Sometimes I wish I could travel back in time, way back when, before I was thought of, before my parents were even born. No, not to thank President Lincoln, not to watch Betsy Ross sew the 13 white stars onto a patch of blue fabric. I’d travel back in time just to meet my grandfather, a man I’d only known for just under 18 years of my life.
If I could travel back in time, I’d go back to a day when I was just a girl, back to a day in that small house on the outskirts of Quarryville. A day when I was still young enough for him to bounce me up and down on his knee while we watched TV in the living room. A day when I was too young to stay up and watch Jeopardy with the only two grandparents I’ve ever truly known. I would take such advantage of the time we’d spend together, ask more questions to get more answers. Answers that just might someday change the world.
I never really got to know my grandfather. Well, as well as I would have liked, anyway. I wrote this in June and never posted it. I guess I’d intended to write more, but I think I should publish what I have here anyway. The moral of the story is this: Talk to your grandparents. Ask them questions about the country’s history. Ask them about their history. The only way we can truly know the past is through them. Perhaps by getting to know the past, we can actually help the future.