The Seeds They Carried

When our ancestors packed up to move, they loaded their wagons with everything they owned: horses, cows, the rocking chair that had been in the family for generations, the tobacco press, books, sewing supplies, farm tools, and yes, even Grandma. But there was one possession they carried that we rarely think about today: their seed packets.

For farming families, seeds were priceless. Their livelihood depended on what they could grow to feed their families and sell at market. Every harvest meant carefully saving the very best seeds for the following year. Those tiny packets represented food, income, and survival.

Surprisingly, they can also help us understand why families moved where they did.

If your family’s future depended on the seeds you carried, you weren’t likely to relocate somewhere they couldn’t thrive. A family leaving Warren County, New York, for example, probably wasn’t heading to the deserts of New Mexico with seeds adapted to a much cooler climate. Successful farming required familiar soils, rainfall, temperatures, and growing seasons.

Many families also brought cherished varieties that had been cultivated for generations—Grandpa’s tomatoes, Mother’s beans, or squash seeds that had been passed from one harvest to the next. Those plants were part of the family’s history, just as much as their heirloom furniture or treasured Bible.

When we trace our farming ancestors across the map, it’s worth remembering that many weren’t simply looking for available land. They were searching for land where their crops, and therefore their families, could survive. They sought places with climates they understood, where neighboring farmers had experience to share if a hard winter, a dry summer, or a wet spring threatened the harvest.

So the next time you pick up a seed packet, think about the generations before you. Somewhere along a dusty road, your ancestors may have tucked a handful of precious seeds into a wagon, carrying not only the promise of next year’s harvest, but the hope of an entirely new life.

The day I got my library card

I remember the day my big sister walked me to the library to get my own library card. I could write my name, so I was qualified to go to the branch library in the first floor of the neighborhood school. I remember feeling quite grown up. I wondered whether I could ever have a librarian’s clever pencil with the date stamp affixed!

“All these books!” I exclaimed, drinking in the scent of the room, a combination of both newly-bound and well-worn tomes. I’ve always had that frisson of expectations about what I might find on the shelves. In elementary school years, I often read a book a night in the dim light of a fading sky. Now I realize that my mother knew about that surreptitious activity. Lamentably, I was unable to read all the books in the school library!

As I grew older, my affection for the library remained, although research papers were and are a lot like work. Even the Great Obsession (genealogy) has not spoiled my zest.

Years later, I brought my children to the Bookmobile, stepping into the mysterious time machine. Imagine the library coming to us!

Carrying on the tradition to the next generation, I brought my grandchildren to the main library to revel in the children’s section. When they visited, on the first day we would stock up on a tote bag of books for the quiet moments.

Now I am a seasoned citizen and I still look forward to any passageway to learning. I’ve done research in libraries like the New York State Library in Albany, looking for records as diverse as the handwritten lease records of the 1600s Rensselaerswyck patent and the law library. 

Let’s just say I know about the parking at a number of libraries and where to take a lunch break.

I’ve found unexpected treasures in the local section of my county library, following families through city directories, Union College alumni publications and clipping files.

Like all local historical societies, the Schenectady County Historical Society’s Grems-Doolittle Library is a unique repository, rich in local and regional sources for this old Dutch city. A bonus is the surname files, where we find that others have questions too.

At the moment, my library is the internet. I don’t have to look professional or pack up my research tote bag with photo ID, notebook, magnifying glass and number 2 pencils (there are archival rules, you know). I’ve broadened my affection to include books I will never hold, as well as people whose hand I will never shake.

The dog-eared library card now has a counterpart: passwords! But I can still write my name in cursive.

Addendum: I would be remiss if I didn’t salute my Civil War great-grandfather, Elias Waggoner Ives, who came back to Luzerne after leaving the plague of insects in Nebraska, returning to his native state of New York. Imagine my delight when I learned that he built his house with an entry foyer lined with bookshelves! The first free library in town, his collection became the heart of the village library.

What would a journalist do?

When last seen in 1972, Nancy and Matt Curran had arrived in Norway on May 17, Constitution Day. I hoped to find some relatives of my Norwegian-born father. I knew many members of my mother’s Upstate New York family, and I knew some of my father’s family in Brooklyn, but we were not as close.

From my early years, I remember asking Dad about his family back in Norway. He told me stories about their house and how they would put on skis or skates and go right across the road onto the Vansjø, the fresh water lake. I knew the name of the ship on which the family crossed the Atlantic, the Cunard ship “Umbria.” I knew the story of his mother dying in 1919 and his father’s return to Norway and that his father had moved to Sarpsborg.

When could Dad take me there? The answer was always the same: “When they build a bridge!” 

When my husband, Matt, and I decided to take the trip, we were on our own when it came to locating kinfolk. 

What would a journalist do? On the second day we were in Norway, this once gal reporter turned to a local newspaper, the Moss Avis, and asked a reporter to write a story about our visit. I gave them the names I knew, and they published a story on May 19, 1972. When we came back to Oslo from a tourist trip, we were greeted by messages from a family of cousins. I gained nice relatives, and it was a bonus to have a window on the world view of America. 

Anton Marinius Johansen and Julie Elida Lauritzen were my grandparents. The family emigrated to Brooklyn. Family stories in this country paint him as rather gruff. Later, I got a different impression from an Internet correspondent in Sarpsborg who knew a neighbor’s daughter who wrote that he liked to be the jolly Santa at Christmas time. Going to the homeland must have been good for the soul!

Later, I sought out vital records and censuses on the Internet. On other visits I spent hours at the National Archives (https://www.arkivverket.no/en

A memorable time indeed was a visit in 2001, when I was in Norway on September 11. But that’s a story for another time. 

That first visit was nearly 50 years ago, and – hard to believe – this year I could not find the newspaper clipping! To the rescue came members of a Norwegian Genealogy Facebook group.

Over the New Year’s weekend, I received a copy of the clip from 1972 and, using Google’s translation tool, I found that the headline said…

New York lady looking for family in Moss.

The story started with “Moss Avis had a nice visit from Mrs. Nancy Curran from New York yesterday, [who] is looking for relatives in Moss. She is on a trip to Norway with her husband, and spent many hours in Moss to find traces of her grandfather, whose name was Anton Johannessen. His wife’s name was Julie and was born Lauritzen.” 

The closing sentence was “Can anyone on the basis of this information help Mrs. Curran to find family here, so call Moss Avis’ editorial staff over Pentecost.” I got connected with my distant cousins and spent precious time with them during that trip hearing family stories and visiting the town my father grew up in.

The power of journalism! This small article connected me with my father’s homeland, not to mention, many years of research uncovering the footsteps of relatives past in Norway.

Lo, these many years after our dream trip, I offer wishes for a Happy New Year to friends and family in Norway.

“God nytt år!”

Nancy, looking back and writing on

Credit goes to Team Curran. One who had saved the dated postcards from the trip – and found them. One who provided census records and other research in Norwegian records. One who found the translation of the clip. All three who warmed up memories of our adventures to the homeland on a 21^st century trip!

Traditions weather changing times

I have a long history of hosting Christmas parties, starting in 1963. It’s been a traditional kind of event, with kinfolk and friends. The house was always decorated with a real tree, (can’t you just smell the fir fragrance?) festooned with handmade and boughten [traditional form], ornaments. The oldest is a set of unbreakable plastic ornaments, gold, silver and blue, which are still placed at toddler level. 

The table was spread with a red tablecloth, and family and friends brought their signature casseroles and cookies and cakes. And there was coffee! This year I missed the sliced ham my brother always brings.

We are a talented group who always enjoyed our carol sing. My mother would sit in a chair and listen to her progeny belt out any carol that could be named. At some point, usually about the time we hit the refrain, glorious four or six part harmony would sneak in, from years of church choirs.  

Things change. At one point we moved away from Christmas Eve, because so many of the family had to leave before the caroling to take their musical talents to various church services. We changed to a day between Christmas and New Year’s Day, just as convivial.

This year we became Zoom partygoers. Everyone was invited to show an object that had a special holiday meaning. One person showed a beautiful glass French horn ornament. My son hauled out his Royal Racer sled, which elicited howls and laughter about sledding on the notorious local Devil’s Hill. How were we allowed to careen down that steep hill right onto the frozen pond at the bottom? On a sled rimmed with iron! Did our parents know? Well, we may have slid down that same hill, though decades earlier, sitting up or on our bellies.

My contribution was a Norwegian Julenisse doll, with his red stocking cap. He was sent to me by my cousin Torunn in 1972 for Christmas after my first trip to Norway.

If you lived on a farm in Norway, you would know about the Julenisse, the guardian spirit who lives in the barn and takes care of such chores as grooming the horses and carrying bales of hay. However, Julenissen (plural) could be temperamental. He must be appeased, so you would leave a bowl of porridge on Christmas Eve, with plenty of butter on it. Otherwise, things could break. Milk could go sour. Most important, he has the duties of Santa Claus, bringing the Christmas presents. 

Now that you know the Julenisse tradition, you may wonder why I have one. You see, my father was born in Moss, Norway. Any time I asked Dad to take me to Norway, he would say, “When they build a bridge!” When my husband, Matt, and I decided to take the trip, we were on our own when it came to locating kinfolk. 

What would a journalist do in 1972? Next time I‘ll tell you about how we found cousins in Norway, with the help of the Moss Avis newspaper then and, almost 50 years later, the generous Norwegian Genealogy Facebook group.

My Julenisse may be an old tradition, but he’s happy to be in the world of Zoom!

Nancy

Looking back and writing on

Christmas singing through the years

A procession of Christmas Eve services comes to my memory at this time of year.  For me, singing is the heart of the worship service, as we started out in nativity scenes as shepherds —  even as Baby Jesus — as angels, moved on to children’s choir and graduated to senior choir. 

That’s how it is when you’re a choir singer. You know the hymns, the anthems and the responses. In fact, you know that the prophetic readings of Isaiah would be ever so much richer as a part of Handel’s “Messiah,” which you sing silently.

I remember the year we learned sight reading in school. It was a heady realization that I could read the lines and dots and zigzags and turn them into music. Every year we impressed three or four verses of Christmas carols into our memories, and they’re still ready to be dusted off.

Perhaps the insurance man brought little Christmas Carol books to your house, too. We still use our collection. And we still listen to see who goes for the high note in “The First Noel.” At last year’s holiday party somebody remarked, “This is the only family I know that can improvise harmony in eight parts!”

My mental computer holds thousands of pieces of music, welcome gifts during the hundreds of concerts in which I’ve sung or been in the audience.

Is music part of our DNA? When I learned the story of my ancestor Sgt. Benjamin Waite (1644-1704), I was researching him as “the hero of the Connecticut Valley.” You can read about him in “History of Hadley, Mass.,” Judd, genealogy section, pg 144-145. He was married to Martha Leonard, who, together with her daughters, Martha, Mary and Sarah, was taken captive in Hadley in 1677 and marched to Canada. She was pregnant when she was captured, and she  named her daughter Canada when she was born. Sgt. Waite and Stephen Jennings, “men of energy and perseverance,” successfully undertook to redeem their wives and children and the other captives. 

As I was researching the history, I couldn’t help wondering whether his surname was an occupational name, like Cooper or Tailor. Indeed, could it have been a family trade? It was seen in the names Waite and Wakeman.

The waites started in medieval times as watchmen, playing their instruments on the streets to assure the citizens that they were on duty and to mark the hours. The usual instrument of the waites was the strident sounding shawm. They also played stringed instruments, hautboys, bass viols, fiddles and bassoons, the instruments we hear in early music. 

Using the most portable instrument, they sang, often producing songs named for the town that paid them. The City of York’s Waites records start in the 13^th century. 

When I think of Benjamin Waite and his father, Thomas Waite, I smile to think that my family carries on the tradition. My long life of singing is not limited to eight decades. I am part of the continuum of music. At Christmas and Easter there is a wealth of music that brings us back farther than the Mayflower’s arrival 400 years ago.

“O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” a traditional Advent hymn, dates from the 8^th or 9^th century.

As a member of the Helderberg Madrigal Singers, I learned “I Syng of a Mayden,” also  known as “As Dew in Aprille,” from the 15^th century. 

“God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen,” is said to be one of the oldest extant carols, dated to the 16th century or earlier, to the melody of “In Dulci Jubilo.”

The “Coventry Carol” is an English carol dating from the 16th century. Mothers still sing “Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child.” 

The Pilgrims lived in a time that followed King Henry VIII  (1491-1547) and his successor, Queen Elizabeth I (1533-1603). It was the Golden Age time of William Shakespeare (baptized 1564-1616) and others whose work is appreciated even today. 

Then came James VI of Scotland (1566-1625) also known as James I of England. He was on the throne during the Jacobean era, at the time of the Mayflower’s crossing. The country they left was in turmoil, as Oliver Cromwell wielded the Puritan banner in England.

Back to the 20th century: we owe a thank you to two Minnesota colleagues Art Fry, a choir singer, and his friend, Dr. Spencer Silver, who developed a low-tack adhesive in the lab at 3M in 1968. In 1974, Fry had the idea of using the technology to mark his place in a hymn book. Thank you!

Something there is in human nature that encourages us to embrace our creative talents. We invent, we write, we paint, we sing. In the corners of our memory, we can listen to music of our own lives, stored away for times when we need it. When we sing a carol, we are part of the continuum of the music of many lifetimes.

So when a song comes to your mind, savor it. Think about it. Hum it. Sing the parts you know and Tra-la-la the words you don’t. 

Listen back in time and write on!

Nancy, music lover

Grandpa Elias loved Christmas…

I never met my great-grandfather, Elias Waggoner Ives, but I know we had this in common: we both loved Christmas and family gatherings.

He must have been a great storyteller. His stories come down through the ages about his growing up on the family farm in Luzerne and about his military service in the Civil War.

In 1868, he headed west to homestead in Antelope County, Nebraska. That generated a lot of stories, culminating with a plague of grasshoppers in July 1874 that destroyed the crops in the region. Elias and his wife, Nancy Freelove Hopkins, packed up their belongings and their little ones and moved back east to the family farm. They arrived the day before Thanksgiving, a detail that is almost too poetic to be true.

Photo: Elias Waggoner Ives is the father in this family group. From left to right: Ai, Victor, Elias, Emma and Nora. Their mother, Nancy Freelove Hopkins, had died in Luzerne at the age of 30. If the picture was taken about 1883, then Ai would have been about 7, Victor 5, Emma 9 and Nora 13.

“Tell us the Christmas tree stories!” someone will always say nowadays. And we great-grandchildren still hand on the stories about Grandpa Elias and Christmas trees. The village of Luzerne is on the Hudson River in Warren County, N.Y., near the Adirondack Preserve, with plenty of evergreens to choose for your own. 

Now, Grandpa Elias is known for the lively Christmas parties at his house. I can imagine the family faces from old albums that would be smiling when it was mealtime. Venison would be ready to eat, giving the cue for hunting stories by the avid hunters in the family. Perhaps potato salad would be dished up, along with macaroni and cheese, cole slaw, baked beans, preserves of tomatoes and applesauce, certainly bread and rolls. For sweets, Bertha’s legendary cookies would be there, along with pies and cakes. And to drink, cider and coffee and tea. 

I would like to hear all those robust voices singing around the tree. As good Methodists, they probably sang “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” by Charles Wesley, published in 1739. Because they were enjoying the party, they might join in on “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas,” published in 1874.

The Christmas tree was the star of the telling, perhaps festooned with popcorn garlands and handmade ornaments. Grandpa Elias had empathy for Christmas trees. One year Elias brought home a tree that was too tall for the parlor. Then, as now, the tree doesn’t always fit the room. He couldn’t bear to lop off the top, so he made room by cutting a hole in the ceiling!

Another Yuletide story tells us that he felt kind of sorry for the side of the tree nearest the wall. It didn’t get any appreciation! A resourceful man indeed, he devised a platform that could be turned, a sort of Lazy Susan. 

This must have been in the 1910’s, judging from the cast of characters. The boys would turn the crank, and the neglected side of the tree would be seen in all its glory. The boys turned the crank some more and the platform spun faster and faster. 

Christmas tree photo credit: jcwebbstudios 

What could go wrong? The tree was turning so fast that the lighted candles started flying off the tree! That’s a far cry from the behavior of the stately Christmas trees we have in our homes today!

The adventures of Grandpa Elias, the teller and topic of stories, ended in October 1921. He is buried in the old River Road Cemetery in Luzerne, near Nancy Freelove and other family members. 

His stories live on. We keep them in our memory books.

Nancy, a storyteller

If I wrote a soundtrack for Christmas…

If I wrote a sound track for Christmas, it would surely include the whir of a sewing machine!

At this time of year my mother would be finishing up a dozen or so (no pun intended) flannel nightgowns for her granddaughters. The cozy nighties would be warmed on the radiator on chilly winter nights here in the northeast.

For my generation, Mom made aprons for the ladies and neckties for the men. To her delight, one year the red necktie was a match for one on the cover of the New York Times Men’s Fashion Edition. 

The custom of handmade gifts continues. One year a sister-in-law sewed red print dresses for all the little girl cousins. Quilts, handmade knit sweaters, mittens, poems, photographs, all were cherished as gifts of self.

This idea did not start when Mom became a grandmother. I liked hearing her account of going into town with Pa to buy material for Christmas dresses for herself and her sisters. Pa asked her to pick out enough yard goods, white that time, as well as enough satin ribbon or sashes at the waist. Add to the shopping list some “stinky water”!

That story took place when Mom was 10. I have no doubt she continued that project for sisters born later. 

I think the sewing machine she learned on was probably a quiet treadle machine. Later, she bought a Singer electric sewing machine on time, paying for it by dressmaking, doing alterations and making costumes for the pageants at School Number 3.

One of my fondest memories of time spent with Mom is the many trips downtown to “feel the goods,” whether we succumbed to inspiration or just went to lunch at Woolworth’s. Christmas shopping trips were an adventure into a holiday land of decorated wreaths, ringing Salvation Army bells, and Christmas songs in the air.

If some material just asked to be transformed, we would bring it home for a sewing project. We’d spread out the instructions on the dining room table and she would say “Let’s make a study of this” as she tapped one finger on the back of the other hand. Then there was the rustle of the material being spread out, the quiet pinning of the paper pattern shapes to the cloth. “Snip, snip, snip” said the sewing scissors (that we were forbidden to use on paper). 

When in a quiet moment I savor my memories of Mom, the background music is the hum of the sewing machine. I can imagine the fabrics that Mom transformed into a gift of self.

We wonder if this year, Covid calls on us to use our hands for gift giving. Families used to be incredibly resourceful, using what they had at home for taking care of their families, and yes, for gifting. Perhaps this year will inspire many to use what they have, by crafting, regifting or making handmade gifts.  Gifts that may end up holding a special place in our hearts.

Nancy

It’s about the babies…

We see their faces, smiling and rascally, as their faces beam from Christmas cards and family newsletters in this most remarkable year. Whether sobersides or jolly imps, their images remind us that we were all somebody’s baby years ago.

I remember my uncle, our family historian, starting a story with “My mother walked back and forth from here to Michigan three times before she was eight and a half years old.” Her father, Albert Bloom Whitaker, was known as “Whistlin’ Whitaker” as he worked as a fiddler and dance caller, perhaps at grange halls and roadhouses along the way to Michigan and back. He probably drove the wagon. Lina may have been riding as she fed the baby and held onto a toddler. Those who could walk walked.

I knew about Albert and his wife, Angelina “Lina” Morton Phillips, from family stories. Their lives were recorded in documents such as censuses, school census records, marriage records and death certificates. Even when we think we know the story, though, it’s always good to check the records.

Many families walked and rode West numerous times looking for better farmland, or just a new start. The wagon’s rickety wooden wheels, a blazing sun above and not much protection from the elements, made for a tough journey. This group of pioneers, especially mother traveling with baby, managed to all find a seat on the wagon. Photo credit: Kansas Historical Society

Where were they, and when? It’s the babies who answer the question. Census records tell us where relatives were born and allow us to track the family’s travels. They serve as a kind of GPS system. Where the children were born puts points on a map for us telling us their “traveling story,” or where they stayed put.

Women usually returned back home to the safety of their mothers, sisters and grandmothers to have their babies. Or, they ended up delivering far from home as their husbands chased new fertile land, new work opportunities, or followed a dream.

So, to discover the wanderings of your ancestors, read the “place of birth” on the census records, then start to ask and research why they were there. You may discover some surprises! Be sure to tell the young’uns stories of those who went before, so they know why grandma was born in Michigan, Montana or Maine. More stories about their forebears await, thanks to curious people like us! 

We continue to look back and write on!

Nancy

I was only seven…

“I was only seven …” is the way the story always began. My mother would tell of a day when she rode into town with Pa to deliver the produce he grew on his truck farm. I could tell this was an honor.

On this day, the quiet hum of activity in the village was broken by the clanging of the fire truck and the shouting of the crew as they tore down the main street toward the River Road. “It’s the Ives farm,” they were calling out. 

By the time Pa and his little girl got back to the farmhouse, it was past saving. A chimney fire broke out while Ma was baking a birthday cake for her oldest boy’s seventh birthday. Their four children must have been looking forward to a treat.

18 April 1908, The Daily Saratogian, Ives house burns down on Leonard’s birthday.

Ma gathered herself together and said, “That’s all right. I always wanted to have a house up the road by the pure spring.” And so they did. At the Pure Spring Farm, they continued to create memories as their family grew. From 1899 to 1920, the family increased to eleven children. Nine grew up to have families of their own.

The Dash is one of my favorite themes. Gravestones will tell the years of birth and death, but lives are lived in the Dash. How can we learn more about this farm family? 

We start by putting their feet on the ground. At the time of the 1905 New York State census, the family was living in Hadley, across the bridge from Luzerne. Two of the children’s names are misspelled, but I know who they are. Ma’s younger brother is in the household, too. According to one of their grandsons, they had recently moved from Hadley to Luzerne when the house burned.

In 1910, they were on the River Road in Luzerne. Pa is 34, Ma is 25. An indexer spelled the surname as “Ines.” 

The 1915 census shows the family living in Luzerne, with six children.  

What else could we ask? Well, what was on the wagon that April day? Maybe vegetables from the springhouse. Pa was known for the quality of the cabbages he grew. Perhaps some of the White Wyandotte chickens he favored were ready for someone’s frying pan.  There could have been firewood from the forest near the farm. 

Eggs or preserves or cheese could have been for sale, or maybe one of Ma’s postcard quilts. Those profits may have gone to the farmer’s wife. Ma often helped the neighbors by working as a lying-in nurse. She liked to have a dollar of her own in her apron pocket, said Mom.

Now that we know where they lived in three censuses near in time to the fire, let’s see what else appears.

A newspaper search shows news of the fire. But wait – if Mom was born in 1903, and she was seven years old, something is off. The clipping in the Daily Saratogian is dated April 18, 1908. Mom could only have been five years old. Checking my database, the older brother was born April 16, 1901.

Fortunately, we have a private source within the family. It’s a shoebox of correspondence beginning more than a century ago. In the current story, Ma wrote to her sister right away. The postcard’s message was brief:

Dear Nora our house burned down today almost crazy. Dear your things are all burned up didn’t get a thing upstairs good by.

Bertha

A brief postcard explaining a monumental event for the Ives family.

To summarize, we have the original telling of oral history, three census records, a newspaper clipping, a contemporaneous postcard by a woman on the scene, and further additions by family members over decades.   

But, but, but, the date is wrong! Even the brother is wrong! 

Like many family stories, this one has a kernel of truth. Should we throw this story out the window just because of a few facts?

“Not I.” said the Grandma of story lines!

(I confess that I was led into the history of fire engines! )

Grandmas don’t get wrinkles

Grandmas don’t get wrinkles. We get story lines. Except, that’s not the way it is this year. The coronavirus pandemic is robbing us of many things, including hugs, table games and rocking the babies.  

Family lore is one of the victims. Oral history is the tradition of civilization. That’s the way we learn who we are. We used to take family gatherings for granted — reunions, birthday parties, funerals, Thanksgiving and Christmas. When we were gathered around the table, we would hear about how Ma walked back and forth from Greenfield to Michigan three times before she was eight and a half years old, or how Grandpa Elias was in the Civil War.

Photo by Hannah Busing on Unsplash

Sharing family history is not only for the events that get circled in red on the calendar. It’s the story of Pa taking a child to the village on the vegetable truck, only to hear the fire trucks clanging through town and the firemen shouting that it was the family farmhouse on fire.

We might learn about our Mayflower history in this 400^th anniversary year. Or we might hear about Ellis Island.

It’s when three generations of women in the quilting circle talk about who was doing what, how to cure the common cold, who was expecting, how to handle a toddler tantrum, and just maybe the secret of turkey stuffing.

This may be the year when we focus on the fireside stories of our forebears. What stories do you want to preserve? What subjects you liked in school, perhaps? How you met your to-be spouse?

Or the time Aunt Nancy went to a posh wedding reception and noticed that her dress was on backward? We called it “dresslexia.”

Maybe you can still hear your father telling about his childhood home in Norway, where they sat on the front steps to put on their skates and skated across the road right onto a frozen fresh-water lake.

As we meet the challenge, we can keep the tradition in our own way by sharing our memories. Instead of three days preparing a family dinner that is destined to be eaten in 30 minutes, we can spend Pie Night (Thanksgiving Wednesday) pondering which stories you would tell – and retell – about your family history.

A good story starter is the family photo album, encouraging us to make notes of the Who, When and Where.  

Maybe you have family stories on audio tape. Oral history is priceless as we listen to the stories and imagine the expressions of the speakers. 

You might put the stories in your own distinctive handwriting. Handwritten, voice or video recorded, or typed, they are your unique family lore.

There’s no shortage of family tales, and you’ll learn even more from the queries you stir up. Every answer brings two questions in genealogy research. Once you tell a story, you’ll find the listener has another to add. “That’s not the way that happened!” is sure to follow. 

Is it too sentimental to long for the days before solitude? Or can we turn to a new time of sharing the golden stories for sisters and brothers, children and grandchildren to treasure and hand on?

Let’s look back and write on! 

Nancy