A Wednesday Note
Whenever a show I work on rolls into a town, I usually have to call ahead of time to case the joint. That means finding out who owns most of the property in town, whether there's an unofficial "mayor," who's the last guy in town you want to piss off. (This is the time for using my people skills, in case you're wondering who actually gets to see them.)
In every place, though, when you ask about finding someone who can just TALK about the town you invariably get one man's name. (It's always a man.) Not the mayor or a spokesman, he's the man at the VFW or the barbershop who grew up here and knows everybody. And he knew everybody's father and maybe their grandfather. He knows what used to be on the corner of Main and Elm. He's watched the jobs leave. He's seen the heyday and the bad days. He's not a historian of the town, but the history itself--and everyone there points to him.
Saco, Maine lost their Man last night. That's important to Saco and to his family, but it probably doesn't mean much to the rest of you. Why should it? Saco's not your town. Your town has their own Man.
How long does he have left?
We take it for granted that this stuff doesn't go away, that history persists as a force of nature. That when one man dies, another will take his place that will be able tell you everything that he knew. It's not true, though. History goes away.
Saco, a town founded in 1630, now has thousands of questions without answers. Someone will ask, "What was that place...?" or "Who was that guy...?" The answer will be on tip of the tongue of everybody in the room. It'll never come. There will be nobody to ask who will know.
We hope that somebody is working at this stuff, keeping it around. We hope someone is tending the light. The problem is that it isn't going to be me, and it probably won't be you, either.
These Men, though...they have sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters, people who see them collect knowledge over a lifetime. Some may be inspired. They'll see something worthwhile in history, perhaps go on to be historians themselves one day--not of their towns, but cultures and movements and countries.
That would make Saco's loss your gain. Our gain. It is the most we could ever hope for.
In every place, though, when you ask about finding someone who can just TALK about the town you invariably get one man's name. (It's always a man.) Not the mayor or a spokesman, he's the man at the VFW or the barbershop who grew up here and knows everybody. And he knew everybody's father and maybe their grandfather. He knows what used to be on the corner of Main and Elm. He's watched the jobs leave. He's seen the heyday and the bad days. He's not a historian of the town, but the history itself--and everyone there points to him.
Saco, Maine lost their Man last night. That's important to Saco and to his family, but it probably doesn't mean much to the rest of you. Why should it? Saco's not your town. Your town has their own Man.
How long does he have left?
We take it for granted that this stuff doesn't go away, that history persists as a force of nature. That when one man dies, another will take his place that will be able tell you everything that he knew. It's not true, though. History goes away.
Saco, a town founded in 1630, now has thousands of questions without answers. Someone will ask, "What was that place...?" or "Who was that guy...?" The answer will be on tip of the tongue of everybody in the room. It'll never come. There will be nobody to ask who will know.
We hope that somebody is working at this stuff, keeping it around. We hope someone is tending the light. The problem is that it isn't going to be me, and it probably won't be you, either.
These Men, though...they have sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters, people who see them collect knowledge over a lifetime. Some may be inspired. They'll see something worthwhile in history, perhaps go on to be historians themselves one day--not of their towns, but cultures and movements and countries.
That would make Saco's loss your gain. Our gain. It is the most we could ever hope for.
posted by Matthew at 7:21 AM
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