Who knew a bit of adolescent mischief would become a treasured record of aural ancestry contained on one dusty old cassette tape? Not me, that’s for sure.
I was in my early teens and in England with my family visiting a colorful quartet of great aunties, all in their 80s and about as lively and irreverent as anyone I'd ever met older than 14. There was Auntie Hetty, Auntie Minnie and Aunt Polly, but one we usually stayed with was Auntie Maude who was as sharp as a tack and, despite having lived a life laced with adversity, as cheery as a kid in a sweetshop.
Her bright disposition was especially remarkable to me because she was living amid what I perceived to be inordinately harsh privation: in a tiny cottage with no hot water, no bathtub or shower, no fridge (kept her milk bottles in a bucket of cool water in the shade), only two channels on her black-and-white telly and no phone.
It didn't seem to bother Auntie Maude, though, for she always seemed content. My memories of her center on the endless production and consumption of tea so stout you could stand a spoon in it, a high-emission cigarette perpetually poised between knobby fingers and a steady stream of affable, wry socio-political commentary, along with peeks into her past.
This latter pastime was what inspired me, one afternoon, to pop a blank cassette into my portable tape player. I'd brought it on the trip, along with the latest from Queen, Rod Stewart and Led Zeppelin, among others, to break the monotony of what I remember as excruciatingly tedious summer days in rural England.
Seeing as my older siblings had buggered off, probably to the pub for a shandy, leaving me with nothing better to do, I surreptitiously pressed "Record" on the recorder and slid it through the doorway just as they began bustling around getting the tea ready.
What my dastardly surveillance yielded was a muffled but entertaining wall of chatter, delivered in a singularly East Anglian volley of lyrical inflections and guttural "r"s and punctuated by the occasional "Well, I nevvah!" "Oh I say!" and "Like some tuyh, duhyuh?"
Later, sitting on the back stoop with my big black headphones on and replaying this jumble of familial conviviality, I was enrapt. Having an audible document of my female elders — women who had survived wars, abuse, loss and abject poverty, and who'd been maids, factory workers, cooks and suffragettes — was a connection to my past more palpable than all the Cadbury's in London.
That illicit recording was what sparked an impulse to start documenting my family history and I've been interviewing relatives ever since, amassing a collection of factoids, comical moments, historical data and all-too many sorrowful tales as well.
This has mostly been in the form of hastily scribbled notes, however, since no relative has ever granted me permission to tape them and at this point I have several files fat with crumpled bits of paper.
As have so many immigrants, I'm attempting to put this family lore into a book, though it's a daunting notion in several ways. When yet another aunt bestowed hundreds of family photos and various mementos upon me after tearily announcing that, since I was as sentimental as she was, I was being duly appointed the next family historian, it came with a weighty, albeit self-imposed, imperative to do right by her.
I've always been enthralled by my roots — from the minutiae of daily existence to the chronology of our post-war mass exodus to America — and all those tatty scraps of paper serve to remind me that a lot of hard work, happy times and heartache preceded the likes of me.
Though I'd figured this fixation on the past just meant I miss Mother England and like to write, I was recently informed that I am, as a matter of fact, an ethnographer; well, an amateur one, but an ethnographer nevertheless.
The person who informed me of this is Gregory Sharrow, director of education and folklorist at the Vermont Folklife Center in Middlebury, with whom I spoke recently about his coming talk on recording oral histories. I mentioned how the book project grew from a tendency to pelt elderly relatives with questions about their lives. I retold a favorite account, about my great-grandfather who used to keep bees in the wall of his one-room home and who subsisted on a single oaty flapjack a day, which he would procure from a local vendor for a farthing.
According to Sharrow, this is ethnographically rich information, in story form with characters and visual details and it's what oral history is all about. For nearly 20 years, Sharrow has been immersed in this holistic, hands-on approach to socio-cultural anthropology, conducting field work that involves finding Vermont residents who are willing to talk and recording their recollections and observations.
With a Ph.D in folklore from the University of Pennsylvania, he trains educators and the public in this vital form of historical research and documentation. On June 12, he'll be doing a presentation on the subject at 7 p.m. at Hildene in Manchester and the evening will include various excerpts from his extensive library of recordings, such as farmers telling charming anecdotes about making hard cider or sobering truths from life during the Great Depression, all honoring extraordinary stories of ordinary people, simply through listening.
"I want to motivate people to explore the details of everyday life because things that are the most fundamental are also often the least visible in historical research since they're taken for granted," he explains.
Hosted by the Vermont Humanities Council, the event is an opportunity for all of us to learn how to delve deeply into the history of our own family as well as that of our community.
"Oral history is about discovery and not just filling in the blanks," Sharrow says. "It's how the world looks from someone else's point of view, distinct from conventional perspectives of history."
It's also not only about the past, he points out. "During our Summer Institute program, on day one I send people out to places like a saw mill, a tattoo parlor or a general store and they come back so excited about what they learned by just talking to people."
The Folklife Center doesn't only focus on Vermont's history. Sharrow and his colleagues also record the stories of refugees who have come here from places such as Bosnia, Tibet, the Sudan and Laos, entering their stories into the center's archives and encouraging the public to come in and soak up the diverse strata of experience and heritage that comprise our communities.
The Vermont Folklife Center has just relocated to spacious new digs in downtown Middlebury and — with its multimedia exhibits, workshops and research tools as well as a massive collection of recordings — it's a cultural goldmine that enlightens and inspires.
At one point, Sharrow asked if I'd do a talk about my research methodology as I complete my book. That would be pen, persistence and a faithful notepad. With my Mum's cousin about to arrive from across the pond for his annual visit, all three are at the ready.
Grab your own implements of interviewing because, as the song sort of goes, every pancake tells a story — especially in this state.
For information: Marion La Torella, 362-1277; www.vermontfolklifecenter.org or www.vermonthumanities.org.
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