I did NOT write this.. I subscribe to it... thanks, Jeannie <>< Sunday Afternoon Rocking The Hinges on Which Our Histories Open (from the Sunday Afternoon Rocking series) Fifty years ago or so, three young men, not much more than boys, were called from the rural community they had grown up in to report for the Army. Their families traveled from the farms to see them off at the Greyhound bus station. I imagine a strange mixture of pride and sadness and fear sat heavy on the hearts of the mothers and fathers at that bus station that day. I imagine more than a few pictures of the past were unfolding in their minds as they realized it was not so long ago they were sending these boys off to school, sitting beside them on a creek bank with a fishing pole, worrying about how to keep a pair of shoes on such quickly growing feet. A black and white picture forever captures in time the three youthful faces grinning broadly into the camera as they stand in front of the bus that will carry them away from all they have known into another destiny. Studying those faces, I imagine the young men are somewhat excited, and more than a little anxious. But knowing youth, I also suspect they are "chomping at the bits" to move into the world and see what it might hold for them. With hugs and kisses and quickly spoken words they will promise to keep in touch and try to stay safe. >From the day I discovered the picture as a child and asked, I have known the story that unfolded. One young man was denied by the service, after a health problem he was not even aware he had was discovered during his examination. The second young man was killed in an automobile accident one week before he was to be sent overseas. The third young man never returned from the war he was sent to. My father was the young man denied by the service. Had he not been, I suppose it likely I would never have been born. The doors of "down home" were nothing fancy. They did not feature brass trappings nor leaded glass windows. They were planed by hand, primarily their knobs were of china, and most were on "genuine hinges". But there were others with merely a piece of wood to turn as a latch, and a scrap of leather to hold as a hinge. In short, they were nondescript, practical and plain, typical of the time and place in which they existed...rather like other hinges on which the doors of our family histories open. Nothing one might look twice at. We do not often recognize those doors when they swing open on "what becomes", only to swing shut again on "what might have been". Only by looking back do we realize how small an occurrence it was that changed the pattern of a family's memories to come, the pattern of the opportunities or misfortunes in a family series of events, the very hinges on which the lives of so many to follow depend. What if...I often wonder...a thousand small happenings had never happened? What if a grandmother's family had never taken the notion to pack their "plunder" and move to Texas? Would she have felt such pressing need to marry immediately in order not to be separated from the one she had pinned her heart on? Would she have tired of her beau, my grandfather, and married another? What of the line that continued on in Texas? Her siblings married there, raised families there that would never have come to be had that move not been made. And the wonderings go back. What of the young man over a hundred and fifty years ago who began in Pennsylvania, traipsed his way through Ohio, Kentucky, landing finally in Tennessee...all because he was a "collier" and looking for work? Had he not, his name would not be documented in my family lineage as an ancestor...in fact, again, I suppose I would not be. And sometimes...the decisions are of such minute nature, that it is amazing what stories evolve from them. Early in the 1900's, my great grandmother decided to send the boy who was her brother-in-law (and incidentally, one of a household of her husband's siblings she was raising) to the store for a spool of thread. Dutifully Mack did as he was bid...and when a train passed by the house, he was standing in the open door of a freight train and tossed off the spool of thread to land in her open hands. The train roared out of sight, Mack waving goodbye, and I imagine the young woman stood with her mouth open in astonishment. Some fifty years later it was before Mack again turned up. He had "hoboed" his way to California, finished raising himself and made his own way. He had done well. The handsome elderly man was welcomed back to the family with open arms. But I imagine that throughout the years my great grandmother often asked herself the question..."What if I had not needed a spool of thread that day?" Well ...what if? A spool of thread changed the course of history. The impulsive decision made because of the need for a spool of thread was the deciding hinge that opened the door for a family to be born and raised in a faraway place. Looking back I can think of hundreds of tiny incidences (at the time) that forever changed the pattern of the family to follow...imagine that! A spool of thread! Are these tiny incidents that change entire histories flukes? Accidents? Oh, in my wondering...I think not. Just a thought, jan Copyright (c)2001janPhilpot ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be shared...simply share though e-mail as written without alterations...and in entirety. If planned for a publication, permission must be granted by the author. 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