“Do you have any photographs of you, as a kid?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised by what I have,” said my mother.
I inherited fourteen assorted boxes and two trunks of photographs, documents, and special items at my mother’s death. As I unpacked each one, layer by layer, and recorded its contents, I was swept by regrets and wistful desires. So many stories, seen too late! Why didn’t she share her doll cradle? Or show me her baby books? What tales did she learn on her Aunt Anna’s lap?
I have finally completed this preliminary inventory, and have begun brainstorming a list of archival supplies that I will need to conserve this collection. And I have shed the regrets for stories lost. I have enough ingenuity and curiosity to play family detective, as well as, family curator.
First up, the cradle. Wait and see what I do with that eight inch wicker cradle, Mother. Its story will be discovered, bit by bit. The Minor family history will get told, story by story.