Remembering (History) and the voices you’ll never hear again.
The wind rushes into the port and over the sharp stone walls of the fort. It almost steals his hat as he peeks over the wall. A dark phantom of an object sits out in the bay surrounded by the hazy sea mist. I wonder who they are…, he thought while ducking below the wall again. Slowly whistling to motion the others he turned to take one more peek and this time the flag flying in the wind showed the colour of onyx. Crossbones. Skulls. This can only mean one thing… Pirates.
I love history.
Take me anywhere and start telling me about the things that happened in the past and I would listen to your stories and probably take a little of them away with me. I remember a time when I was in Western North Dakota near where my grandma grew up in a homestead in the early 1900’s. After hearing all the stories there was something quite magical about that place. It seemed the swaying waves of prairie grass were enchanted with tales. Strong tales of love, heartache, pain, true joy, the true meaning of family, and survival.
It seems as long as I can remember that whenever I’ve visited a place that had witnessed history…. I start hearing stories. They whisper to me across the waves of the ocean or the golden prairie grass blowing about in the wind. I start thinking about the people who lived there, died there, and survived there.
This week my family and I went to St. Augustine, and it was amazing. It is the oldest American city. The Castillo de SanMarcos is the fort that was put together by the Spanish when they came to America (before it was America… By the way!)
This fort had come in contact with generations of people. The Spanish, The British, The French, The new Americans, The Confederate soldiers during the Civil War…. And now many tourists and visitors get to see the fort too. (Imagine all the stories!)
There were a few things that really hit me as I walked into the museum area. There was a glass box on the wall. I walked up and peered in to see a small golden locket. This locket was beautiful, but it looked like something had landed really hard on top of it. Leaving it with a mark.
It was retrieved from a ship wreck.
Just makes me wonder. It could have been anyone.
I remember being given a locket when I was a little girl. I always thought it was cool, but deep inside it didn’t mean much to me then because I thought boys had koodies still. But I understand why now… inside that glass protective case the locket spoke to me.
Who was she? Where was she coming from? Was she with her family? Or a new husband? Or did she have to leave her man back wherever she left? Who was her lover?
Or was the more to the story? What was her story?
After thinking about this girl and her mysterious lover I felt connected. I cared for them. I know having looked at that locket, it was definitely a girls necklace and that is all that is left of her. Her legacy and only story. I left there thinking about how sad that is… I mean all that is known of her is… her battered necklace.