The Memory Books
This was something I'd been considering doing for some weeks now, but some circumstances made me decide to get cracking on this last week:
I'm writing a Memory / Family History book to give someday (a few years from now, give or take) to my niece Alex (who is coming up on age 8) and my nephews Jacob and Evan (who will be 5 and 4 in April, respectively). The first half of the book are memories that I'm writing down--particularly from childhood, and getting their mother (my sister Jana) and grandparents in them as much as possible--and the second half will be hard copies of pages I've written on my family history website.
I'm doing this because, quite frankly, I have a lot of memories I'd just as soon not be forgotten forever--good and bad. I absorbed a lot of stories from my grandparents, unfortunately far more than I can remember now, and I'll always be grateful for that...along with angry at myself for forgetting some that I was told, or not asking for more than I did. But I figure in my case, if I write two or three entries a week, the notebook will be filled in a few years. Then I can just hope that one, two, or all three of the Kiddies cares about it. :)
I'm also finding, to no small amount of distress, that I remember a lot less about things than I thought I did. Or if I remember events, I can't always remember when they happened--not even the year. *Grumble grumble* I've at least been able to get some familial help for occasional details here and there.
Strangely (or maybe not so strangely), I'm finding that the written versions of the memories seem far less--well, colorful, no matter what details I put in. I suppose this is just the flip side of "The stories are never so wonderful once they're written as when they're in my head!"
On the other hand, pale shadows are better than nothing at all in my book (no pun intended).
So far I've written an introduction, my earliest memories (c.1970-74), my first weekend at my grandparents' house (1976, age five--the first of many weekends I'd spend there till I was 17), becoming a writer (1983, which is followed by my more detailed version of this I wrote for Some Fantastic), how I met Laurie (1998, and the notebook's first entry), and then the Live Journal entries from taking Alex to Smith Mountain Lake last month.
Not a bad start.
I'm writing a Memory / Family History book to give someday (a few years from now, give or take) to my niece Alex (who is coming up on age 8) and my nephews Jacob and Evan (who will be 5 and 4 in April, respectively). The first half of the book are memories that I'm writing down--particularly from childhood, and getting their mother (my sister Jana) and grandparents in them as much as possible--and the second half will be hard copies of pages I've written on my family history website.
I'm doing this because, quite frankly, I have a lot of memories I'd just as soon not be forgotten forever--good and bad. I absorbed a lot of stories from my grandparents, unfortunately far more than I can remember now, and I'll always be grateful for that...along with angry at myself for forgetting some that I was told, or not asking for more than I did. But I figure in my case, if I write two or three entries a week, the notebook will be filled in a few years. Then I can just hope that one, two, or all three of the Kiddies cares about it. :)
I'm also finding, to no small amount of distress, that I remember a lot less about things than I thought I did. Or if I remember events, I can't always remember when they happened--not even the year. *Grumble grumble* I've at least been able to get some familial help for occasional details here and there.
Strangely (or maybe not so strangely), I'm finding that the written versions of the memories seem far less--well, colorful, no matter what details I put in. I suppose this is just the flip side of "The stories are never so wonderful once they're written as when they're in my head!"
On the other hand, pale shadows are better than nothing at all in my book (no pun intended).
So far I've written an introduction, my earliest memories (c.1970-74), my first weekend at my grandparents' house (1976, age five--the first of many weekends I'd spend there till I was 17), becoming a writer (1983, which is followed by my more detailed version of this I wrote for Some Fantastic), how I met Laurie (1998, and the notebook's first entry), and then the Live Journal entries from taking Alex to Smith Mountain Lake last month.
Not a bad start.