This is the era of the 'now' generation. I think maybe every generation is/was/will be a 'now' generation. I mean, who cares about history?...we live in today. I'll tell you who cares about history. Historians and librarians and history aficionados. And they lead lonely lives. Because they can't talk about what interests them. I guesstimate that 0.0002% of the population is interested in history. People's eyes glaze over in 5 seconds at the mention of genealogy or any historical subject.
I told a visiting friend that the silver goblet he was drinking Baily's Irish Cream from was 140 years old. He said, Oh yeah?...interesting. Hey, how about those Falcons?" I wanted to to ask, "What if I told you that the guy who originally drank from that goblet drove a horse and buggy, never saw a TV, didn't know what a phone or radio was and possibly fought in the Civil War?" But I didn't because he might have said, "So what?" So what...? When I drink from that goblet I can feel the original owner. I am transported back to his time, and experience what I imagine his surroundings were when he was imbibing, and the existence he and everyone else lived that is so different from today. That goblet is a portal...a direct link from me to the 1880s and that man. That's so what.
I have an ancestor who in 1846 moved to what was then the Territory of Wisconsin and bought 40 acres in what is now Vernon Township. He farmed that land for over 40 years. Sometime prior to 1955 that land became part of a public hunting ground known as Vernon Marsh. In the late 50s I unknowingly hunted the very land that my ancestor farmed over 100 years ago, before Wisconsin was even a state. That's incredible to me. I haven't been on that land in over 50 years but I know that if I once again stood on that ground the hair on my arms would stand up, and I would sense his presence and wonder if he had guided an oxen- pulled plow over his axe-cleared land in the exact spot I was standing. History has that effect on me.
Yesterday Maribel and I were in an antique store. Actually this one is more of a junk shop, but sometimes there is little difference between the two. Any junker will tell you that there are times when an item catches your attention...forces you to pick it up, look it over closely, put it down and continue on, but being unable to get it out of your mind you return to it. For me it's as if the item is talking to me, saying, "You know you can't leave here without me." That happened again yesterday.
What initially drew my attention to the paper weight pictured above was the black marble with the thin gold veins running through it like ripples on water. Like wood, marble has always held a fascination for me. The words on the medallion, "American National Bank & Trust Co. - Chattanooga Tenn." further piqued my interest because I have never heard of that bank and suspected the item was old. Turning it over confirmed my suspicion.
The memento itself dates back 52 years, which isn't really old (I consider anything younger than me to be new) but the description states that the marble it was made from came from the original building which I assumed would date back to the late 1800s (which is older than me). I was wrong. A little research reveled that construction began in 1927 on the corner of 8th and Market Street, and the bank opened for business on December 21, 1928. The building was demolished in 1967, to be replaced by the 20 story sky scraper shown on the medallion. American National Bank & Trust Co later merged with the Third National Bank which was purchased by SunTrust Bank in 1995. SunTrust still occupies the 1968 building. While searching I found two vintage photos of the exterior and interior of the old bank. They don't make em' like that anymore.
The black marble counters in the lobby of that majestic building are clearly visible. Sitting right next to me as I type this is a piece of that marble. It is known as Portoro Black Marble, is quarried from sites near Portovenere, Italy and has been used for building and decorative purposes for many centuries. When was my marble quarried? What path brought it to Chattanooga? How many people in the bank walked past or touched my piece of marble? Were they the captains of industry...the social creme de la creme of Chattanooga, or ordinary working folks? Those questions combined with my imagination will occupy my thoughts off and on for days. But I won't discuss them with anyone. I don't want to see their eyes glaze over and hear then say, "Hey!...how 'bout those Tampa Bay Buccaneers?"
No comments:
Post a Comment