paper trails
Rehabbers have to deal with what my MIL used to call a gracious sufficiency of paperwork. In addition to filling out forms for every animal that comes into our hands, we're required to submit comprehensive reports every one-two years. Since spouse and I have both state and federal permits, we have to submit them to two different agencies: the Department of Natural Resources and the US Fish & Wildlife Service. In our busiest years, our state report ran more than 20 single-spaced pages. The federal report would come in a close second, around 15-18 pages, with a lot more categories. We must hold copies of these reports indefinitely and produce them on demand. And then there are the financial reports, including donation receipts, required by the agency who grants our 501.c3 status. And the many little thank-you notes and postcard updates we send free of charge because we know folks appreciate a personal touch.
This paperwork is a massive time suck. Many are the nights we've sat up long past midnight writing it all up. We do it because we agree with the idea of accountability.
I thought of this accountability while researching my family tree. (Yes, I'm still talking about this, but it's almost over.)
Often the first question people ask when they hear what I'm doing is, "Have you found anyone interesting?"
That's a difficult question for me to answer. To my way of thinking, they're all interesting. But to most others, they would probably seem rather mediocre.
As far as I've been able to determine, most of my ancestors were nobodies. Carpenters. Housewives. Farmers. Salt of the earth types. They lived and they died, except for those who fought in their generational wars, without much impact on anybody. The one thing they shared in common was a longing for a better life and the willingness to take risks to make it happen. They didn't leave much behind except a few names and dates, some locations, maybe a disposition in some cases. Plus one or two oral stories which have faded over time as, one by one, those who held their memories died out and the remaining family members lost interest.
The wild babies we handle don't leave much of themselves behind, either. They live and they die and become part of the food chain with little to no notice from society unless they're part of a more dramatic story that captures the fleeting public attention. They don't accumulate a lot of stuff to pass down from generation to generation. They may not even live long enough to produce another generation. They lead such an ephemeral existence, it's easy for the people on this planet, the self-designated somebodies, to view them as an unnecessary nuisance, at best to be tolerated, at worst exterminated. And when they leave here, like a headstone in a forgotten cemetery, all we have left to prove they even existed is a piece of paper. Names, dates, locations, a few dispositions. And, as long as there is anyone left who cares, a fond memory.
