Histories..

....this morning, listening to the tail end of a story about John Houston, i am moved to write about the beauty of history.
in this case, i am writing about personal history. yet...is there really such a thing? isn't history just what we share....?

my grandparents loved their generation. they were beautiful, wealthy, social....they spoke with the lilte of the movies and remembered the times when the moon shone on the water and the apple blossoms fell, and there were stars in their eyes. they remember crossing the bay in a ferry, San Francisco's first cars, the invention of the ball-point-pen, and dear letters; written from across the sea to each other.

last night, i dreamed that they were sitting in the entry way of a glamourous hotel...their backs to the door, as they watched an old movie on a black and white T.V.

this morning, i'm listening to someone talk about "The Breakfast Club". those weren't pretty times. i imagine that the same goes for WWII...

...and why reminisce with such affection?

our history is dear.

so, i wonder, as i mull through collections of delicate filigree, hand-painted cameos and tin hearts, how different is my reverence for the loving workmanship of these objects of the last century, from my unrepentant adoration of the shiny plastic lightning bolts of my generation?