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Journalism of Courage
One of the more convenient side-effects of the explosion of interest in family history is that you need never again be stumped for what to give your nearest and dearest for Christmas. Instead of a lacklustre pair of socks or bottle of whisky, what could be more thrilling than a voucher that entitles the grateful recipient to extended access to the online version of the 1901 census?
For we are all historians now, chroniclers not so much of big events like the 1832 reform bill but of what year Auntie Joan went into service, or why Great-Grandfather Billy had to marry only five months before his eldest was born. Our heads are full not of kings and queens but of the housemaids, grocers and sheep stealers whose shreds of DNA make up who we feel ourselves to be today.
All of which raises the question: why are dead relatives so much more fascinating than live ones? Come Christmas it will be more inviting to slip upstairs after lunch, log on to Ancestry.com and go in search of Great Aunt Enid than it will be to sit with her daughter, Aunt Sue. Sue makes sarky comments about your cooking, hogs the remote and always turns the conversation back to herself. Enid, by contrast, is teasingly elusive8230;
The dead do not mind about seeming respectable. They do not even care whether you like them. And perhaps, most important of all, they will not complain when you decide that it8217;s time for them to go back in their box.
Excerpted from 8216;The Guardian8217;, November 30
