I’m at Echo Lake camp on Mt. Desert Island in Maine, an evocative site to address this particular theme. Some fifteen years ago, my sisters, dad and myself, deposited a good portion of my mother’s ashes, off the “little dock” overlooking the lake. Actually, this is not entirely accurate as the original dock no longer exists. Formerly a simple square structure with an intimate connection to the lake, it was rebuilt some years ago and is now a handsome octagon, considerably more elevated from the water, and surrounded by a tasteful fence, no doubt to comply with the advice of legal counsel. Moreover, my mother’s remains could more accurately have been described as “gravel” rather than ashes. I still remember what seemed to be an excessively loud “plink, plink, plink,” as they hit the water. We hadn’t actually asked permission to scatter her there and I thought the noise might have attracted attention. I like to imagine that I can see bits of her glinting up through the water; for a while, one could. But by now, they have no doubt migrated farther in, lost to view, if not to my fancy.
Incidentally, the little dock (the former one) was also the place where I was kissed for the first time. So the site has multiple meanings for me. But I digress, back to my subject.
About a year ago, I thought a lot about the connection between history and death, at least in theoretical terms. At the time, I had the good fortune to have a student that harried me mercilessly about my choice of profession. He found the premises on which he believed history to be based to be intellectually bankrupt and ultimately unsustainable. Twice a week I attempted to defend myself and my discipline and in so doing, I gave serious thought to why I am a historian and what purpose history serves.
So one day I confessed that one of the reasons (among others) that I find historical research compelling is that it provides a means to defy death. He countered – did I write to ensure my own immortality? Hardly. I’m under no illusions about the longevity of my historical writings or that of my audience, which, if I’m lucky, MIGHT outlast me. Rather, I was referring to the ability of the historian to resurrect the dead. We can rescue people from obscurity (or not), breathe life into them, and recreate them, albeit in terms they probably would neither recognize nor approve.
Being a historian may give one a marginal advantage in representing the dead, but recent experience suggests that it doesn’t really help at all in dealing with the reality of death or the threat thereof. I speak here of a co-worker’s adolescent son in a coma as a result of a drunk driver’s poor judgment, of my best friend in Brazil who is about to undergo surgery to remove a brain tumor, and of course, the recent tragic death of my colleague, Tim Moy. Tim was a professor of the history of science, a voice of reason in the debate on creationism vs. evolution in the public schools, a consummate bureaucrat in the best sense of the word, a revered teacher and advisor, a devoted husband to his wife, and father to his son.
One can take some small comfort in the manner of Tim’s dying. Drowned while attempting to rescue his son in the coastal waters of Oahu, he committed the ultimate parental sacrifice. Most parents, if asked, would probably say they would die for their children. Thankfully, few of us are put to the test. Tim was – and his courage enabled his son to survive.
To put this in perspective, however, I find myself turning not to history, but to fictional role models that we both held dear. When we weren’t embroiled in memos or sub-committees, Tim and I talked about Star Trek or Harry Potter, more often than not. The last conversation I had with him just before he left for Hawaii consisted of speculations about Harry’s fate in Deathly Hallows. The parallels proved almost eerie. I could not help but think of Harry’s willingness to sacrifice himself for his friends, for his real family in the wizarding world. Tim’s death coincided with the release of Deathly Hallows and as millions of readers were learning of Harry’s fate, Tim was battling to save his son. Harry, of course, is a fictional character who ultimately was spared despite his noble intentions. Tim was not so fortunate, nor were those who knew and loved him. But unlike many of the stereotypical heroes of history that die in the name of political ambition or ideals, Tim died simply because of his love for his child. There is really nothing more honorable or historically significant than that. Rest in peace, Tim.
