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Amanda Chalfant

Frances McCue

Honors 205 A

23 November 2014

Making History Personal

Jonathan straightened his glasses and bent close over his notes, trying to ignore his

beating heart and sweaty palms. The lights blinded him as he stood on the stage, preparing to

give his presentation. He was met with the hushed murmur of the crowd; it was not a big group,

but certainly larger than he was used to, in his quiet line of work.

“H-hello,” Jonathan cleared his throat and tried to sound natural, just like he had while

practicing in front of the mirror the night before. “On behalf the museum, and the entire

American historical society, I am excited to welcome you all here today. My name is Jonathan

Cusoe and I am one of the lead curators here. Today I would like to introduce you all to our

latest findings and future exhibit: ‘Excavating the Past in the Pacific Northwest.’”

He paused for a moment to collect his breath, sticking to the notes. Jonathan was

surprised at himself for this sudden onset of nervousness, as he was not usually so shy and

awkward. Then again, he did not usually give presentations.

“This exhibit will paint a story of small-town life in the Pacific Northwest over the past

century, giving a glimpse into the details of how settlers spent their days, especially through the

pictures that they took to document life,” Jonathan continued on, giving examples; he began to

develop a rhythm, and the churning in his stomach slowly died down.

Suddenly, in the midst of his speech, a man from the audience stood up and Jonathan

went silent, unsure as to how to continue. This was unusual—although Jonathan was far from a
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seasoned presenter, he knew that most of the time, these speeches were pretty uneventful and

well received by the crowd.

Squinting to see the man through the lights, Jonathan felt himself getting anxious again.

The man spoke: “So, all of this you have told us about this exhibit is fine, but what’s the point?”

“Excuse me?” Jonathan tried to make himself sound calm and knowledgeable—who was

this guy?

“This exhibit, it’s on daily life of people in small towns,” the man continued, “which is

such a small piece of the puzzle, such a narrow topic, why should the museum bother putting

money and effort towards it? Why should we care? Why does this type of history matter?”

Jonathan pondered this man’s words for a moment, but he was no longer nervous. He was

mildly annoyed and now wanted to prove why this subject mattered. But he had to choose his

words and thoughts carefully. He thought back to the series of events when, for him, history had

come alive and opened his eyes to its importance.

The air was heavy with the promise of an early-summer rain when Jonathan and his

family pulled up in their beat-up minivan to the house—the house that was to be their home

away from home for the summer. Situated on the outskirts of the Olympic National Park, the

little cottage had a humble yet charming structure; according to Jonathan’s parents, it would be

the perfect place to ‘get away’ for the summer and relax.

Jonathan did not see it this way. He was a hostage, a 10-year-old boy who was uprooted

from his friends and prospective adventures for the next two months, with only his 8-year-old

sister Jenny as a companion. He looked over at Jenny in the car and his face fell into a frown.

How was he going to survive this boring summer?

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“Oh Jonathan, you will just love this place, it looks just how it looked when I came here

as a kid!” Jonathan’s father was far more enthusiastic than his son. “And Grandma will be here

in a matter of a few hours!”

Ah yes, Grandma was coming. Jonathan and Jenny adored their Grandma; she was

always good for a story or an afternoon spent baking cookies, tokens of her love for the children.

Still, this trip was going to be the most boring summer ever.

The kids got out of the car and sulked their way into the house, bags in hand.

Immediately Jonathan went to sit on the couch and stuck his nose into a comic book.

“Why don’t you go play outside or something? It looks like it might rain soon, you

wouldn’t want to miss your chance,” his mother said.

Jonathan grumbled and pushed his face deeper into the glossy book. A few hours passed

this way, and he was lost in the world of superheroes when Grandma pulled into the driveway

and came shuffling into the house. Immediately, Jonathan and Jenny ran over to her.

“Tell us story, tell us a story!” they chimed in unison.

“Easy, kids, she just walked in the door,” their mother lightly scolded.

“Oh, dear, it’s not a problem,” Grandma laughed; she was always in the mood for a good

story. “Have I ever told you kids about when your father was a boy, and the times he had here at

this very house?”

“Grandma, I don’t want to hear stories about this house! It’s so boring here!” Jonathan

whined.

“Jonathan, that is no way to speak to your grandmother,” his mother was appalled.

“What? I’m sorry,” he continued, “ but why do I need to hear about the history of this

place? Nothing ever happens here.”

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“Ah, that’s what you think, sweetie,” Grandma continued, unfazed by Jonathan’s

frustrations. “But every place has a history, no matter how small or large. And every history

deserves to be remembered.”

“Whatever, I need some fresh air,” Jonathan grabbed Jenny and paced out of the cottage.

He knew he was being rude, which was unacceptable, and he felt bad. At the same time, though,

he was fed up with the idea of being at this dumb place all summer—who cared about the

‘history’ of it all?

Fine, he thought. I guess Jenny and I will just take a look around. Yet when he ventured

out onto the grounds of the property, he was surprised by the beauty of everything. The sun

poked just a bit through the clouds, which were thick with the possibility of an impending

rainstorm. Jenny and Jonathan picked their way through the grass and found a path into a patch

of trees. These types of trees loomed tall overhead, casting shadows on the earth below. All

around him, Jonathan heard the sounds of nature: the birds were chirping, the tree’s leaves

rustled in the wind, and he felt more content than he had since arriving.

“Jonny, I think it’s starting rain!” Jenny’s voice broke through Jonathan’s reverie, and

sure enough, he felt a few spots of water hit his neck and shoulders. The sprinkles soon turned

into fat droplets, and soon the real rain hit. It was pouring and the two siblings were stuck in the

forest. They huddled under one of the trees for shelter, waiting for the deluge to pass.

Shivering a bit in the rain despite the warm air, Jonathan looked down at his feet. He was

surprised at himself and how much he had enjoyed exploring; maybe staying at this place

wouldn’t be all that bad. Still, he was not optimistic.

Something gleamed at his feet, just barely visible at the muddy base of the tree. Jonathan

reached down to dig out the item, and to his intrigue, it was a large gold key.
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“Jenny! Come check this out!” he exclaimed, excited about his discovery.

“Ooh, let me see,” Jenny made a motion to grab the object, but Jonathan pulled back. He

wasn’t ready to relinquish his new treasure to little sister’s hands just yet.

What could this be for, he thought. The key was large in his palm, cold and covered

almost completely in a layer of mud and grime. It had a simple yet beautiful design, a timeless

gold look to it. Jonathan could tell that it had been hiding there in the dirt for quite some time.

The next step was to find out what it unlocked.

The rain had stopped just as abruptly as it had started, and now the sun was out, shining

its light through the trees. Jonathan and Jenny weaved their way back through the forest to the

house, rushing excitedly back to show the family what was found. They burst into the door of the

cozy cottage; all of the adults looked up from their books and crossword puzzles at the sound of

the two children breathlessly returned from their adventures.

“Ah, we thought you two would be back soon. Did you get caught in the rain too badly?”

their mother was always worried about the kids getting caught in bad weather, but she also

understood the importance of letting children explore and manage on their own.

“Never mind the rain, Mother, look what I found outside!” Jonathan presented his

treasure to his parents and grandmother, waiting for their reactions. He told them the story of

finding it below the tree.

Grandma was the first to speak: “why, Jonathan, that is the most fantastic key I have ever

seen! We must find what it unlocks.” Grandma was always up for a mystery, especially when she

knew it would make a good story to tell later on. Luckily, she was also always had a plan.

“Mother, that key looks pretty old, it could go to anything,” their father was less than

encouraging. He did have a point, though—where would one possibly start looking?
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Grandma, however, was not swayed by this attitude. She said to Jonathan, “sweetheart,

why don’t we try looking in the basement of this house? It’s awfully crowded and filled with

boxes, perhaps we can find something.”

Jonathan and Jenny followed Grandma down to the basement. The house was very old,

and the rickety stairs creaked and sighed under the steps of the three people. When they made it

to the bottom and opened the door to the room, the strong smell of years of dust was

overpowering. Obviously no one had been down here for many years.

“Grandma, just how old is this place?” Jonathan was now curious; he had forgotten all

about his sulky boredom of earlier that day.

“Oh, dear, this little house is older than I am! As I told you, I brought your father here

when he was a boy, and people have been renting this cottage for many years,” she paused. “But

I thought you didn’t like to hear about history?” Grandma teased Jonathan.

“No, no, this is interesting! I promise I care about it,” he pleaded, realizing now that this

house in fact intrigued him.

“Alright,” she chuckled, “well, the cottage’s original owners moved here many, many

years ago from another country. They were settlers, and they made a quiet, prosperous little life

for themselves out here in Washington. Do you remember passing through a town on the way

here? They helped found the town…the house’s owner later went on to become the first mayor.”

Jonathan was fully immersed now—he wanted to find out more about the cottage. The

first step to this was to find out what the golden key unlocked. Luckily, the basement was full of

trunks and boxes. He began sorting through the room, looking for trunks with keyholes.

“Ooh, this wooden box has a padlock!” Jonathan exclaimed. He stuck his key in the lock

and…it did not fit. “Huh. I would have thought that would work,” he huffed, a bit deflated.
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“Don’t give up hope—it is just the first try,” Grandma encouraged him. “In discovering

the past, you must be persistent and always keep looking.”

The three of them continued their search through the rather large basement room. One by

one, they stuck the key into potential locks, and one by one they were disappointed. The key did

not fit anywhere! Jonathan was beginning to think that maybe this key’s lock was just long gone,

lost in the shuffle of time.

There was one corner of the room left in their search; a beautiful wooden trunk sat on the

ground, with a large gold padlock attached to the front. Jonathan reached down to the lock,

crossed his fingers, held his breath, put the key in, and turned it slowly…he heard a click and the

lock opened. He lifted the trunk’s lid, trembling with excitement, and began to survey the

contents of the box.

“We have to be careful with these items,” Grandma warned, stopping Jonathan and Jenny

briefly from throwing their hands and rifling through the trunk. “These are historical artifacts,

dears, and they are fragile from years of living in this box.”

Gingerly, they pulled items one by one from the box, gingerly laying them out to better

survey everything. The box many things: a folder of pictures, a pamphlet of documents, and

trinkets, including Jenny’s personal favorite, a little porcelain doll. But Jonathan was most

interested in the photographs—he combed through the thick, yellowing papers, taking in the

black and white pictures one at a time.

“Look, it’s the house!” sure enough, one of photographs depicted the very same house in

which they stood, taken many decades ago. Another picture was of a little boy and girl standing

in the front of the driveway of the house. Jonathan could tell from their clothing that this picture

was very old, for the girl wore a frilly little dress and bonnet, while the boy wore a button-down
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and shorts. They were not smiling, but Jonathan knew that this was because people rarely smiled

in old photographs.

“Grandma, this is all so interesting, why didn’t you tell me more about this old house!”

Jonathan asked her.

“Why, I tried to tell you,” she said with a smile, “but you did not want to listen. I think

that you needed to discover some of this for yourself. You see, Jonathan, history is not just what

you read in books at your school, about wars and knights and kings. History is alive, and it is the

day-to-day stuff, too. It is remembering and making a note of the people who lived before you,

no matter how small their lives may have seemed.”

Jonathan though about what Grandma said. He now saw how rudely he had acted earlier,

and he apologized to his grandmother.

“From now on,” he said, “I will be interested in all types of history. I want to learn

everything I can about the past!”

In that afternoon, Jonathan made the important discover not just of the key, but also of

the importance of staying interested in the past. He felt so connected to those little kids from the

photograph—they had played in the same woods and sat in the same rooms as he had, and that

was so cool to him. Grandma was right; history was alive.

The bright lights were back. Jonathan now had an answer for the man.

“To answer your question, sir, this type of history matters because all people, no matter

how minute in history, deserve to be remembered. They deserve to be preserved and

commemorated and talked about. Thank you, I hope you all enjoy our future exhibit.”

And Jonathan knew he would never be nervous for another presentation ever again.