Memory is to the individual what history is to a group, community, or country. Memories and history give shared meanings to life that allow us to learn and grow. In denying or destroying either memory or history, we lose valuable pieces of ourselves. It is by embracing those, whether good or bad, that we learn. Hopefully, we learn to repeat the good and avoid the bad. But, with out that sense of the past we have no hope of determining the good/bad of things. Thus, we become doomed to repeat our failures.
Here is a bit of what my sometimes overactive imagination found in a few moment of quiet out at the Coal Mining Heritage Park (and no, I never pretended to be a poet or author):
Thar be ghosts on this mountain, ya
know.
Come ‘round suppertime most evenin’s
They come o’er to check on their old
steads.
Seems liken it’s most always ‘bout
the time
When it’s twixt-n-tween daylight and
dark
Just ya close your eyes and listen hard
and
You know of what I speak.
Hear the sloshing of corn-likker in an
old pottery jug
As a group of miners meet to wash coal
dust
Outta thar throats and to let achin’
backs rest
From an eternity’s work.
Soft whispers of voices accompany
The rhythmic cadence of quilting
needles
Passing through pieces of cloth so many
times reused
That each scrap would write a volume
If’n it were of such a mind.
And, you can almost see the little
clouds of dust
Kicked up by the younguns feet as they
chased each other
Through the gathering gloom, each one
determined
To kick the can, or tag a friend
Their laughter lends another voice to
the symphony of history.
Then, on some such nights, you can hear
the creak
Of Aunt Sara’s favorite old rocking
chair
Where she sits on the porch, welcoming
the cool breeze
And wondering how her nephew up in the
city was makin’ out.
A ways further down, Old Zeke’s
tightening the strings on his fiddle
He hollers out to Johnny and Mack to
come join him.
Soon the fiddle, guitar, and banjo add
new sounds to the night
Feet tapping, hands clapping, and far
off in the background
The faintest sound as two of the
youngun’s get their first kiss.
Yep, thar be ghosts on this mountain,
ya know.
And, for as long as thar be hearts that
can hear
They’ll be here right along stirring
chords of memory.