Is Death What We Are Really Afraid Of?

One of my earliest memories is of my grandmother holding me close and telling me that she would die soon and asking that I never forget her. Doing the math, I realize that as I was about 4 years old at the time, my grandmother would have been about fifty years old.

At 50 she was concerned that she would die and I, being so young, would not remember her. She lived to age 96. Yet, throughout my lifetime she would often ask that I remember her and that I regularly put flowers on her grave. I believe she needed to know that there would be a visible sign to the world that she was being remembered.

While most people talk about the fear of death, and fear of what, if anything, comes next, I contend that what they are really fearful of is being forgotten.

Having spent the past week engaged in downsizing my house, I came across boxes full of pictures, negatives, and slides of days gone by. In some instances, many days.

I had the title, “Family Historian” thrust upon me many years ago and as a result, I have hoards of memorabilia from both parents’ side of the family. This is both a curse and a blessing. I am honored to be the keeper of our treasured past, but I also feel a deep responsibility to keep that past alive for future generations. And as they say, “therein lies the rub.”

I came across a box of about 200 3 X 4 inch negatives. Holding them up to a light, I saw men and women dressed, perhaps in the era of 1920 or so. Who are these people? What were their lives like? The negatives were found in boxes marked with my father’s name, so presumably they are his ancestors. Years ago I traced both sides of my family tree back 5 generations, so it is likely that these people were those whose names, birth, wedding and death dates I had found years ago.

I took the negatives to the oldest surviving members of my dad’s family, but the people in the negatives remain nameless to us. Not one face is familiar. It has been too long. And just that fast, within a 100 year span, these people that walked where I now walk, and who shaped in some way who I am, are lost to memory. No antidotal stories of their brief stay in history, no name-face connection.

I will print photos of some of the most intriguing pictures and hang them on my Family Wall so that, even without knowing their names, they will be remembered as family members who came before us and shaped who we are now.

As for my grandmother, I have written volumes of stories of our years together, sprinkled with favorite photos and recipes so that my children and their children will never wonder who the impeccably dressed woman with the shy smile is.

Don’t worry grandma, there are flowers on your grave, and your life and your love will never be forgotten.