Until last weekend, I had forgotten how poignant reunions can be. Whether it’s family, school, or something else, reunions allow you to reconnect with the past. Not only are they great places to re-color some of those faded memories, they refresh the soul.
The fallibility of memory can make truth and accuracy hard to come by. Competing versions of the same stories—the same memories—dance and whorl around family tables every get together. One person remembers it was a Sunday in July. A sibling insists it was in October and a Sunday.
How do you decide which version is true? What details are accurate? Perhaps a better question is how do you decide if the details of the story are worth fighting about.
Often the answer lies in understanding the difference between truth and accuracy as well as your own role as storyteller.
Truth versus Accuracy
My neighbor Frank likes to say that the way people act around dogs shows what type of person they really are. He’s right. Animal stories reveal character. Frank has never gone so far as to say that if someone doesn’t like dogs, they have questionable friendship potential, but I suspect that thought has crossed his mind.
How Animal Stories Reveal Character
John Grogan’s memoir, Marley & Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog is a great example of how animal stories reveal character. In Your Life is a Book: How to Craft & Publish Your Memoir, Brenda Peterson and Sarah Jane Freymann explain the popularity of the yellow lab as a character. “One of the reasons Marley is such a beloved character … is because Grogan reveals his dog’s flaws as well as his joys.” The same holds true for the author. We don’t just love Marley.
Is it just me, or are fathers more difficult to buy for than mothers? I’m always short of fathers’ day ideas. My husband has a box in the bedroom with yet-to-be-used gifts he’s received. He claims he appreciates all of them, but I’m always searching for more meaningful gifts, particularly those that will bring precious memories alive.
Spending Time with Dad
Making memories trump recalling memories. First and foremost, focus on those gifts and ideas that you can look back on with fondness in years to come. Bonus points if you can do something that will evoke memories of the father in question’s own childhood adventures with his dad. Going fishing or hiking. Building something in the workshop. Perhaps instead of making a craft for dad, the kids can make a craft with dad on Fathers’ Day.
In addition to those mentioned in 4 Ways to Share Memories with Dad, I’ve marked some great memory related Fathers’ Day ideas on my Fathers’ Day Ideas Pinterest Board. One that really struck a chord with me was carrotsareorange.com’s idea of “Our Little Book of Experiences,” a creative take on the ubiquitous coupon book. You can fill this one with memories of great moments spent with dad or promises of future quality time together.
In many offices, desk space is at a premium. I particularly like Shutterfly’s customized smart-phone case, which doesn’t require Dad to give up precious desk-top real estate. Photobooks are also always well-received. Consider filling one with photos of Dad’s success at his hobby, such as finished wood-working projects, his garden in full-bloom, or photos of him coaching little league.
Preserve Your History with Dad
Topping my list of Fathers’ Day Ideas is preserving your history with your father, and Story Corps presents a wonderful opportunity to do just that. Founded to increase understanding through audio interviews, their mobile booth travels around the country recording moving conversations. They’ve also launched a Story Corps smartphone app. The app features the same meaningful question prompts and, like the official booths, uploads interviews to the Library of Congress.
Grandpa Fathers’ Day Ideas
You don’t want to get me started about how hard it is to find a present for my father-in-law. He doesn’t want for much. If he does want something, he goes out and buys it. Now that he and my mother-in-law have down-sized, they don’t want “clutter.” So, gift card it is….
Give your difficult-to-buy-for dad or granddad a piece of their family history. You can use FamilySearch.org or your library’s edition of Ancestry.com to make him a starter pedigree chart. And, rude as it sounds, you can give your dad a DNA test. Not to confirm paternity, mind you, but to give him an insight into his heritage.
Want More Fathers’ Day Ideas?
- Visit my Pinterest Sharing Memories, Fathers Day, and Gifts that Matter boards
- Search Pinterest with “#fathersday. I haven’t even scratched the surface.
What was your favorite Fathers’ Day gift? Have any other memory-related or memorable Fathers’ Day Ideas? Please leave your thoughts.
“How could we have lost something so precious?” my friend lamented to her husband. Dusk approached. She, her husband, and various friends had searched throughout much of the previous night and all that day for their elderly little dog that had wandered off. Their story is still unconcluded and it’s hard to watch it unfold. But it made me think. We all have at least one major lost and found story.
Perhaps it’s a lost object that still sticks in your craw. Perhaps you’ve had an experience analogous to the finding the prodigal son.
Writing about things lost and found
Whether there’s a happy ending or not, stories of things lost or lost and found make compelling narratives. In fact, such stories are easy to find all over the Internet.
Most of us have been there. For instance, there was the 10 minutes during which my then 5-year old was missing at the Salt Lake City airport. I can still remember the panic I felt and the way that I wanted to strangle the slow-to-take-it seriously airport security guard.
Elements of your lost and found story:
1. What went missing? (duh)
Object, person, pet, or other. It may have simply disappeared or was stolen. Wallet, military metal, vacation or wedding pictures all come to mind, but you can take a creative twist on this topic. One example is Kannaki’s “My Mother’s Shoes.”
2. Why did it matter to you?
This could be obvious, such as in the case of a five year-old, but it isn’t always. Perhaps the crucifix that went missing had been passed down from your grandmother, a life-long devoted Catholic. Perhaps it had brought you comfort on numerous occasions.
3. How did you discover it (he or she) was missing?
4. How did you feel about it at the time? What was your state of mind?
In the case of my friend, her word choices are telling. The rest of us consider her little dog as “gone missing.” We use a blameless phrase. Repeatedly, I’ve heard her say, “I lost my little dog.” She’s shouldering the responsibility, way more than she should. What happened in your story? Did you feel responsible? Victimized?
5. What measures did you take? Posters? Letters? Flyers? A reward?
6. Who helped you search? Were they actually helpful?
I can’t help remembering that security guard blithely pointing out every young boy in plain sight. “Is that him?” “What about that child?” Me nearly yelling, “Get on your radio! None of these children are wearing a dark blue shirt with a rhino on it!”
7. How did the story turn out?
Of course you have to of the outcome. But that doesn’t have to be the way the story ends. Instead, you can talk about silver linings, what you learned, any insight that might be applicable to the rest of your life.
8. How do you feel looking back?
We can often reconcile ourselves to events only after time has passed. For instance, after my parents died, my sister and I were never able to locate my father’s wedding ring, which he kept on his key-chain. It used to keep me up at night, wondering what clever hiding place he thought he’d found shortly before he took his trip. But over time, hope has diminished. After all, it was a material thing. I’ve made an uneasy peace with the loss. What about you?
What your lost and found story? How have you told it? How have you shared it?
Holidays make a great time to share stories. There’s no question about it. When we’re thinking of loved ones—or better yet spending time with them—stories connect us and express our bonds.
But it’s not just stories that we tell. There’s something about that calendar page turning over, the new digit on the end of the year, that makes us want to provide some sort of a recap. A snapshot in time. In fact, the chapter in my book about compiling a holiday or year end letter is titled “Easy Snapshots in Time.”
So, I should be able to pull together a “Happy New Year” letter, originally meant to be a Christmas letter. This year, I’m struggling with the concept. As people draw together, celebrate together, and look forward to the New Year, I want to be included in their thoughts. But I’m torn about whether or not their plunge into the New Year should include reading a litany of my family’s year. Perhaps I’d be better off just telling them a story that reflects us in a moment of time.
For most, that maturity takes place over time. Too often, though, it turns on a dime. Everything changes as the bubble of invincibility pops.
OK, our youthful idea of invincibility was a mirage. But the mirage lent us a feeling of security in an out-of-control world. We knew bad things, even terrible things, could happen. However, until the shoe dropped very close to our backdoor, we were able to view the possibility through a protective gauze of denial.
Once you’ve experienced it, other stories of innocence lost evoke a deep empathy. Watching the news, we realize the victims’ stories could so easily be our stories. We can imagine, with an unhealthy vividness, the phone calls that came in the night. Or didn’t get answered.
A Story of Innocence Lost
Just the other week, a soccer buddy told me her 9/11 story. (We all have them you know. See post Remember When — Exactly, Precisely When). This story touched me more than most. In 2001, she was a recent widow. She and her three children had already lost any feelings of invincibility. Cancer took the person they most loved and doctors were powerless to stop it. My buddy, then newly widowed mother, took her three children to Disney World to give them a break from grief and to make new memories.
As she told me the setting for her little family’s story of innocence lost, the music of her life cued in my head. A bizarre call and response between a requiem and It’s a Small World, eventually drowned out by other happy Disney music.
Coming out of a ride—she didn’t specify which, but my imagination has it pegged as Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride—she and other park attendees were told to exit the park. They were stymied by the sudden announcement that the park was closing. As park workers herded them into waiting shuttle buses, the worst thing she could imagine for inexplicable closing was a bomb threat.
She and other parents started asking the bus drivers which other Orlando attractions were open. (The music in my head slows. Disney tunes now play at slow speed, overlapped with a dun dum, dun dum à la Jaws.)
How terrible it must have been for park employees. Watching happy families go back to their rooms, knowing what the TV screens would show them. In my buddy’s case, she did get a hint. “Nothing is open. There’s been a terrorist attack in New York.”
By the time she got to her hotel room, she didn’t get the slow experience of hearing of the planes hitting the towers one by one. She didn’t see footage of people escaping and first responders rushing in. The towers were gone. The world was different. It was a place without bubbles: not even Disney World was exempt.
What’s your story of innocence lost? Why was the story so poignant? How is it like other stories of coming of age? How does it differ? Go ahead—Write it down!
Visiting Lincoln (UK), I wanted an emotional bond with my 20th great grandmother. Foolish as it sounds, I wanted to get a feel for her life. I wanted to know her a little.
Unlike London, which has changed so much over the centuries, Lincoln felt like a place where my forbearers might materialize. As my son and I munched on sandwiches in Minster square, the echoes of centuries of footsteps were almost audible. I could imagine my 14th century relatives, walking through the gates and looking upon the Lincoln Cathedral’s already centuries-old beautiful façade.
A horse-drawn carriage pulled up, taking on a mother and son for a city tour. The boy was sporting a wooden shield and sword as well as an impish smile. I wondered how many times that scenario occurred in the 558 years between my 20th great grandmother’s death and my birth?
Can such basic human experiences roll the centuries away?
There are apps that will compile your Facebook posts into a book—like a personal version of World book Encyclopedia’s Yearbooks. It’s an interesting idea, but does it make sense to use social media to tell your stories?
If I were to compile my posts into a story, I’m not even sure I’d be interested in it. Last summer, for instance, I posted various pictures of birds, frogs, and turtles distributed between public confessions about lame-brained things I’d done. If I bore myself, how would readers receive it?
But perhaps that’s my fault. I wonder if people would be more invested if I put myself more “out there.” On the other hand, even though I’m willing to wear my heart on my sleeve in speaking engagements, books, and this blog, something about social media makes me more emotionally reticent. Baring my soul isn’t quite like putting my life story on a bumper sticker, but it’s on that spectrum somewhere.
Cemeteries don’t deserve their spooky reputation. Sure, they’re full of dead people (cue my father-in-law’s obligatory joke about “people just dying to get in there”), but they’re more than that.
They are the final resting place of our grief, a place where we can go and pay respects, one of the places where we can grope for some sort of continued connection to loved ones. They’re that and more.
Cemeteries are places where long-forgotten stories intermingle.