My name is Daniel, and the very first man to immigrate to this country (from Scotland) was also named Daniel. Yesterday, I discovered a tintype photograph of Daniel and his wife Eleanor. I have never seen it, nor for that matter have I before seen any other image of these two pioneers. It was faded. It was grainy. But there they were. Looking back at me from over 165 years ago.

I know some details of their journey. Daniel was born in 1792 and Eleanor in 1795 in the Scottish Highlands. They left from Grantown-on-Spey, where he may have learned the trade of a cabinet maker. They made it to the new state of Ohio by 1810, where public records show that he was paying taxes on land. He was recorded also as a drummer in a militia unit organized during the War of 1812. Daniel and Eleanor probably had this tintype made around 1850. Photography was in its infancy, introduced to America only a few years prior. Daniel was soon to pass on, in 1855. Eleanor lived on for several decades, dying at age 88 in 1883. In the photograph, their hands demonstrate the wear and tear of a frontier life. And the comfort by which they sit next to each, she leaning slightly into him, a confidence and respect for each other is shown that only a lifetime of mutual support can create.

I know where these two ancestors are buried, on a gentle rolling hill a couple miles away from the Ohio River, overlooking a beautiful pastoral scene of farm land and small clusters of aged trees. I have sat and lunched by their grave marker, an obelisk of weathered white marble, imagining conversations with these two, and with their children buried around them. About the dangers they faced. The daunting effort needed to fell a forest and make a home. The politics and religious fevers of their new country. Whether they ever regretted leaving or missed the old.

And too, this summer we vacationed in Scotland, where I had the occasion to visit the town and area where Daniel and Eleanor were born. I knew that many Scots during this time were driven off the land and forced overseas by economic necessity. The local museum had numerous exhibits related to “the clearings” as the forced expulsion was called. I learned more about my ancestors circumstances, and why in a general sense they may have left for America, but the particulars of their existence and journey had been washed away by time.

So needless to say, the timely discovery of this photograph, providing me some evidence of them, was a very emotional experience.

The experience reinforces in me the conviction that we people today absolutely must make the effort to pass on to our progeny the memories that our family has created. To inform them. To instill a sense of pride and belonging. Of worth. Of connections beyond our own lifetimes. I frequently encourage our customers to “play the long game.” To not be the judge of what is interesting or important. Let the future generations of your family decide that for themselves.

That thought was driven home to me personally by discovering this tintype. Taken around 1850, photograph was new and exceedingly expensive, especially for a farmer. He, in other words, was “playing the long game.” Using the latest technology to leave a legacy. We should do the same.