Skip to content

Category: endings

Vital Records

My father’s address book, 1990s.

Life stories depend on birth and deaths; they frame the narrative, so to speak, with a start and endpoint. But for genealogists and family historians, they are trickier than you’d think, even in the modern era (in the administrative sense of modern: ie. after governments starting keeping civil records, usually in the nineteenth century).

Here are some examples. My father’s birth date was well known to me and, in fact, hard to forget: he was born on December 26, 1926 and he always made a big deal about both Christmas and his birthday, which were an annual double-header. You wouldn’t know until you looked for his actual birth certificate in Chicago, though, that his parents initially named him Sandford Earle; that was his legal name until they filed for a re-issued birth certificate for Earle Stanton on September 10, 1929. Was he called Sandford for the first three years of his life or was he called Earle all along and then they finally made the change official years later? Why correct it at all since many people go by their middle names? My father knew this story and told it to us: he said that his parents decided that they didn’t want him to be called Sandy and reversed his name to Earle Stanton (still not Sandford!). But think of the confusion this would cause later for genealogists….

Looking for births also unearths surprising other stories, random or significant. A search by my father’s name, for example, also turns up an Earl Olsen (with the same spelling of our last name, and a different and more common spelling of his first name) born in Cook County on November 18, 1926. He was one of two Earl Olsens born within about a month of my father in Illinois, according to Ancestry. com. What are the odds? One of those Earls died in Palm Beach a few years before my father died in upstate New York. Did they live parallel lives all along? They would have been hit by the same historical factors at the same time, like a late drafting for World War II when they turned eighteen at the end of 1944. My father was rare among my friends’ parents for serving in World War II instead of Korea or even Vietnam.

There are of course poignant moments too, like the birth certificate I found among family papers for my father’s sister Margaret Jane, who did not survive infancy. A quick check of reveals the length and breadth of her short life: Illinois, Cook County Births 1871-1940 and Illinois, Cook County Deaths, 1978-1994 confirm she was born July 22, 1925 and buried August 8th in the family plot at Oakwoods Cemetery. The list of Illinois Deaths and Stillbirths, 1916-1947 cites her as “Margaurite Olsen” and states that her burial date was July 10th, which is clearly impossible (unless that was a different child, but again—what are the odds?). Just like family stories, government records are filled with mistakes that lead researchers astray. “Documentary evidence” and certified copies of vital records are more of a hope and a promise than a guaranteed truth.

My father’s sister’s birth certificate
(note the attached pink ribbon)

My mother, who has unearthed a lot of genealogical information about her ancestors in Ireland and Scotland, speculates about anomalies in her family’s record books. A story circulated among her relatives that her great-grandfather William Espie was born in Wales. When she searched the UK databases, though, she could only find a William Espie who died in the right time and place in Ireland but was born in Australia. It seemed unlikely to be the right person: how many American Scots-Irish families included ancestors who emigrated backwards from Australia to Ireland before coming to the U.S.? But then she wondered, could the family story have been referring to New South Wales all along? Such are the random and confusing trails through archives and history—as criss-crossed as the immigrants’ journeys.

Both genealogy and biographical research take a lot of grunt work: like a detective you check out leads and cross them off, which means phone calls and emails and internet searches and library visits and combing through indexes of scholarly volumes etc etc. Most of what I do in a day, when I get to this work around the margins of my other work, is defining the negative space around my father: who never met him? What didn’t influence him? Where wasn’t he?

This is most apparent in the oral histories I’ve been reading, mostly from Smithsonian’s Archives of American Art. Robert Indiana, who was at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC) at the same time as my father, didn’t know him. I try other keyword searches for Olsen in a range of SAIC alumni oral histories and archival collections…. Nothing. Robert Kulicke, who employed my father at Kulicke Frames for ten years, says little about his art business at all in his oral history. My father was represented in the mid-1950s by Grace Borgenicht’s gallery, but he is nowhere in her oral history (I’ve already written about the one reference I did find to him in that gallery’s archive). Nor does he come up in the oral history of Grace Mayer, photography curator at the Museum of Modern Art and a friend of my dad’s for decades, though her archive at MoMA apparently has a Christmas card he sent her that I won’t be able to see until the museum’s archives re-open in October 2019. Other generous researchers connect me to other generous colleagues who were part of the New York City art world in the 1950s and 1960s…. Nothing. It’s as if he wasn’t a part of the art world. And maybe, in its recorded version, he wasn’t.

My father does appear in James Harvey’s oral history from 1963: my father and Harvey were both SAIC alums and moved to New York City at the same time. A trail of breadcrumbs led me from Harvey to other random surprises. For example, one of the names that came up over and over again in SAIC oral histories, including Harvey’s, was Kathleen Blackshear, an artist and much admired teacher there from 1926 to 1961. The Kathleen Blackshear and Ethel Spears papers at the Smithsonian include Blackshear’s address book from 1947-57, which they digitized.

Page from Kathleen Blackshear’s address book, 1947-57.
This is the right Earle and the right Olsen, both with an e.

And there, under O, is my father. The color-coded notations after each name seem to refer to the years she sent holiday cards to each person, so she may have kept up with my father for a year after he graduated in 1951. Then nothing. Jim Harvey appears under H and she kept up with him longer, though he died in 1965. There are cards in the collection that she received from students and colleagues as well, but none from Earle. It’s a dead end, but a poignant one. My father was there. His trace exists on paper in a Chicago collection and in pixels on a computer screen. There would have been no way to search for that reference; it wasn’t indexed. I have already quoted Robert Caro’s dictum: one has to turn every page (and I’d add that one has to click every arrow….)

My grandfather’s address book, Florida, 1970s

My father and grandfather left address books too, which sit in my own personal basement archives. My grandfather’s was a battered spiral bound book like you might find in any stationery store, but embossed with his name, as much of his property was. Andrew was a meticulous, cautious man; in her letters my great-aunt Marie called him “sensitive.” His address book lists some friends in alphabetical order (“The Jones,” “The Lutzes”) but many more service providers, from lawn care and barbers to restaurants and camera stores. He made notes in all caps even for the obvious (“ROTO ROOTER FOR DRAINS”) and carefully wrote down every birthday in the back of the book, including his own. He included his wife’s birthday and his wedding anniversary, though by these years in Florida he was long widowed. He had phone numbers to call for the Correct Time and Weather listed under T and W. There are almost no names I recognize because my father had little interest in his father’s friends or even in his own extended family. During the 1970s, my sisters and I visited Grandpa Olsen once a year. He sent us Hallmark holiday cards with a five dollar bill tucked inside, and he paid for our expensive private schools and colleges.

With its reproduction William Morris print, my father’s address book is a familiar paisley-covered hardback, probably from the gift shop at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in the 1990s. Inside there are still scraps of paper scribbled over with handwritten names, numbers, and addresses because my extroverted father collected acquaintances everywhere he went. When he died eight years ago it didn’t occur to me to check his address book for people to notify: I had never managed a death in the family before, nor seen anyone else do so up close, and I had no idea of protocols. Later I would find the name Bob Parker there: Robert Andrew Parker was a friend of my father’s from SAIC that I had never heard him mention, but looked up after seeing his name in Harvey’s oral history. His phone number was the same in the 1990s as when I did finally speak to him about my father in 2019.

My father also preserved, randomly, a daily calendar from 1969: one of those small bound notebooks with a page for each day. At the time he was working for Kulicke Frames so the pages are full of measurements as well as sketches, mostly for the geometric paintings he was making on Plexiglas at the time. The brief entries are filled with sales calls with clients like the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Modern Art, the Pace and Martha Jackson galleries, and artists like Saul Steinberg. Like his father, my father often wrote in ALL CAPS. He jotted down phone numbers with their New York exchanges like CO7-, LA4-; in 1970 our phone number on the Upper West Side would begin UN5- for University. Some appointments still have resonance: on June 4th he met his old friend Grace Mayer at MoMA at 12:30. I still have his copy of her photographic history of New York City behind me on a shelf. The dates February 20-March 1, 1970 are held for “Caribbean,” though one of my oldest, vividest memories is of being on the island of St. Vincent’s for my sixth birthday on March 3rd. The historical events of that tumultuous year are all missing: fifty years ago on June 28th, when the Stonewall riots began in Greenwich Village, he sketched another grid in pen.

My father’s appointment book, 1969

My father’s only other surviving appointment book, from 1990, is filled with reminders to “pay Con Ed,” “pay Athens phone”….and a note on February 2 for “Attempted ROBBERY.” The follow up a few days later reads “Called Haim [his landlord] he promised new door.” I don’t remember that particular story, which would have taken place when he lived in an industrial loft in DUMBO, but my father was robbed in his New York City homes several times, including once when he was tied to a chair as the burglar searched for valuables. By 1990 my father was spending much of his time upstate in his second home in Athens, where he would soon retire. That year he framed a lot of art for law firms and travelled to Philadelphia and London. And finally, my sisters and I, all in our twenties by then, appear: “Tina dinner 7:30 Pasta Presto” on February 14 and Margrit’s name next to train times to Portchester on another day. He notes each of our birthdays and “Vicky’s wedding” appears on June 30th. He was present at that wedding; in fact, it was held at his house, which my sisters and I sold after his death. It’s the blank spaces around these brief notes that biographers and memoirists struggle to fill in and interpret—all the absences that define a presence.

My father’s appointment book, 1990

La mort

It took many tries to view Amour, Michael Haneke’s Oscar-winning foreign film from last year. After I found a friend willing to watch a film about death and aging we then spent several weeks trying to coordinate schedules so we could watch it on demand one evening. I promised to provide sugar to cheer us up, and tissues. He and I had both been on the front lines for the death of a parent and we were going out of our way to revisit that time–

The clip above shows some of the film’s stately pleasures: Haneke’s slow pace and his patience in letting a small but telling scene unfold itself (I read somewhere that the pigeon scene took 12 takes), his attention to lovely visual details like the patterned floors in both rooms and the shadows and light at windows and doors. Most of the scene is quite static. The camera doesn’t move and there are few cuts. We see the old man (played by Jean-Louis Trintignant) struggle with the pigeon from a distance and the comic element gradually becomes heroic. As viewers and writers we’re supposed to ask questions like “what does he want?” but even the question seems grotesque in this context. He wants the love and intimacy he lost: nothing that a pigeon could provide! My friend and I sobbed through much of the film, but the old man doesn’t cry. He reminds me most of Virginia Woolf watching that moth: there’s life itself right in front of her! (…then death, of course)  The old man wants to reach out and grasp life too, but he is already failing.  Death is such an abstraction so much of the time that I found it oddly reassuring to watch it unfurl on the screen and remember it unfurling in my father. It is a tremendously brave film.


There’s much to love about Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) — from the performances by Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet to the screenplay by Charlie Kaufman– but here I’ll focus on how director Michel Gondry makes a happy ending out of this scene: two lovers in a hallway on the verge of ending it for good.  By this point in the film we have ridden their rollercoaster too, watching Joel and Clementine as they start and restart their relationship. The film tracks them along two parallel paths occurring over two different time periods, before and after they had their memories of each other wiped out in an experimental new procedure….

We’ve seen some of this scene before, but nothing ever happens exactly the same way twice. Clementine is still “not a concept,” and her analysis of their emotional patterns is spot on. But when Joel says “wait… just wait” you can see them thinking and feeling, if not remembering exactly. In an odd way the film seems to argue that memories must be cherished, even when they are painful, but it also affirms that there is something beyond memory, like whatever it is that draws Joel and Clementine together again and again. Their connection was not entirely lost when their memories were erased — and as they start over here “OK” becomes  a real happy ending. They earned it.

Moving Vehicles


The pacing of this opening is terrific — from stillness to speed, from horizontal to vertical motion. The camera is a vivid, dynamic character right from the start. It’s Danny Boyle’s early film Shallow Grave (1994) and you can tell he will go on to make movies with lots of moving vehicles….

If one were to hypothesize about what makes Danny Boyle’s films his own, though, one would probably start with their situations. In the films I’ve seen–Shallow Grave, Trainspotting, Sunshine, 28 Days Later, Slumdog Millionaire, and Millions– he puts ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances to see what happens. This draws great performances from his actors, and in fact the character development in his films is swift and clear, if not always subtle. The scene above introduces the characters very economically– with the nameplate on their door. In 28 Days Later we meet our main character as he wakes up to a post-epidemic London. We see the deserted city through his eyes — making a familiar cityscape terrifying just by emptying it.


These are formal pleasures too — like the juxtaposition of a bright fashion billboard still hovering over civilization’s ruins in 28 Days Later. There may be no consumers left in London, but when our four survivors loot a grocery store they are overcome with nostalgia for materialism. The film strips them of everything they knew and had, becoming literally darker and darker. Still, it wrests a modestly happy ending from the countryside, in another

28 ending

beautiful shot of a single word spelled out on a lush green field. These complicated happy endings, that manage to develop organically out of extreme situations, are another hallmark of Boyle’s form and content.

Beatrice + Benedick 4ever

The New York Times film section does a nice series called Anatomy of a Scene where they have directors talk through one scene in their movies. Despite the fact that Joss Whedon has mocked the conventions of DVD commentary, he does a great job talking us through the scene below from his Much Ado About Nothing. The film is charming and this clip explains why (love the “blankie cam”!) but also why the narrative as a whole is so successful. In addition to having great source material (ye olde Bard), Whedon takes care to think about each scene as part of a whole: what comes before and after this, how this scene of Beatrice’s duping can be differentiated from Benedick’s. These are questions of sequence, timing, and storytelling.

In the meantime, the film looks beautiful in grainy black and white, with soft lighting. It’s refreshing that the Renaissance language doesn’t upstage the production: Whedon’s attention to formal composition and camera movement subtly play down the pretensions that often come with Shakespeare adaptations. This is a film first, not a piece of theater. He’s wise to leave the location and back story vague, and not to force any updating into the dialogue even though the setting is contemporary. It all works surprisingly well, in part because the actors are so relaxed. Even the monologues feel natural.

One of my favorite moments, though, occurs at the very end, when Beatrice and Benedick’s reconciliation is threatened by the unmasking of the plots to dupe them into falling in love. They start to fall back into their old defensive sarcasm when Claudio and Hero appear on the balcony above them with two love notes Benedick and Beatrice have written secretly for each other. When they throw the papers over the balustrade, the couple fights to catch them and then devour each other’s words. Why are these written texts– sonnets? billet doux?–more trustworthy than the words they speak? Because it’s Shakespeare, and the spoken word is just play.