When I was eighteen I met my future husband in a group I traveled the country with. I kept a journal. The genealogist in me cannot believe I am saying this, but I have read this thing- and it has to be destroyed. I think I may hate that girl. At least she had enough sense to marry the guy she constantly talks about being in love with. And I mean CONSTANTLY. Outside of that, I pretty much disagree with every stupid thing she has to say.
This happened once before, when as a high school senior I received a letter I had written to myself when I was in the eighth grade. It was six pages on how awesome John Lennon was. Now, the eighteen year old me still loved John Lennon (and I always will love John Lennon), but I wrote so stupidly about it that I had to throw it away.
I stand by that decision. Sometimes the idea of something is better than knowing the full reality of it.
And so, I think I will be burning those journals.
Sometimes I wonder what I will think about these blog entries or my Facebook statuses twenty years from now. Facebook. What a goldmine for future genealogists. The documented account is the final word on any matter. And by final word, I mean for all time. You want to know about history? Look for photos, film, written accounts- everything else is long gone. In this way we choose, sometimes with regret, how future generations will see us. Assuming they even choose to look for us. Continue reading