As with any good story, it all began with a box. The box was filled with pictures and mementos of a lifetime, an era long since past. One particular envelope was marked "old film". Indeed, the contents revealed negatives from an old camera. Holding them to the light I could see vague images of boats and lighthouses. Some were of structures that no longer exist. Others I had no idea or clue as to what or who they belonged. Of one thing I was clear, I held in my hand images of history and I realized these negatives told an important story. Little did I know in 1996 the incredible journey I would take on the path to learn about the structures and the people in the photographs and negatives. By 2009, I was to know very well the man and woman whose life was recorded in those images. He was Edward M. Hermann, his wife was Margaret King Hermann and he was my great uncle, the last Lighthouse Keeper at Marblehead Lighthouse, Sandusky, Ohio.
The story should end there, but it doesn't. There will never be a final chapter. That is not the story of history. History is a mountain, ever changing, both beneath the surface and its rising. History's truth is whichever side of the mountain presents its greatest challenge. Finding it and conquering it is never easy. Time changes the mountain. The mountain today is not the same tomorrow. Nor is it the same mountain from the past. If it is climbed with the same expectations from the previous trip disappointment will surely occur. History's mountain is fickle and like the weather can change overnight. Landscapes can be disrupted, views can be lost and yet the mountain still there, is now somehow different to out eyes. The moment there was life there was history preserved. Its preservation is not peculiar to humans. This box was my mountain, its contents my history. Yes. someone had climbed it before me. And yes, they had lived and breathed its history. But, now it was my turn to climb. And, my turn to live and breath its history.
I met him once, the man whose pictures and ephemera filled the box. I was a small child and he was a very old man. He drove from Ohio, long retired and after his wife died. He came for one last visit although we did not know it at the time. Edward had been a handsome and dashing young man. He still, at age eighty-six retained an air of dignity. There he sat on my parent's couch and I on a stool pulled up next to the lighthouse keeper. I do not remember a single word of the conversation. I only know that here sat a man we all knew as Ed, the lighthouse keeper who was old, whose wife had died and who never had children. When he left I made it my childhood mission to be a part of his life. He was added to my nightly "God Bless" everyone list. I wrote him letters. I sent him cards. When he was in the hospital I made him a huge valentine. My enthusiastic pursuit was not mutual. Although nothing was returned, it was also never acknowledged. That day when I sat at the foot of the lighthouse keeper I did not know that almost fifty years later our paths would once again cross. Only this time, my enthusiastic pursuit would be returned.
I saw it once, the lighthouse, his lighthouse. By now I was grown and living in Chicago. I was working on my Master's Degree. My parents were driving me back after my visit. My dad suggested we stop and have a look at the place. It was only a short detour from New York State to Chicago he said and it would be fun. Fine. I did not really care anymore about the Ed who was the lighthouse keeper. Or the lighthouse he had kept not only in perfect working order, but also meticulously clean. Still I was not prepared for the horrible condition that greeted our arrival.
Far older then Edward, it was not handsome or dashing. It had been left to die a slow decaying death. The wind off the lake blew the fallen leaves around like so many sailors cast out to sea. The sound of it all was haunting. The lost souls crying to be set free, a resurrection of sorts that would not come for the stone had not yet been moved. Tree branches littered the grounds. Paint peeled off the towering structure. The keeper's residence was not a grand statement of American architecture. Instead, it seemed to groan under the weight of abandonment. Fences once painted white were now gray and broken. The waves from the lake and the low howl of the wind were the only noise to break the awful picture set before our eyes. It was horrible and I wanted to leave. Apparently, so did everyone else for we were the only people there that day.
Little did I know, standing amongst the decay, that our paths would eventually cross again, thirty-five years later. Only this time I would care. And, so would everyone else. And, I would not be the only person to walk the path of the lighthouse keepers beneath the towering lighthouse. There would be many people gathered to move the stone. And there would be a resurrection.
No comments:
Post a Comment