I am the historian, so to speak, for my husband’s side of the family, and I share the responsibility of collecting facts with another family member for my ancestry tree. My husband inherited a handcrafted suitcase, for lack of a better word, which was filled with postcards from family members who my husband never knew. My father-in-law kept those memories tucked securely inside, since they were the only memories he had left from his brother who was killed in WWI to his parents, his grandmother, his brothers, and his cousins. He was he was a sentimental person and guarded these mementos with great respect, which I have the privilege of doing so now. The postcards depicted the holidays for which they were sent, Valentines Day, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Beautiful vintage cards that I pored over for hours at many different times through the years, imagining what life was like for the Sharpe family over a hundred years ago.
Several years ago, I had my husband’s family tree printed as a Christmas gift for his sister. A few weeks after we flew home from the West Coast, she called me and thanked me for the effort of doing such extensive research. It made her very aware, that if she didn’t not write down stories about her grandparents, that time and those memories would be lost forever with her passing. Her children and grandchildren would never know how she loved to comb her grandfather’s beautiful white hair, or know about his love of flowers as she and her sister helped him in his garden. Her words made me think. It made her think. We both had the realization that we both needed to write down the stories our parents told us about their parents. We talked for a long time and proceeded to tell each other some stories about some very funny incidents. So, now when I look at the aging sepia and black and white photos, I can put a pleasant incident with many of the faces and feel a part of someone who is no longer a stranger to me.
I have written many stories about my childhood, about my parents, and about my relationships with each of my siblings. I want my children to know about the times that made me happy and the times that made me cry. I want them to know I am not a perfect human being, but even though I did my best, I still made mistakes. I hope that my grandchildren would read the stories and say, “I’m not the only one who feels this way,” when I too, have had my heart broken and know what it’s like to be young and in love.
I haven’t forgot the silly stories, like the time my cousin, Marcy and I sat fishing at the edge of our dock for an entire afternoon, when we were ten years old. We sang silly songs at the top of our lungs while the fish nibbled at our toes. We laughed, we swam, and eventually we dragged our sunburned bodies and the wash bucket filled with three-inch perch back to the cabin, only to be told by my aunt they were too small to cook. Yes, it may not seem poignant enough to document, but it was a memory that makes me smile when I think about it, and it’s one to share, proving I was a kid too, once upon a time.
The stories go on and on. It only takes a few minutes to write a memory and paint a scene so vivid, your reader will feel your words. And, what a “treasure” it would be if it were handwritten! So, what are you waiting for?
Thank you, Sally!
The picture posted with this blog is my grandmother, Delia and her eldest son, Emery.
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