The old trunk sat next to the chimney in the attic of the house my father built in 1945. My mother had told me when I was a teenager that the trunk belonged to her father who died in the 1920’s. I had every intention of going through the old trunk to see what was there and what I could learn about Walter Keeling Davis, the man about whom my grandmother (his wife and mother of his seven daughters) had spoken so adoringly. An artifact that I discovered during my teenage years was a somewhat disheveled violin that my piano teacher at that time did not so carefully reconstruct. My mother raved about the skill of her father with the violin in his hands and the beautiful music he had shared with all the household when she was young. I took a few lessons (enough to know that it would take many more lessons to release the beauty of the instrument) and decided to put that off for a while and learn the guitar instead. The violin was with me from the time I left the farm for different horizons, until I returned at retirement. The partially restored instrument now hangs on the wall and my grandchildren gently touch it in awe. The other partial contents of the old trunk now await my somewhat careful perusal. So far, I have discovered a partially tattered letter from my great grandfather Davis to his son (my grandfather) who was in school in Kansas. Another less moth-eaten letter from grandpa’s sister was sent to the same Kansas address and gives a glimpse of the life they lived in 1902 in rural, southern Virginia. I have barely touched the greater content of what was in the old trunk before it was stored in Dad’s workshop. Someone seemed to have “dumped” the trunk “junk” into an old picnic basket that was shoved under some shelves, again in the attic. It appears there are documents from the other side of my family (my father’s) as well. This old soul (not the young whippersnapper that was swift on the move) gives thanks that there’s a long lost reality to be discovered from over a century ago that is a part of the fabric of the diverse family that exists today. The presence of the coronavirus and the demands that it imposes if one wishes to avoid it, has placed me squarely in a position to again begin the journey of looking back into the history of what was family. The challenge to “stay busy”, “keep moving” and give thanks for the gift that is shared as life today raises its lovely head from the old trunk and the picnic basket with a wink and a smile. Thanks, Grandpa! I never knew you (nor you me) but I am thankful to get a glimpse of the man who had such a positive influence in the life of this old guy with “The Thriving Heart”.
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