For 25 years I’ve wondered what the Speedway class
of 1976 put in their time capsule at the town hall. What did that class intentionally try to
remember? If I’m alive in 2026, when
they plan to open the capsule on our nation’s 250th anniversary, I want
to watch. A generation’s collective
memory is a holy thing.
Thomas Jefferson’s declining health
prevented him from attending the 50th anniversary of his Declaration
of Independence. In fact, by July 1, 1826 he was on what would be his
deathbed. Nevertheless, he rousted
himself to receive Henry Lee, whose father had written a popular memoir critical
of Jefferson.
The younger Lee had told the former president
that he’d like to issue another addition of his Father’s memoirs, revising some
parts that were objectionable to Jefferson if the ailing man could provide additional
documentation.
Jefferson desperately wanted to get his
version of events to the public. Chief
Justice, John Marshall, who had exclusive access to George Washington’s papers,
had written a history of the Revolution which Jefferson believed drew the wrong
moral and political conclusions. Getting
the history of the American Revolution retold was foremost in the dying
president’s mind, so with only three
days to live, the sage of Monticello spent several of his last coherent hours trying
to rewrite history.
That’s what healthy people do.
Folks who are growing older need to tell
their story in order to make sense of the present. From the distance of fifty years the class of
1976 will be able to see how much of what occupied their time around the
bicentennial ended up being trivial, while other barely noticed events will now
loom large. That’s not “Revisionist history,”
or “playing loose with the facts.” It is in such retelling of stories that we
acquire wisdom.
One thing is for sure, if there is no such
thing as transcendent Wisdom to be discovered, then all our story-telling is
just a cynical attempt to selfishly edit other people’s memory.
