Writing histories

Whenever I go to visit my grandparents, I make sure to have a notebook and pen handy. I never know when one or both of them will segue into a story–but I definitely know that my memory is too poor to retain all the details. So I jot myself notes as they talk–or as soon as possible afterwards.

I was not-so-surreptitiously taking notes on Monday when I realized that Grandma and Grandpa might like to know what the intended “final product” of all these notes is. So I opened the internet and dug out this narrative about Rosa May (Butterfield) Cook.

Rosa May was my Grandpa Cook’s Grandma, making her my great-great-grandma. I remember the vivid stories my mom used to tell me about great-grandma–the stories of the opossums, and the skunk, and the telephone. Rosa May is a member of the oldest generation that my mom and her siblings still remember–which made her an ideal target for my probing. A couple of years ago, I started pestering my family for stories about Rosa May–and I looked up as much as I could to corroborate anything they told me. The final result (which is nonetheless a work in progress) was my narrative.

The narrative was from an old version of my website. I had to save the page to my sister’s laptop and tweak the html in order to make it display properly. But I was finally able to open the web page and show Grandma. Grandma was impressed with the results and encouraged me to read it to Grandpa.

And so I did. I read the narrative to Grandpa, half afraid that I’d have gotten it all wrong. After all, Grandpa is the unchallenged family historian of the Cook Clan. Even with Parkinson’s and some dementia, his memory of family history is unparalleled. And he has a great deal of respect for our ancestors, too–a respect that insists that the truth be told down to the last detail.

But when I finished reading my narrative, Grandpa just looked at me and said, “Some others might question some parts, but that’s pretty much the story.” High praise from my Grandpa.

I don’t have the memories Grandpa has–he knew the generations that exist at most as stories for me. And I certainly don’t have his memory for the details of their lives. But my hope is that in my limited capacity, I can preserve some of our heritage–that might otherwise be lost–for the next generation.

I’m interested in the facts–the birth dates and wedding dates and times people moved–but I’m even more interested in the details of my ancestors lives. I want to know how they lived, what they cared about, what their houses looked like, what their favorite foods are, how they impacted others’ lives. I want to know the stories–the good, the bad, the nostalgic and the uncomfortable.

Which is why I want to preserve as much as I can in narrative format. I want to create a family history that is correct–but that is also entertaining. I may be interested in my family history–but I’m not content that I be the only one interested. I want to bring the family to life so that my generation and the generations after me will get interested too.

It’s a slow process–and most of my work is in the form of jotted notes in the dozens of journals kept in my closet. But someday, maybe, my part in the history will be complete–and I’ll pass the history on to the next generation to write. And maybe, if I’m lucky, they’ll write my story too.