauty that is the human being. Archives beckon us to the past, but they also lead us to converse with the present day, long ignored elderly and we find fascination in their tales. Archives found can change the life of a lost and saddened soul seeking his connection to a family torn by war and give him peace he’s never known until that moment with a simple birth date recorded and logged.

Greg is an artist whose palate is the human heart finding its way in the world through time. He paints those pictures for us with timelines, documents, and old forgotten Bibles. I am blessed to know him as a friend as he has enriched my life with his discoveries shared. And I will never pass over a family tree at the beginning of a biography like I used to do. Greg would want me to study it, I say. And I do