Finish the Sentence Friday: "If I could go back in time ..."

When I first read this week's Finish the Sentence Friday prompt of "If I could go back in time...," my mind wandered to those classic philosophical "if you could change one thing" scenarios, like going back and:

Killing Hitler to prevent the Holocaust
Stopping the assassinations of JFK and/or MLK Jr.
Scoping out the winning numbers for that recent $400M+ MegaMillions Jackpot
Killing Mehmed Talaat Pasha to prevent the Armenian Genocide

That last one in particular is the ultimate paradox. Had the genocide not taken place, my grandparents would not have met and married, so my mother would never been born, and neither would I ... meaning I wouldn't exist in the future to be able to return to the past to prevent it ...

Soooo, I decided to think about it on a smaller scale. There are a few things in my own life I'd like to "do over," but for some reason, there is one thing that comes up time and time again. It seems like a silly desire in the grand scheme of things, but what can I say?

It goes back to when I was in the sixth grade. I had to conduct an interview of someone for a school assignment and chose my maternal grandfather. I can see it as clear as day - I borrowed my sister's cassette tape recorder and brought my grandfather downstairs to the play room, where we wouldn't be disturbed. (I'm laughing as I visualize this because at the time, we had some modern furniture in the house - a smoked glass pedestal kitchen table with acrylic bucket swivel seats, white leather and chrome recliners, etc. - he was sitting in one of the recliners, looking like he really didn't belong there.) He was sitting in the recliner, and I was on the floor next to him, asking questions about his childhood.

That was the first and last time anyone ever heard "his story." Being 12 at the time, I was more interested in completing my homework than paying attention to the history being shared with me. He died the next year. To this day, the only thing I remember about that conversation was him telling me about his mother giving up his baby sister to a local priest in hopes of saving her at the onset of the genocide. I don't even recall the circumstances of that transaction, just the fact of it. I can't be sure whether it was a matter of turning in the tape at school and not getting it back, or whether I got it back and recorded something over it, not realizing its importance at the time. Either way, no longer having that tape, and not having paid closer attention at the time, gnaws on me to this day.

There is no one left to tell the tale. No more survivors, and no way to go back and find the information. Heck, we can't even figure out his father's name to just "attempt" research into his past. As for his sister, that's something else that pulls at me from time to time. Did she survive? Did she spend her life in that part of the world or end up elsewhere? Did she know about her brother? Was the sent to the states? If so, for all we know, she could have been our next-door neighbor at some point. I can only imagine these thoughts are like someone who finds out that they were adopted and wonders about their "natural" family.

So, of all the things I could go back in time to do, that's the one I would choose ... to spend that hour again with my Grampy and hang onto that tape for dear life!

The first two deaths I experienced in life - my Grampy and my dog Duke. :(

Ironically, kinda looks like I'm pushing buttons on a tape recorder (X-Mass Morning).

Playing Tavlu (backgammon) with my Grampy in his breakfast nook. Must have been a week when he burned the Syrian bread and set the toaster on fire ... there should be a toaster oven under the window.