Preserving memories from our own lives and from the lives of our families is important, but what if we want to pass on more than brief reminiscence? What if we want those who come after us to get a sense of who we are and what our lives stood for? What if we want to pass on meaning as well as memory?
This can be done if we look for elements of story structure in the pieces of memory and tease out a fuller narrative. Our bits and pieces can also be woven together in a pattern of theme. Our brains are hard-wired for story. We learn and connect through story. And all story has patterns. We recognize and are satisfied when we interact with a complete story. On a very basic level stories are about struggle. We are the protagonists in our own lives and we are always struggling against something: a playground bully, our boss, the society’s standards, ourselves. In a story, as in life, someone is breaking the norms or pushing against someone or something else. When we pass on personal stories, we often gloss over the struggle, but the struggle is where we learn. The triumphs will not mean as much if we do not understand the struggles.
If we triumph over something less noble, we have a drama. If we have a noble purpose, but are unbalanced or overzealous and crash and burn, we have a tragedy. If we are breaking some rules, getting into trouble, but learn our lesson and all turns out well, we often have a comedy. Even though our lives don’t come wrapped up in a perfectly formed story, all the elements are still there.
Also look for simple plot structure in the memory. What was the status quo before the story? What was an incident that changed all that and who or what caused it? What are the struggles that came from that change? Who won or triumphed at the end? Did we return to the same status quo or was the status quo altered permanently and what was learned? For example, I tell a story about how I was a wrestling champion at my 5th grade summer camp. It’s a pretty funny story all by itself, but by emphasizing the social norms that I broke by being a girl wrestler in the 70’s, and my conflicting feelings over facing a boy I liked in the championship and contrasting myself with the perfect popular girls, I can show an heightened sense of drama and triumph when I win in the end.
Grouping memories around a theme is also a great way to tell a story. When I wrote my dad’s life history, I broke it into three categories or chapters. The first was called Heartland. It was about his growing up years in the Teton Valley in Idaho. The second was called Wings. It was about his adventurous nature as a young adult into adulthood and the creative, unique parent he was. The image of the Wing’s title page is that of a parachuting firefighter, which he did one summer to earn money for college. The final chapter was called Refiner’s Fire. He was a chemist who grew crystals in large furnaces that seemed like volcanoes to me. This chapter talks about how he faced his oncoming death at 38. Here’s is the opening paragraph to Heartland, to give you an idea of how I used theme in my father’s history:
This can be done if we look for elements of story structure in the pieces of memory and tease out a fuller narrative. Our bits and pieces can also be woven together in a pattern of theme. Our brains are hard-wired for story. We learn and connect through story. And all story has patterns. We recognize and are satisfied when we interact with a complete story. On a very basic level stories are about struggle. We are the protagonists in our own lives and we are always struggling against something: a playground bully, our boss, the society’s standards, ourselves. In a story, as in life, someone is breaking the norms or pushing against someone or something else. When we pass on personal stories, we often gloss over the struggle, but the struggle is where we learn. The triumphs will not mean as much if we do not understand the struggles.
If we triumph over something less noble, we have a drama. If we have a noble purpose, but are unbalanced or overzealous and crash and burn, we have a tragedy. If we are breaking some rules, getting into trouble, but learn our lesson and all turns out well, we often have a comedy. Even though our lives don’t come wrapped up in a perfectly formed story, all the elements are still there.
Also look for simple plot structure in the memory. What was the status quo before the story? What was an incident that changed all that and who or what caused it? What are the struggles that came from that change? Who won or triumphed at the end? Did we return to the same status quo or was the status quo altered permanently and what was learned? For example, I tell a story about how I was a wrestling champion at my 5th grade summer camp. It’s a pretty funny story all by itself, but by emphasizing the social norms that I broke by being a girl wrestler in the 70’s, and my conflicting feelings over facing a boy I liked in the championship and contrasting myself with the perfect popular girls, I can show an heightened sense of drama and triumph when I win in the end.
Grouping memories around a theme is also a great way to tell a story. When I wrote my dad’s life history, I broke it into three categories or chapters. The first was called Heartland. It was about his growing up years in the Teton Valley in Idaho. The second was called Wings. It was about his adventurous nature as a young adult into adulthood and the creative, unique parent he was. The image of the Wing’s title page is that of a parachuting firefighter, which he did one summer to earn money for college. The final chapter was called Refiner’s Fire. He was a chemist who grew crystals in large furnaces that seemed like volcanoes to me. This chapter talks about how he faced his oncoming death at 38. Here’s is the opening paragraph to Heartland, to give you an idea of how I used theme in my father’s history:
Everyone has a homeland. It’s where you were born and raised. Most people also have a heartland. A place that echoes with warm memories and stories you can call your own. Sometimes your homeland and your heartland are one and the same, but sometimes they are not. A heartland can be filled with the majestic beauty of nature or it can be a city apartment in a high-rise building, it could be a swing in a big oak tree in your Grandpa’s backyard or in the arms of someone you love best, and sometimes… it can be a whole valley.
The Teton Valley is not my homeland. I was born and raised in California, but my father was born there in 1934, in a little log cabin, just off Highway 33 in Tetonia Idaho. The Teton Valley is the place that calls to my heart and tells me that I am home. It’s the place I’ve come to just about every year of my life to swing out across the creek on my Grandpa’s farm. It’s the place I come to pick huckleberries with my cousin Jed. It’s the place I come to feel six pairs of loving arms around me as my six aunts still give me extra attention and love, trying to fill the space left empty when my dad died when I was eight years old. The Teton Valley is where my dad was first nurtured, where he started thrusting down his first tender roots of life. It’s a place that played a big part in what he would become.
The Teton Valley is not my homeland. I was born and raised in California, but my father was born there in 1934, in a little log cabin, just off Highway 33 in Tetonia Idaho. The Teton Valley is the place that calls to my heart and tells me that I am home. It’s the place I’ve come to just about every year of my life to swing out across the creek on my Grandpa’s farm. It’s the place I come to pick huckleberries with my cousin Jed. It’s the place I come to feel six pairs of loving arms around me as my six aunts still give me extra attention and love, trying to fill the space left empty when my dad died when I was eight years old. The Teton Valley is where my dad was first nurtured, where he started thrusting down his first tender roots of life. It’s a place that played a big part in what he would become.
Then I related all the stories of my dad growing up, complete with pictures. Then at the end of the chapter, I wrote:
The Teton Valley’s breathtaking beauty and immense harshness seeped into my dad’s blood. Years of hard work built sinew and gave him backbone. A sky and land wide enough to let an imagination soar formed his intellect. A devout, hard-working and loving family molded a steadfast and gentle heart. I’d like to think some of that valley DNA exists in my bones and beats in my heart, calling me home to my heartland… a little farm with a creek and a barn nestled at the base of the Tetons.
One more idea on meaning: The motivation for writing my dad’s history was that I realized that his own grandchildren did not know very much about their grandpa. So to connect them further to the stories and the project, I had each grandchild create a picture to illustrate one of the stories. It really worked. As we published the book, each child was excited to see their artwork!
The pictures don't have to be great works of art. Here are two samples. Above is a rattlesnake cooking in a pan - my dad killed one on a campout, and yes, we ate it! Below is my dad sliding down his barn roof in the wintertime on a shovel. I told you my dad was adventurous!
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