History isn’t about dates and places and wars. It’s about the people who fill the spaces between them. Jodi Picoult
As a little girl and throughout my 25 years, I have always been intrigued by history. I have frequently poured over biographies, obsessed over Time Magazine special editions, (such as “Disasters That Shook the World”), and rattled off otherwise useless facts about the world and the people who have lived in it to anyone who will listen.
History captivates mankind, as mankind weaves its blended stories into triumphs and failures for future generations to look back upon. It is not often that time stands still long enough for us to truly grasp its monumental scale, but occasionally, one realizes how fleeting their lifetime is in the grand scheme of things.
I occasionally find myself wishing to speak to elderly individuals who sit alone in restaurants. I always find an excuse not to, but the curiosity is there. My eyes are new compared to their weathered ones; they have lived through all of my life’s historical events while I have only read about theirs.
History is lost each time I walk out the door, my curiosity left unsatisfied – their stories left untold.
It has only rarely happened that I have been able to physically hold pieces of world history in my hands. The museum artefacts and historical discoveries which make this world so interesting are often unavailable to anything but my prying eyes. Occasionally, however, the opportunity to carefully brush my fingers across an object of true significance arises.
As a junior in college, I was fortunate enough to be able to turn the pages of a very rare book with careful, gloved hands. Only three copies of this particular book were ever printed, and the copy in hands belonged to Adolf Hitler. Taken from the Eagle’s Nest by a young raiding soldier after the Führer’s suicide, the book was donated to the University of Montana and safely kept with other rare books in the library. Hitler’s signature was inscribed on one of the front pages and, breathless, I traced my fingers over the shallow indents it left on the pages behind.
This week, I was granted another rare opportunity to hold a piece of history involving the same man. One of my colleagues, while going through some of her uncle’s estate a few months ago, ran across a simple, yellowed envelope. Reaching inside, she pulled out two original photographs of Hitler and several of his right-hand man: Hermann Göring – one of which was autographed. She brought these priceless photographs into the office, and I spent several speechless minutes hovering mere inches away from their black and white surfaces.
The fact that history lingers in forgotten places and stretches into our everyday lives is truly fascinating.
In 2013, the remains of King Richard III were found under a parking lot in Leicester, England. A month later, fascist leader Benito Mussolini’s most secret bunker was discovered underneath Rome’s Palazzo Venezia. Later that year, scientists uncovered the remains and cannons of the Queen Anne’s Revenge – the flagship of the notorious pirate Blackbeard, and just a few weeks ago, a man and his wife discovered millions of dollars worth of civil war era coins in a tin can, which they had previously walked by hundreds of times before.
History belongs to those who remember. It belongs to those who seek it. It belongs to those who stumble across it unexpectedly in their backyard, or in a faded manila envelope.
In a day and age where historians and treasure-hunters have so long scoured the Earth in search of artefacts, the discovery of truly significant items comes with an awed gasp and a common question: how has it taken us so long to find it?
History is out there – waiting to be discovered, and one day, I hope to find a piece of my own.
Planets and Pebbles 