Reading back some genealogical info from the Nova Scotia side of the family, I came across a reference to the house they grew up in, and a comment about the mother of the boys, Charlie's wife, Clara (Crowell) Wyman. She apparently wrote poetry for a regional publication, and the person reminiscing about her recalled that she referred to the house across the street as 'the house of broken dreams." One of her five boys had lived there and gotten divorced. I don't know which of the five in the picture that refers to - I can eliminate only two. This would have taken place at least sixty, and likely eighty years ago. It doesn't matter much anymore, I guess. The House of Broken Dreams. Only the story remains.
Bethany referred to Derek Jeter's comments about statistics blogs, and I was reminded of a Bill James exercise from the early 90's, in which he looked at a player's lifetime stats and read the story: the year he had a nagging injury, was DH more than half the time with many fewer stolen bases, traded that winter...The statistics are only important in telling the story, and we like statistics because they tell the story more accurately than memory might. But in the end, only the story remains.
We went to the cemetery to plant flowers today. Our regular route is evenly divided between stones for people we knew well and those who we knew little or not at all, yet are important for...well, I have no idea what for. Donna Louise White, who would have been my oldest cousin, born 1951, died Christmas Eve that year. Her father died Christmas Eve thirty years later - very tough on my Aunt Cynthia, I suspect. Or Augusta Lindquist Nordstrom, my mother's grandmother, and the daughters that died young, at 19 and 29, Elin and Evelyn. Not even my mother met these aunts, never mind anyone from my generation. Augusta had a hard life. She is buried quite far from her husband, who predeceased her by almost 30 years, leaving her with seven children - two others had already died. I know fragments about her.
Only the story remains.