In all honesty, I remember very little about this book. I read it when I was very young, and for a while all recollection of it was lost among the hundreds of other books I positively devoured around that time. However, there was something about it that just wouldn't go away. It's been lingering at the edges of my mind for years, like a shadow. Only on occasion would it surface, and even then, it was only for a moment. But tonight, it hit me like a tidal wave.
You see, my mother collects old daguerreotype photographs, black and white photos of people from the past, faces long-forgotten by history. They are on display in the house, set up for all to see, and many a confused relative has asked "Why on earth do you collect photos of dead people?" Which is met with an exasperated sigh on my mother's part. Personally, I find their presence to be quite haunting, but in for a very different reason.
This evening, as we were admiring a new photo my mother had acquired as a birthday gift, we began talking about the story behind the picture. It was an off-center photo of a young girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, in a dress far too large for her slender frame. We decided that the dress was a hand-me-down, perhaps from her mother or an older sister. But that didn't explain why the photo wasn't centered. Was there more to it at one point? Other people in the picture? Perhaps the photographer was just inexperienced? If you were so poor as to be unable to afford a new dress, how could you afford a photo? What's more, a photo of just one person? And most importantly, why was the picture in an antique mall, instead of being treasured by the girl's great-great-grandchildren? This simple photo of a seemingly unimportant person has such a story, and unfortunately, it is a story I shall never know.
And that is what triggered the memory of this book. If I recall correctly, the story is about a boy who finds an old photo of his family. And, in the corner, is a hand, all that remains of an old image of a forgotten family member. He sets out to find who this man was, and why he was so forcibly removed from the family's history.
Now, I don't remember what the man's story was. I just know that he had quite a story indeed, and this was a book that held me absolutely riveted, even at such a young age. Looking back on it now, I think it was because I recognized something so very human about this book, something in common with those fading photos of people long ago departed, none of whom I know or am related to. That is, every photo has a story, just like every personin those photos have stories. But not all of us will get to tell our stories, and our family might choose to let it go, whether by selling our photo or violently cutting us out of every picture that is marred by our image. Also, it reminded me of the inevitable fact that every photo would eventually became a photo of a "dead person." But really, what does that matter? Doesn't that just make their stories that much more important? For in this age of Twitter and Facebook, where everybody is vomiting their stories all over everyone, it is the silent faces, staring from crumbling images and dusty frames, found in the long-forgotten back rooms and musty attics or cellars of America, that really have a tale to tell. Sadly, it is often these tales that become little more than shadows, and these people that can be searched for, but never found.
So, in the end, Search for the Shadowman was really less about one boy's history project, and more about the inevitability of human expiration, and the duty it is of our ancestors to keep us from becoming shadow people as well.