Personal Histories

Dad just dropped by.  He has started to write his life story and didn't know how much detail to go into. He was asking the kids what they wanted to read about in his history.  I'm not sure they care.  To kids last week is ancient history. 

When I was in college I lived with  my grandfather Moulton for a year.  He told me some of his life stories.  I listened and most of them were interesting, but I could have asked for more.  I didn't.  Now,  I wish I had the opportunity to ask hundreds of questions.  I have recorded much of what I remember, but so much is lost forever. 

My other grandfather used to call me almost daily to talk when I was a new wife and mother.  We lived close enough that the calls were local (which meant free).  This was long before unlimited minutes. We could talk as long as I had time to listen.  I am embarrassed to admit it, but some days I wouldn't answer the phone to avoid his calls.  I had trouble with some of his racist ideas and talk of conspiracies.  He also told me stories from his past.  I still need to write those down.  They were more trivial and he repeated them so many times that I was certain I would never forget.  He talked about day to day life.  Many of his stories revolved around growing up. Once again, the chance to ask questions is gone.  I was so busy changing diapers and running a home that I didn't think that there would come a day that he would be gone.

I am glad that Dad is writing his history. I wish my grandfathers had taken the time to write as well as tell me about their lives.  It's a heavy burden to be the one responsible for keeping their stories.  I will be grateful to hear about my Dad's life and also my Mom's life through my Dad. She never seemed to tell us any stories from her life.  I think to her the past was best forgotten.  She seemed insecure with her capabilities and embarrassed by her mistakes.  She wasn't proud of her family growing up.  Even her handwriting bothered her.   By the time we realized that we were losing her, it was too late, her memories had become confused. More than anyone I feel the loss of her stories.

For me, I hope that my patchy journals will be left to tell my posterity who I was.  Today, I hope that this blog can tell my family who I am and in the future it will tell the stories they want to read.