The little black book

One of the most thoughtful gifts my son has ever given me is a small, black journal with blank pages which I carry with me every day. Kevin’s instructions to me at the time were to write down my memories as well as my family’s memories and stories. His good intentions became my inspiration and abiding interest, my focus in my family history research, and my obligation.  Scribbling madly, I started asking for stories to preserve for our following generations.

I soon understood that there is a significant difference between stories and memories. Memories are the foundation and basis for the stories they may become as time puts them in a different context. While some are skeletons in the making, our family stories give us a better understanding of our ancestors’ characters and their perspectives on their world, as well as some insight into their actions and motivations.

One story about my great-grandmother Felicia Libby Lee (1854–1952) grew from my grandmother Winifred’s memory of a traumatic day when she and her three siblings were little. The older menfolk went off one August for several days on a cattle drive, leaving Felicia alone with the children on their remote Kansas farm. An unfortunate battle with a rattlesnake left her bitten. She treated the wound, and, fearing that she might die, fired up the wood stove to cook enough food to keep the children alive until their father returned. In the prairie heat, with the wood stove roasting everything near it, Felicia sweated out the venom and was there to greet the returning family.

My maternal cousin, Ellie Bailey, offered one story about how our McLeod grandmother refused to ever wear anything purple. Grandmother Lula Roberts McLeod looked down on the large McLeod family for their Canadian log cabin origins, and did not like Frances, her mother-in-law. When Frances died, she was embalmed and dressed in purple in an open casket. The embalming fluid leaked through her dress. Standing next to the coffin, Lula was revolted so much that she refused to ever wear purple again.

It was a newspaper clipping (shown above) that gave me some insight into my father, Ambrose S. Church (1912–1995), a man not inclined to brag or to compliment himself. The newspaper article told how, during a blizzard, Dad, a dairy farmer, had strapped on snowshoes and a backpack loaded with bottles of milk to deliver to families with infants. Nor had he ever told me he had served as a city councilman – that he never mentioned having grown a feeble mustache (barely visible at right) is understandable.

I discovered, as so many others have, that a question asked does not equal a question answered. We may hear great stories, wonderful memories, or angry orders to “leave it alone.” In telling me an unflattering story about his great-grandfather Charles Otis Cony (1848–1928), my father admonished me that I couldn’t “write about it until I’m gone.” Charles had been dead for over fifty years at that time, so I was puzzled at this demand, but I complied: Dad has now been gone for 21 years! I’m good!

I have found unending inspiration for stories in the pile of family memorabilia bins, a hunt I now view as “dumpster diving” (dead vintage hearing aids, well-used toenail clippers, and the odd set of dentures were discarded – quickly). Whatever falls out of walls and ceilings during renovation – photos, audio recordings of my niece’s baby sounds, scrapbooks, and newspaper clippings – becomes fodder for my collection of family stories. Some stories can be verified, some will gain mythical status over several generations, and all will be valuable to our descendants.

Finally, I agree with both Stephen King’s observation, “When it comes to the past, everyone writes fiction,” and Jill Lepore’s “History is what is written and can be found.” Somewhat horror-stricken, I have realized that it is now my turn to decide how I want to be remembered, what events in my life I want recorded, and what, if anything, I want buried, burned, or blessed. I’ll become a story in the view of those I leave behind, so let it be a great story! (Meanwhile, hand me some matches!)

We should never become just a face in an unmarked photo, nothing more than signatures on a page or next to a hashtag. Fiction or fact, memories morphing into family stories are what bind us to our families and our lineages. So mark those photos! Do that research! Tell those stories and write them down! You think no one will be interested in what you have to relate? They will be! After all,

You’re reading this, aren’t you?