Memories and Family

Over at Ray's place http://brokentrails.blogspot.com/ and David Cranmer's http://davidcranmer.blogspot.com/ they've been talking about memories and searching for their family's roots. As time slips away from me, I find myself searching through the scattered files of my memory, trying to remember who I am and where I came from.

Being a writer I've managed to write down many of those memories, finding comfort in those written words when a loved one has passed away. I have photo albums with many of the old pictures, newspaper clippings, and bits and pieces of the family trees. All there waiting for my children and grandchildren to show an interest in the past or a desire to trace their family roots.

Along with all those memories, I also found my writer self. It came with the memories of my grandfather. My grandmother and grandfather had ten children, all married with children, and every summer they gathered at grandpa's to catch up on their lives, show off the newest baby, and recall their memories.

The women usually gathered around grandma's rocking chair in the living room and gossiped about babies and husbands, but the men all sat out on the front porch to out-brag each. The women's gossip didn't interest me so I would sneak out on the porch and hide under the old cobbler's bench and listened to the uncle's voices weaving stories in the dark.

As the stars and fireflies came out to twinkle, the men lit up their cigarettes, with the red ends sparkling and smoke donuts twisting off into the air the words began to flow. Laughter filled the air as they recalled childhood exploits, fond memories of people they knew, and other family get-togethers.

Grandpa's porch was my introduction to storytelling. Voices and words weaving the past into the present reminding me that my father and uncles had been children once, too. But more than that, those words were my gift, a secret treasure that I can open and spill upon blank pages in the hopes that one day my own family will wonder about me.