I am hopelessly nostalgic, especially when it comes to family. I treasure the beautiful black and white photos in our dining room of my paternal grandparents and great-grandparents mugging for early prohibition-era snaps. One of my top “save in a fire” possessions is the beautiful, fragile, crumbling album that they came from, rich with imagery of Atlantic City Boardwalk visits, country homes, and general silliness in the face of this newfangled camera thing.
But mostly, I just think it’s so important to know where we come from, to the degree we can.
Recently, my daughter’s first grade glass may have participated in my favorite school project to date, creating a gallery of sentimental family heirloom objects. Walking the rows left me breathless, seeing this diverse group of children posing proudly with items as varied as vintage Seder plates, porcelain teacups, African dresses, a weathered, generations-0ld fur hat rich with family lore, and a photo of the single cabinet brought from “the old country” when an ancestor immigrated.
Not a lot of Mayflower memorabilia in Brooklyn. We are not Greenwich.
