I’ve always had a fascination with history. It was always one of my favorite subjects in school. I loved learning about ancient cultures and far-off lands. I was entranced by tales of the explorers who traveled the globe “discovering” land masses and indigenous tribes, and absorbed by how modern nations, including our own, were formed.

I’ve always enjoyed strolling through museums ogling artifacts from the past and feeling that sense of being a part of the rich history of humanity on this planet. Some things I’ve learned have made me proud to be a part of that history, others have made me weep. But I would rather understand our past than ignore, or remain ignorant, of it.

It was only recently I realized that much of what I’ve learned is on a macro level, and I’m somewhat ashamed to admit how little I actually know about our very own Chenango County.

One of the things I’m thankful for most about my job is the chance to learn about that history. I’ve had the opportunity to sit down with several of our local historians, and gotten personal tours of more than one of our local historical society museums. I’m always amazed by the stories they share.

It was almost a year ago now that Charlotte Stafford, Oxford’s historian, welcomed me into her home for the first time. What was supposed to be a brief interview for a feature I was writing about Charlotte, turned into hours of sitting in her living room listening to stories of Oxford’s past. I was startled to find out just how little I knew about the community I basically grew up in. I mean, how did I miss the fact that Barnum Brown, the man who discovered the first T-Rex skeleton, is buried in Oxford?

In my discussions with Charlotte, I realized that it was the minutiae, the individual stories, that fascinated me the most. She shared with me diaries and letters of people long dead, who lived on in those words. I longed to read each one, hoping to catch a glimpse of who that writer really was.