memoir writing – Remembering the Time

Why Writing Your Story Matters

April 11, 2024April 11, 2024

Beauty in Humble Things quote father and daughter in tent house

One of the most common objections I hear when folks are asked to share their story is “I don’t have anything interesting to say, I’m just a nobody.” If you’ve known me long at all, you know that I often speak of the Beautiful Ordinary and its place of honor in our memories.

Most of us, if given the opportunity, would jump at the chance to sit down with a long-lost relative and listen to them relate their ordinary “Day in the Life” experiences. We’re curious about how they did life and we want to know if they handled trials and challenges in ways that might help us.

We are hardwired to crave stories, and there’s something powerful about the warmth of everyday experiences. It’s how we pass on our values, our culture, our life memories.

We want to know:

*How can we connect?
*What can we learn?
*What did you see and experience?

Author Eudora Welty captured this sense of anticipation surrounding storytelling:

Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. I suppose it’s an early form of participation in what goes on. Listening children know stories are there. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole.

Here are 5 ways writing your story matters:

You can use each as a prompt to jump-start your journaling practice. Or try creating a bubble outline for your personal story. By the way, memoir writing can be short too, think one paragraph, one story.

Empathy and Connection: Your writing can connect you with others who have experienced similar events or share your background. This builds empathy and drives a sense of belonging. Your story might be the bridge that can build stronger relationships and communities.
Self-Reflection: Writing your story allows you to reflect on your experiences, understand your journey, and gain insights. You might find yourself making new connections that may transform how you think about the events in your life.
Inspiration: Sharing your story can inspire others to overcome obstacles and embrace their own journeys. Reading your story may help them in ways you can only dream of.
Growth and Healing: Writing your story, even if just for your personal use, can be cathartic, helping you process challenges and the hard parts of life, finding healing and closure. If you choose to share your story it has the potential to do great good as others relate to your experiences.
Legacy and Impact: You have the opportunity to share with the future your wisdom, lessons learned, experiences, and unique witness to your life and times. Writing your personal history lets you inspire others both now and in the future.

We each collect a lifetime of stories. Each person’s unique history deserves to be remembered and shared with others.

Write down that funny story about your sibling
Record your memories of growing up in a specific place/neighborhood
*Commit to paper those stories your friends and family always ask you to tell

Now, take a few easy steps to share yours. Drop me a line and tell me your reason for sharing your story, I’d love to hear from you.
Karen

PS: Jumpstart your story today with this handy little guide: Tell Your Life Story: 10 Tips and Techniques to Write Your Memoir

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Arizona Got Me – Guest Essay

January 23, 2024January 23, 2024

by Karen Ray

How did a midwestern girl end up in Arizona? Our guest post author< Deb Winters LeBarge, gives us a glimpse into a transformational journey and a beautiful Arizona highway.

Deb Winters LeBarge is a self-proclaimed expert in the art of making life-changing decisions…or at least, she’s trying to be. Currently living in Arizona, armed with a pen and a quirky sense of humor, she’s on a mission to document the hilarious mishaps and unexpected triumphs that have shaped her existence. When she’s not busy tripping over her own feet, Deb can be found drinking Pepsi, contemplating the mysteries of the universe, and wondering if she’ll ever learn from her mistakes.

We’ll pick up at this point in Deb’s story, Arizona Got Me, come along for the ride:

As Tony and I left the bustling airport behind, the landscape gradually changed. The metropolis gave way to the rugged beauty of Arizona. The road stretched out before us, leading us toward Black Canyon City.

The silence in the truck was obvious, a quiet understanding that this trip held a different significance. Yet, there was a sense of routine, a familiarity natural from our numerous rides together.

The truck vibrated softly as we cruised along the highway. Outside, the setting sun painted the sky in varieties of flushed orange and blush pink, casting long shadows on the rocky terrain. The desert landscape, usually harsh and unforgiving, seemed almost gentle under the soft glow of twilight.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tony broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. He was looking straight ahead, his hands steady on the wheel.

I nodded; my gaze fixed on the changing colors of the sky. “It is,” I replied quietly.

We fell back into silence, each lost in our thoughts. The journey continued, the truck moving smoothly along the winding roads. The setting was their old hometown of Black Canyon City, Arizona, a place filled with memories both sweet and bitter. The sunsets were always breathtaking. But now, the thought of returning filled me with unease. As we neared Black Canyon City, the lights from the houses twinkled in the distance like stars on earth.

The ride from the airport was more than just a physical journey. It was a transition from the known to the unknown, a silent agreement that we were stepping into uncharted territory. Yet within all this, there was a strange sense of calm – a feeling that no matter what lay ahead, we were ready to face it together.

During my visit to Arizona, Tony and I found ourselves engaged in deep conversations. We talked about the promises made and broken, the trust that was shattered, and the pain that still lingered. We talked about everything – about Shelly and her impact on our relationship, about Tony and his struggle with his past, and about us and the mess we were in.

There were hard truths to face, and insistence on complete honesty. Even with the tension, Tony and I managed to find peace.

We went for scenic drives around Arizona, taking in the beauty of the landscape and spending quality time together. It felt like we were slowly restoring our relationship.

How would it end? The question resounded in my mind, its answer as elusive as a desert mirage. Would we be able to reconcile our differences, or would old wounds resurface? The uncertainty was a heavy weight in my chest, making each breath feel like a struggle.

Before I returned home, Tony and I found ourselves at a crossroads. We had a heart-to-heart conversation; a crucial decision made that marked a major turning point in our relationship. We decided not to let Shelly interfere with our relationship any longer. Tony and I had finally decided to take the next big step in our relationship – marriage.

Our commitment to each other was clear and strong, despite the complicated circumstances we found ourselves in. To confirm our commitment, we set off on a journey to Prescott, Arizona. Our destination was the old courthouse, a stately building that stood as a silent witness to time and countless stories of love, commitment, and loss.

The drive to Prescott, filled with shared silences and unspoken promises. Each mile brought us closer to our purpose. As we arrived at the courthouse, we were greeted by several stairs leading up to its grand entrance. Climbing the stairs felt like a scene straight out of the Rocky movie, each step bringing us closer to our purpose, each step symbolizing our determination and resolution.

And so, within the grandeur of the old courthouse and the unspoken approval of time itself, Tony and I took a decisive step toward our future together.

We walked into the county clerk’s office; our hands tightly clasped. In the busy office, we found ourselves standing in line with a diverse group of individuals. The room was abuzz with activity, but there were not enough clerks to manage the crowd. We all stood against the wall, our backs straight, like a line-up. We waited. And watched. Our amusement was short-lived.

We waited for our turn. The room filled with a sense of anticipation, each couple engrossed in their own world. In the middle of this, a woman sitting at a large desk caught our attention. She was shuffling paperwork, her hands moving with practiced ease. Opening a desk drawer, she pulled out a new set of documents and then looked up…

Deb’s story continues the adventure… You can contact her at: deb.winterslebarge@yahoo.com. Thanks for sharing a bit of your story with us, Deb!

Interested in learning how to write your story and share important memories in compelling and interesting ways? Reach out and let’s talk, you can find me at kray@rememberingthetime.net.

(Photo courtesy of Robert Murray via Unsplash)

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Wrong Way Roman Adventure

March 29, 2023March 29, 2023

by Karen Ray

As we leap into spring here in the U.S. I want to introduce you to my friend Victoria MacGregor from down under in Australia. She’s shared part of a Roman travel adventure with us in the guest post below. Wrong Way in Rome was first published in the Australian newspaper in 2018.

A little about her:
Victoria says the Covid-19 lockdown of 2020 put a temporary damper on her travel plans. However, with a strong desire to do something tangible and memorable, she started to write.

Over the course of her working life, Victoria spent time in business administration management and was a small business owner for over 15 years. She’s no stranger to e-newsletter writing and blogging and has recently discovered a love for writing short stories. Her passion for sharing family history inspired her to write a children’s book and she has a novel and a memoir in the works. Victoria says, “I see lots of open doors! We’re never too old to start something new. Shake that grey matter loose and have a bit of fun doing it.”

Wrong Way in Rome – Victoria MacGregor

We plan our own travel. Mapping out the adventures is almost as much fun as the travel itself. We have a spreadsheet. A colossal, ridiculous database of dates, hotels, flights, trains, currency
conversion, and budget. Nothing ever gets left to chance. Keeps us honest with time and money.

However, like most travel escapades, there’s got to be something unforeseen and overlooked that creeps into the experience and smacks us around the head.

As it happened to us, two and a half months into a four-month, 14 country, European post-retirement mega journey in 2014.

By the time we arrived at Stazione Tibertina in Rome from Venice, we’d stepped into nine countries. Starting in Turkey, weaving our way through Greece, Croatia, France, The Netherlands, Germany, the Czech Republic, Poland, Austria, and then Italy.

The mercury soared that September, but we managed to take in every inch of this magnificent city on foot in only three days. Ancient masterpieces interwoven with modern chic. It’s Roman magic.

Next stop, picturesque Positano. We reviewed the spreadsheet before bed, train tickets to Solerno at the ready, metro times confirmed, alarm set, ready.

Train departure at approximately 9:15 AM. We arrived confidently with almost an hour to spare. Perfect, time for coffee. We were getting good at this. Problem, our train, #1911, wasn’t listed on the departure board. As the minutes ticked by, other trains scheduled to depart after #1911, were getting displayed. #1911 wasn’t.

The queue at the service desk was growing with other confused travelers hoping for answers. Showing the attendant our tickets, anticipating an apologetic explanation, we received quite an unexpected response. “Sorry, you are at Stazione Tibertina. Your train is at Stazione Termini.”

Two stations? Our dumbfounded looks of complete and utter embarrassment prompted the attendant to continue, “If you hurry, you can get on the metro, Stazione Termini is the next stop. You have 10 minutes.”

We ran, bags thumping behind us, down the stairs, into the train, doors shut. Made it. Well, not quite.

In our panic, we’d leaped into a metro going in the opposite direction. Away from Stazione Termini. Frustration was evident by the steam emanating from our ears.

We got off, switched metro and sprinted to Stazione Termini. Train #1911 had left without us, on time. Our final option, purchase another ticket, departing in an hour… from… you guessed it…Stazione Tibertina. Tears, oh yes, there were tears.

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I trust you enjoyed Victoria’s story as much as I did. Following are a few ways to connect with her. She does fantastic work with family photos using Ponga as well.:
http://www.victoriaspress.com
contactvictoriaspress@gmail.com
On Instagram @victoriaspress
And her delightful children’s book Grace and Tommy’s Frosted Adventure! Click the title to find it on Amazon. I’ve already got my copy!
Stay tuned for Victoria’s memoir, when it’s published I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, I bet one of your own travel adventures came to mind as you read Victoria’s story, write about it for your memoir! If you need help deciding how best to tell your story or need editing or an editorial assessment, I’m available to help. Reach out and let’s chat about your project.
All the best,
Karen

(Photo courtesy Gabriella Clare Marino via Unsplash)

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Grandma’s Table

October 3, 2022October 3, 2022

by Karen Ray

Memoirs and family histories can be shared in many ways. Here’s a poetic version that not only caught my attention during a visit with a fellow writing friend, it made me catch my breath. The way she weaves experiences through and around the story of an object is fascinating. Thank you, Gretchen, for sharing your work with us.

Gretchen Blais is an author and surrealist and mixed media artist. She grew up in Santa Cruz, California – in her own words here’s the start of her artistic path:

My journey as an artist began one rainy Thanksgiving Day 40 plus years ago when my family and I were visiting out of town. My host suggested we all paint since it was too wet to be outside. It was a memorable event for four adults and six young children. I came away with an experience hard to describe. I felt that something was released, never to become invisible again. My pencil began to travel with me wherever I went and the edgy surreal forms began to emerge seemingly on their own. Although I could sit and draw in the middle of chaos, the struggle to claim the title of Artist was a long journey with flashbacks to memories of elementary school when I wanted to be an artist when I grew up. Finally, in my 70’s, I am grown up and an artist.

Gretchen is retired from her career as a licensed psychotherapist and makes her home in southern New Mexico where she writes and continues to create new art. To view more of her work visit:
www.gretchenblaisart.weebly.com.

Grandma’s Table
by Gretchen Blais

I gaze at you and I hear
“I understand nothing of what I see.”

I breathe.

I sit and a new experience
Begins to unfold.
It’s a shift in my awareness,
In my understanding of you,
A picture and memories begins to emerge.

I see the seedling from whence you came.
I feel the earth receptive to your needs.
The rich soil moistened from the dew.
Water to nourish and help push your roots down
As the sun gently pulls you upward.

Up towards the sky, to reach higher and higher.
Your trunk, your branches, the energy flowing.
Day following day and year following year.
Until one day you reach a pinnacle.
A time comes and a transformation is upon you.

The ax, the saw driven into you fibers.
I sensed the lumberjack’s movement.
The swing of the ax, the saw back and forth,
Until you succumbed and fell. On your way down,
Rubbing against other trees, you settled with a crash.

I see the ropes, the chains, the wagon dragging you,
Moving you to where you could be made into boards.
Where legs were carved and pieces merged together
To become something new – a table,
Grandma’s table.

My eyes see them, the ones who sat and feasted at the table.
The ones who laughed and cried for generations.
The history of them is there.
My grandmother, my grandfather, my father and mother,
All my sisters and brothers, myself, my children and grandchildren.

The kitchen I remember, the activities I knew, the gatherings.
Games, homework, laughter, discussions, arguments, meals and so many soups
Each summer the canning of peaches, and pears, the tomatoes and corn.
The strings beans and the jellies and jams
To feed us through the winter as we sat at Grandma’s table.

The sap no longer runs through the tree veins.
But the generations of those who touched the table,
They bring energy and it keeps moving.
Grandma’s table keeps adding a rich tapestry
To each person’s life, generation after generation.

***

(Photo courtesy of Kevin Schmid @Unsplash)

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My Family Hangs Onto Things!

August 29, 2022August 29, 2022

by Karen Ray

It’s great to be back after a busy hiatus. I had the privilege of coaching talented students over the last several months as they worked on writing their memoirs. It’s a thrill to help them bring their stories to life! Don’t worry, I’ll be starting a new class this fall, stay tuned. Plus, I’ll share two new memoirs in the works, so excited to help bring these book babies to life.

Hope you’ll come along on the journey for a new run of interesting stories here on the blog, as well as family history and memoir writing tips. May they inspire you to share your story. Family historian Dianna Hunter Snyder shares as our Guest Blogger:

“I am so thankful to come from a family that hung onto things. I have hundreds of old photos dating back as far as 1860. Different family members have so many items, including two sewing machines and a jigger that was used to make my great grandfather’s hot toddy every night.

The keepsake I love most is the old family Bible, printed in 1841. It contains many family records of marriages, births, and deaths. My family has been so blessed with so much information to start with in our family history research. In recent years two of my 2nd cousins, who have both passed away now, and I worked to fill in some of the holes.

One of those missing bits of information was the burial place of our 3rd Great Grandfather & Grandmother. Jacob Shuff was born in about 1782 and died in 1824. We found the list of his estate in the county records of Scott County, KY, but nothing else. Finally my cousin Janice found a cemetery record for Hanna Houston Shuff in Scott County. She drove to the area and spent hours trying to find the cemetery to no avail.

Finally, a county worker stopped and asked if he could help her.

She was a bit uneasy about that as there was NO ONE ELSE around but at last explained about her search. The man said if she would follow him, he thought he could help her. Fearful, she went anyway. He unlocked a gated area where they kept work supplies and asked her to come see something. Near the back of the enclosure on a small mound of dirt sat the three pieces of Hannah Houston Shuff’s headstone. She took a great picture of it to share with the family.

The county had, some years past, put in new roads along section lines, etc. Hannah’s headstone showed up in the rubble, but no one knew where it came from. But it is the only real record we have of her death date.

Keep looking for your missing piece of information.

You never know where it may show up, even in cemetery storage. We have had a lot of surprises in our searches, but this was one of our most exciting ones. Happy Hunting.

I can’t help but wonder, did Dianna’s great grandfather’s headstone ever turn up as well, or is it lost to history and road construction? Dianna has shared many wonderful stories from her family history in the Family History and Memoir Writers FaceBook Group. Here’s another:

“One of the stories handed down is when my Grandfather Hunter made the Oklahoma Land Run on April 22, 1889. He staked a claim in what is now Okarche, OK. That night a couple with a family drove their wagon in and asked permission to spend the night. Grandpa said yes. By the next morning, Grandpa had sold his claim for a $20 gold piece, a rifle & one of the first ever made stem wound pocket watches. Grandpa Hunter went south to just above what is now Piedmont, OK, and found a claim there. It was there that he found a pretty lady, Lizzie Luella Shuff, and married her. The $20 gold piece is long gone, but the other items are carefully cared for by my brother’s sons.”

Thanks for sharing your stories, Dianna. For the rest of you with memories and family history to share, get in touch with me, and let’s talk about bringing them to life. I’m looking forward to sharing more guest posts. Follow Remembering the Time on FaceBook, Instagram, and Pinterest for more personal history tips, inspiration, and help.
Karen

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The Mystery of Moses Jordan

January 26, 2022January 26, 2022

by Karen Ray

My fellow family historian Patricia D’Ascoli is stepping in to share her own family history mystery. She is a skilled writer and researcher and I’m delighted to share her work with you. She’s also an active member of the Family History and Memoir Writer’s Fellowship FaceBook group. Her story is a fascinating read and we hope it will prompt you to write about the stories in your own family. Patricia can be reached at Patriciafdascoli@gmail.com and welcomes talking with you about bringing your family history to life.

The Mystery of Moses Jordan – Patricia F. D’Ascoli

Every family historian comes across the unknown—a gap to be filled, a missing puzzle piece to be found. This is the story of my journey to uncover the truth about the disappearance of my paternal great grandfather, Moses Jordan. I had very little to go on when I began my search:

Facts: Moses Jordan b. 1844 married Sarah Kuykendall b. 1853 in 1870. They had a daughter, Margaret, in 1873 and a son, Alvin in 1881. Moses worked for the railroad and the family lived in Port Jervis, New York.

Lore: My grandmother Margaret told my father this brief tale: One day when she and her mother Sarah were walking in the park, they saw Moses with another woman.

At some point following this sighting, Moses vanished and never returned.

There was no date, no place or any other names attached to this story. Despite this limited information, I felt confident I could solve the mystery.

Before I began my search, I examined a tiny photograph of Moses and Sarah. Neither of my great grandparents is smiling. Moses is sitting, and Sarah is standing behind him with her left hand placed on his shoulder. Moses, who has dark wavy hair and a mustache, wears a suit with a bow tie. Sarah wears a high neck gown; her hair is up.

Researchers must have a desire to dig deep and think critically. Although I had little to go on, the search was not as difficult as I imagined it might be. Through Ancestry.com and Newspapers.com I was able to solve the mystery of my great grandfather’s disappearance. And in doing so, I uncovered a dirty secret: Moses Jordan was a thief, an adulterer and a liar. He was also very, very fat.

I started with the 1875 New York census where I discovered the family in Port Jervis, New York. Moses worked as assistant yardmaster for the Erie Railroad. Research revealed that in 1880 Moses was appointed assistant dispatcher at Bergen, New Jersey. The 1880 US census confirmed that the family lived in Jersey City. City directories showed they continued to live in Jersey City until 1890.

I wondered whether there might be a newspaper account of this event. Once upon a time, newspapers were replete with the intimate details of ordinary individuals’ lives so there was a good chance such a story would appear in the papers.

Two newspapers reported on the disappearance in November 1890. These articles gave me all I needed to know about my great grandfather. He was a scoundrel of the worst kind.

“Moses Jordan, the yardmaster of the Erie Railroad, has eloped. On November 11, payday, he borrowed all the money he could get from storekeepers along Pavonia Avenue, and after ordering his trunk to be shipped from his residence, 283 Pavonia Avenue, to 106 River Street, Hoboken, he skipped. About the same time, it is rumored a well-known woman disappeared from the city. While the elopement was being planned and carried out, Mrs. Jordan was at Wurtsboro, New York, attending the funeral of her father. The runaway leaves her and a nineteen-year-old daughter and ten-year-old crippled son behind him.” Jersey Journal 11/20/90.

“Jordan has been practically separated from his wife for some time past, owing to the latter’s suspicions of his intrigue with another woman. Who she was could not be learned except that she was a married woman who was not living with her husband. The deserted wife declined to give her rival’s name or impart any particulars concerning her.” Tri-States Union 11/27/90.

Sarah’s departure for her father’s funeral was a fortuitous occurrence for Moses, as he and the mystery woman were able to leave Jersey City without her knowledge. I imagined my great grandmother grieving her father’s death in New York, returning home with her two children only to discover that Moses had left. She was then questioned by the police. And saw her shame laid bare in the newspapers.

I was determined to find out the identity of the woman who had destroyed three lives. A little more searching gave me the answer. On June 6, 1891, the New York Tribune published this short piece:

“Master of Chancery Romaine made a report in favor of granting a divorce to Sarah D. Jordan from Moses S. Jordan. Jordan was yardmaster for the Erie Railroad in Jersey City. He eloped November last with Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe, a married woman.”

Bingo. The identity of the mystery woman was revealed: Elizabeth Rowe—the woman who stole my great grandfather away from his wife and children. I wanted to know more about her. A search revealed that Moses Jordan married Elizabeth Roe on January 13, 1904 in Manhattan. They were married 14 years after their disappearance. Hmmm. Where had Moses and Elizabeth lived between 1890 and 1904?

I decided to look for Mr. Roe. In the 1885 New Jersey census I found Lewis C. Roue living in Jersey City. Also living at that address were Jeremiah, Ella and Lizzie Hulick. Lizzie is a nickname for Elizabeth—was this Lizzie the future Mrs. Roe? A marriage record for Lewis Roe and Annie E. Hulick dated July 29, 1886, confirmed that she was. I assumed Elizabeth must have been her middle name. Further sleuthing showed that Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Roe had a daughter Sarah born August 25, 1887.

My search continued. In the 1900 U.S. census I found Moses Jordan, who stilled worked for the railroad, living in Susquehanna, PA. The scandal had not impacted his career apparently. His wife—of 10 years per the census—was Anne E. Jordan. I felt certain this was Annie E. Hulick Roe, as subsequent censuses showed her as Elizabeth Jordan. In 1900 the Jordans had three children: Harry (b. 1891 NY), Mae (b. 1893 PA) and Harold (b.1896 PA). Sarah Roe lived with the Jordans as well.

The story might have ended here. Like every family history sleuth, however, I knew there was more information to be found. From a brief newspaper account, I learned Moses had suffered a serious injury. The headline read:

“Mishap Due to Too Much Fat. Stout Yardmaster was Rolled Along Fence by Train and Perhaps Mortally Hurt.”

“Moses Jordan, who for many years was yardmaster on the Erie at Bergen, New Jersey, then at Hornellsville, and of late in charge of the yards at Dundee, where the branch lines to the Passaic Mills are located, was probably mortally injured yesterday. His extreme corpulency was responsible for his misfortune. Seeing a freight train approaching Jordan stepped off the tracks and backed up against a board fence. But the three cars brushed against the stout yardmaster and rolled him along the fence nearly thirty feet. His shoulder was broken, and it is feared he is hurt internally.” The Morning Call 8/29/02.

My first thought was that Moses got his just desserts. But I hated to think my great grandfather died as the result of such a brutal accident. I learned in subsequent accounts that Moses survived. The Jordans moved back to Jersey City where he continued to work for the Erie Railroad.

A death notice appeared in the Jersey Journal:

“JORDAN – On February 3, 1927 Moses S. Jordan, widower of the late Elizabeth Jordan. Relatives and friends are invited to attend funeral service at establishment of Mark M. Fagan at 527 Jersey Avenue on Sunday, February 6 at 1:00 PM.”

I do not know where my great grandfather is buried. But I do know that his secret is not buried with him. Thanks to my research, I was able to solve the mystery of Moses Jordan.

###

Have a story of your own to share? I’d love to hear from you, you can reach me at karen@rememberingthetime.net.

Karen

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What do You Treasure?

January 10, 2022January 10, 2022

by Karen Ray

A year ago I wrote about priceless possessions. The world has revolved 365 more times and so much has changed. Some things, however, never change, like the power of sharing our stories. So I want to revisit the life-changing importance of saving memories.

Back in 1905, the discovery of an enormous 1.33-pound rough diamond made for impressive news. It started out as just a rock in a pile of dirt. Today, select cut gems from this behemoth are displayed in the Tower of London in a place of honor on the Royal Scepter and the Imperial State Crown. All because someone had vision. A tremendous amount of effort and expense is invested in protecting these treasures. However, if you’ve lived for any length of time on this planet you know that objects can be lost, stolen, or destroyed.

Memories too can be lost and can’t be recovered like a piece of stolen artwork or jewelry. Perhaps, like me, you’ve experienced the sad reality that those who could tell you the stories behind those old black and white photos in the ornate photo albums, who could connect the dots in your family’s history, or relate their eye-witness take on world events they’ve experienced, are long gone.

No one thought to not just ask for the story, but to write it down. The photos are still here, but the story is gone. We’re left guessing at missing pieces, trying to put the puzzle together and understand the big picture.

The truth I wrote last year still holds, “Memories are yours, to replay, to cherish, to share…they are the only thing that is uniquely yours.” Your memories are your precious treasure.

None of us know when we might be robbed of the ability to share them with those we love, through a variety of
events outside our control.

What If…this was the year you mined those raw gems of memory and family story? What if… you brushed off the debris, shone a beautiful, warm light on it to bring out the colors, and polished it just so to gleam in a place of honor as the treasure it rightly is?

What if…you made a commitment to treat those memories with the care and honor you might give to your most priceless physical possession? Does thinking about your memories this way give you clarity and purpose?

Next year, next decade, 100 years in the future, will those unmet generations be able to sit down and read a keepsake treasure about your life, the experiences you’ve longed to share, the history you witnessed, or the beauty and knowledge you’d impart if only they could be right here with you?

Back to the shiny rock. That diamond, like most precious things, was shaped and polished to bring out its beauty. So too with your story, your memories.

Do you see only a raw, grubby little ordinary rock?
Oh, my friends, I don’t!

I see what it can truly become and I want you to have the joy of experiencing that treasure for yourself.

While it’s true that only you have the raw material of memories, once they’re mined, there are many tools to help polish the beauty, remove the dross, and reveal the priceless keepsake hiding within.

Your story will be more intensely relevant and interesting to your family than any shiny rock, I promise you!

Contact me today for a free consult to find out how this experienced memory miner can help you begin your story mining journey. Let’s make sure your real family treasures, your stories, will be unearthed and polished so that they can be shared and honored as they deserve.

Karen

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We want to know:

Here are 5 ways writing your story matters:

*Write down that funny story about your sibling*Record your memories of growing up in a specific place/neighborhood*Commit to paper those stories your friends and family always ask you to tell

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Write down that funny story about your sibling
Record your memories of growing up in a specific place/neighborhood
*Commit to paper those stories your friends and family always ask you to tell