Yeah, I don't think I can do that

Cookie is in the middle of a massive home office reorganization project that is meant to get rid of twenty years worth of detritus accumulated in my former career now that I have retired from writing local and regional histories for a major publisher.

Frankly, it's not my job to be the archivists for these communities. So all these copies of pictures that we made while we were writing these books are getting shipped off to the towns around the Midwest where I worked and wrote.

I was reminded today of the types of locals who just don't get it.  I mean they don't get what a local and regional history book is. 

An elderly man back in Ohio died.  He was really old when he died.  Really, really old.  Like in the running for world oldest person old.  He was old when I started this venture. 

The way the books would work is I would get hired, I would go in, get what I could at local historical societies, scanning and writing "cutlines" - telling the story of what was going on in the image in 120-140 words, max.  After that, we would invite locals in to bring their pictures in for scanning and story swapping.

Well, this one day, with about ten people waiting, in comes this elderly man with his three daughters - and they were old, too.  I think he was about 90, and the "fillies" as daddy called them were in their 70s. 

Instead of taking a seat, and filling out the form and meeting with the local interns I used for "intake", one daughter barged her way up and lied to the others saying she had an appointment.  She did not - if she had an appointment, I would have written it down.

"I'm sorry but my father (insert the guy's name) is here and he can't wait to be interviewed for his chapter."

Huh?

"Surely you have heard about my father.  He's the oldest man in this county."

Now, the historical society for the said town had a man on it who was 101 and he was still driving.  That's something you remember.  If for no other reason to stay off the roads.   So I asked how old he was and the daughter said 90 something.

How interesting. 

"And I know that these people won't mind letting my father move to the top of the line."

The faces of the people who had been pushed aside certainly looked as if they minded.  Of course, they did.  They had played by the rules until the fillies stampeded the event.

So I asked her to wait, finished with the person who I was working with - a dear woman who timidly came in and "Oh, these pictures won't be of any interest."  That was an understatement!  She had pure gold - one of the images ended being the cover shot.

So I went over and the old man says "My 'fillies' tell me that you are going to write a chapter on me."  I introduced myself, shook his hand and smiled.   I asked what kind of images they brought and the daughters looked perplexed.  Pictures?  "No, we just brought daddy."

OK, then, perhaps we should schedule a time when I can come and visit and we can look at some pictures and do an interview.

The oldest filly - who was one hoof to the glue factory - said that "Daddy's life is more interesting than any picture from the past."  Sensing disaster, I suggested then, that an in residence appointment would be best.  "You see, today was for scanning pictures and these people who signed in before you brought their images, and we have the equipment for that purpose..."

The oldest filly, Mrs. Ed, said: "Aren't you interested in even talking to daddy?"

Just as I started to say what I had kindly just said, again, a local historian named Corlis came in and thankfully inserted herself into the middle. 

"Margaret, I told you it isn't that kind of book...This is a book that will have more photographs than body text...Well yes, and I am sure he has many wonderful stories to tell...The society might want to write a book based on his stories...I will call you Howard and set something up...Good seeing you, b-bye...So who is next in line?"

Later Corlis said while we were packing up "I told them, and I told them again, and they just don't hear a word anybody says."  Verily, Corlis was over the fillies.  "Their father is a really nice man, but he's dull as a dangerous knife and whenever anyone has a project they foist him on us.  When we built the new library, they wanted his name on the plaque inside the door because he was the first child to get a library card when they opened the old building when it was new.  That's a nice piece of trivia, but it isn't plaque-worthy."

Looking through my box of notes I found a card from Corlis - who died about five years ago - so says Legacy the death notice people - telling me that she met with the fillies and daddy but there "wasn't really enough for a paragraph, let alone a book.  I told them to write the stories down, as he tells them, and I will do something with them."

The other thing I was reminded of was when we did a signing and some woman came in and said "My friend said that there would be a chapter on their father.  I don't see it. Now this book is a present for their father so inscribe it with "'I am sorry that I didn't write a chapter about you for the book.'"

I literally wished I had a spray bottle of water so I could have sprayed in her face and said "NO!"

Instead, I smiled and said "I am not writing that. But I will write War?"

Deep down, I think the fillies did their father a disservice, time and again.  Great love can make you do things like that.  But that love is usually blind to carnage it creates with empty promises and misunderstandings.