When did you know you were up?

At what point did you know you were up? You know, grown up?

Some are quite obvious, such as getting a first job after college, getting married, having children of your own or burying your parents. But some are more subtle, and if you think about the cycle of life. more amusing.

Among these indicators for me are:
* When Aunt Bertie no longer reminded me to put suntan lotion to protect myself when swimming at her family pool. Her concern had moved on to far younger people than me.
* My mother stopped buying me bras, leaving me to make my own purchases.
* At Christmas parties at Aunt Bertie & Uncle Bart's house, a new generation was hanging out in Jean's bedroom. That had been our hiding place when we grew tired of adults asking us pointless questions about what we wanted to be when we grew up.
* I now ask young people pointless questions about what they want to be when they grow up.
* Going to Thanksgiving at the home of our adult child.
* My brother telling me that they had spent Christmas morning at the home of his son, daughter in law and grandson.

What are your indicators? They all make wonderful bits of family and personal history.

www.lessonsfromlife.com

National history and your life

Wow. I just saw a story on Good Morning America about a letter that an 8 year old girl wrote to President Kennedy in 1961.

Michelle Roshon was so worried that the Russians' testing of a nuclear bomb would kill Santa at the North Pole that she wrote to the one person that she felt could prevent such a disaster.

Kennedy wrote back that she need not worry. Santa would be protected and that he would make his yearly rounds on Christmas Eve. The exchange resulted in national coverage for the girl. And, several years later when some tried to tell her there was no Santa Claus, she showed proof from the President.

Caroline Kennedy included that exchange of letters in her new book, A Family Christmas. I have not read it but saw a meeting of Kennedy with that now very grown girl on Good Morning America.

I was about that girl's age in 1961 and while I had not written to Kennedy, I was certainly scared about the Russians. One month after the President announced formation of the Peace Corps in March 1961, there was that botched U.S. attempt to invade the Bay of Pigs in Cuba.

In 1962 would come the Cuban Missile Crisis and I remember standing with three teachers and being worried about World War III starting. I found a picture of the three teachers that I talked with that day in the very spot where I remember being so scared.

Instead of including that picture in this post, I've upload a photo of myself as that dorky sixth grader standing on the playground of Old Bonhomme Elementary School.

Kennedy was right about Santa; he did make his rounds on Christmas Eve 1961 and every year since (although I'm writing this on Christmas Eve day so it has not happened yet. But I am confident about tonight, too.).

When I teach Write Your Life classes or work with a client on his or her history, the major events in history resonate very deeply with them.

Michelle's story, mine and yours are examples of history not just happening to soldiers in war (as few as possible please), but to all of us. We are all shaped in one way or another by local, national and international events. History is always very personal.

Want to learn more about me? Visit my website www.lessonsfromlife.com

Alphabetizing in elementary school

It is amazing what your mind can come up with when you begin thinking about your past. Often you find great meaning from a memory, even something that seemed so unimportant at one time. You can have an aha! moment and realize why you are the way you are.

Today's story is for amusement only, although I am open to interpretation from anyone who thinks it explains why I am the way I am.

My two best friends in first grade were Shelly Levin and Debbie Donohue. We sat near each other at Old Bonhomme Elementary School, where we were incredibly giggly when we discovered how our names were alphabetized. From that moment on we called each other Donohue Debbie, Levin Shelly and Hessel Susan.

One other important note in first grade is that our trio had a very serious rule about our artwork -- dark coloring only!

I have completely lost track of Donohue Debbie and only have contact with Levin Shelly on occasion, but fifty years later I would hate to learn that either one of them has not maintained our dark coloring pledge. If they have not, it would be one more cherished belief shattered -- or I mean shattered.

We were silly and rigid.

The Grand Inquisitor has a sense of humor

One morning at the Godly hour of 5:30 or so when I met several of my walking buddies at our accustomed staging area, one held up a sign to me that said something like:

"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"Yes."
"Maybe."
"I don't know."

Her message was aimed at me because of the constant barrage of questions I ask each day. She didn't welcome early morning inquisitions so she made up universal answers to whatever questions I might ask.

Where did this come from? Somewhere in my past I was told that young ladies (this is a very old message) ask others about themselves. This was advised as a helpful tool for getting boys to like me. (Do you want to ask how well that worked?)

Add that to my being a journalist/writer/personal historian and you can see I am more accustomed to asking questions than answering. I honestly don't know how to make conversation without questions.

Do you? What do you say? Could I learn to do that too? Will you teach me how? (A joke.)

My mom used to sparkle in the morning and be really chatty. She'd make us a full breakfast -- whatever we asked for -- each day. Then she wanted to talk, something that my brother and I did not. We preferred to read the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, the morning paper, than to talk to our mother.

One morning after my brother was away at college, Mom wore a dress, high heels, earrings and pearls to breakfast. I looked up, or perhaps growled up, and asked what was going on.

"I thought if I dressed like Donna Reed you'd pay attention to me," she said, referring to one of the great moms of '60s television. I laughed. For one day she got me. I'm not sure about the next.

Incidentally, in my family we have a joke about "Precious not wanting to sweat." It's funny because I'm not exactly the Precious type.

One day at a book fair at our kids' elementary school, that same friend who had held up the sign made a great find, the book, Who Killed Precious?

Apparently that Precious asked one too many questions.

I, on the hand, continue to ask questions, something that is critical for a personal historian. If you don't ask, you don't hear the stories. And unquestionably, I love a good story.

Hopefully, it won't kill me.

Colorful black and white photos

No this is not an endorsement of colorizing old movies or photos. Instead, it is a tribute to black and white photos.

I don't know about you, but when I look into a black and white photo, whether it's a client's or my own family's, I dream in a way that I simply do not with color. These photos spark memories and feelings of an earlier time.

Two stories about black and white images continue to amuse me. My daughter loved to look at old family albums quite a bit when she was young. One day she asked, "Was the world in black and white when you were little?"

On another occasion she called to me upstairs that I should come watch television with her. "It's your favorite," she said, "black and white."

Yup, that photo is of little me when the world was black and white. I love this photo, my all-time favorite of me, because of the clear sense of style that it shows in little me. Note the contrasting stripes, boots on my feet in what appears to be very dry conditions and, of course, the hat in my hand. You've got to admit I was a snazzy dresser even then. Now I wish this photo went further so I could see which family car was in the driveway in our neighborhood. I'll remember rides in the 57 Chevy that Mom drove or 61 Impala.

So pull out your black and white photos and send them to me. I'd love to see them. Every photo like every person tells story.

www.lessonsfromlife.com

Alienated street sweepers?

Back when I interviewed for my first job as a reporter, I suggested one story that would be interesting would be street sweepers or snow plowers (this is Wisconsin, after all).

I told the editor that these men would be fascinating because they had to be alienated since their work was alone in large machinery far from the people transversing the roads or sidewalks. He argued with me that I could not assume such a thing. Having spunk, I fought on for the concept of alienation. I was a mere 21 years old at the time and clearly I knew everything. And I actually got the job.

Now many years later, I have no idea if these workers were alienated. The editor was right about that.

What is clear is that I was taking a personal history approach to reporting without knowing it. I was validating the truth that every single person has a story, including the street sweeper/snow plower.

Incidentally, I know their work is important. One comment that my mother made frequently after moving to La Crosse, Wisconsin, to be closer to family was how clean the streets were. So way to go guys. Thanks for your work.

Any street sweeper out there need to hire a personal historian?

When will you make a beginning?

Now, isn't that an awkward sentence? I'm talking about collecting your family history, of course, but the sentence is a play on a line from a movie that I saw as a kid, "The Agony and the Ecstasy." In that 1965 movie about the making of the Sistine Chapel, the Pope asks Michaelangelo "When will you make an end?" throughout the movie. He does with increasing frustration as more and more difficulties and delays occur. Michaelangelo always answers, "When I am finished."

I'm not getting religious here, although I think there is a spirituality to writing your story or your family's story because it does connect the generations.

The point is you begin when you begin just as Michaelangelo finishes when he finishes. So begin. Now.

Getting together at the holidays is a great time to start asking some questions that stimulate memories about family life. It does not have to be a formal session, but a few questions here and there can get people talking and comfortable with the idea of sharing their lives.

Dates and locations are important, but the stories are the real meat of family histories. Record memories shared at the holidays, take notes and laugh and cry together. A single story can create both responses.

Let me give you some holiday conversation starters:

Christmas

1. When you were little, who helped decorate the tree? Was it a family activity or did just a couple of you do it?
2. In some families, getting the tree up and standing straight is a challenge in itself. Can you recall any special trees like that in your family? What happened when things didn't go right? Any funny stories here?
   
3. What other family traditions did you have around the holidays? Where did you celebrate it and what special treats were part of the celebration. How did your house smell at this time of year?
4. What are your fondest and saddest memories of Christmas?
   
5. What did you think and feel about those who did not celebrate this holiday or were having a difficult time around this period?
   

Hanukkah

1. What were your traditions? How important was Hanukkah in your family, considering it is not as big a religious holiday as others in the Jewish faith.
   
2. What kind of excitement did you have about lighting candles each night. When were you were old enough to be the one lighting them for the first time?
   
3. What were the foods and smells associated with Hanukkah?
4. What was the relationship of Hanukkah with others celebrating Christmas?
5. What are your fondest and sadest memories surrounding Hanukkah.
   

Kwanzaa

1. With Kwanzaa a newer celebration of African American culture, when did you begin to observe this holiday and how did you celebrate it?
2. How do you observe the seven principals of Kwanzaa? Unity, Self-Determination, Collective Work and Responsibility, Cooperative Economics, Purpose, Creativity and Faith?
3. What foods and smells are associated with Kwanzaa in your life?
4. What are your happiest and saddest memories related to Kwanzaa and/or this holiday season.
   
5. How does this week-long event relate to Christmas if you celebrate it as well?

So take advantage of this opportunity to be together with family or, if you cannot go home, to remember your own experiences with holidays.

Feel free to share them. I love to hear other people's stories.

Don't forget to visit my website, www.lessonsfromlife.com

When a story says Wow!

In every project, if I've asked the right questions, I hear a story that says wow! (And I don't use exclamation points easily.)
I felt that when I started the memoirs of a Major General in the Air Force with this story that I felt more than anything illustrated this man's lifelong values of — honesty, honor, integrity, patriotism, dedication, commitment and loyalty.


Harry was just four or so when the first of these values, loyalty, was put to a test. It was a time when families ate what they raised and what they grew. Young Harry already was a part of the family’s food production, having the responsibility of feeding the chickens, including his favorite, Old Dick, a rooster.
“He was really a pet, but in those days people would buy live fowl for the table and butcher it. I thought I was going to keep Old Dick,” he said. “I’d go out and feed him and pet him.”
The family gathered for Thanksgiving 1914 in Detroit, where his father, an Army master sergeant, than was stationed at Fort Wayne. The table was filled with the bounty for the meal and the family, including young Harry, ate happily.
“Yeah, that was Old Dick,” someone said, matter of fact.
Down went Harry’s fork. His mouth fell up and his head hung down. “That was when I didn’t like chicken anymore,” he said in 1998. “Eighty-five years later I still don’t like chicken. It got to be a habit, I guess.”
Until the day he died on September 18, 2001, Harry would not eat eggs, chicken, turkey or any other kind of fowl. If the extended family had a Thanksgiving turkey, a ham or red meat dish was cooked for him.
Of his lifelong swearing off of chicken, Harry said, “It’s not loyalty. It’s stupidity.” The reality is the story says a lot about his loyalty, steadfastness and conviction. It’s about never wavering against absolute dedication to something that he believes in.
The story of his experience in World War II will be told later, but his loyalty was tested again when he flew back from Australia after surviving the harrowing experience of Bataan during World War II. True, he’d had a few months to recover from the near starvation conditions that dropped his weight from 220 to 140 pounds, but his loyalty to Old Dick was still somewhere in the crevices of his heart, mind and stomach.
It was Thanksgiving time when he made the trip by air back to the States. And as is tradition wherever the troops are, an all out effort was made to feed them in a manner they would have experienced back on the Home Front. “They always had Thanksgiving for the troops,” Harry recalled.
Because of the course of the journey back to the United States, Harry was in the unusual position of two Thanksgiving meals, not just one. “We had to go from island to island across the Pacific. We had Thanksgiving in Fiji and then we crossed the International Dateline on the next plane and had another Thanksgiving,” he said.
Did he enjoy it after being in such dire circumstances for so long? “As far as I could like it. They always have turkey,” he said, quickly adding: “Of course, they also have ham and plenty of vegetables and pie.”

Want to know more about me and personal history? Go to my website, www.lessonsfromlife.com

I see stories everywhere

Everyone has a story. Everything is a story. I can't help it, but I see them and hear them everywhere. And, I mean everywhere.

It's an occupational hazard. Or an occupational gift. Or simply a fact of my life.

As a personal historian, someone who specializes in helping individuals, families, businesses and even communities preserve and share their stories, it comes naturally.

And the problem is that when I see or hear a good story, I want to write it. I want to write it now. It's so much fun and I learn from the impressive people I meet. I always say that if my jaw hasn't dropped at least once during an interview, I haven't asked the right question.

In my own family, there is too much that I don't know. Much to much. By the time I was interested in my family history, it was too late. I have what I call I-wish-I-knew-syndrome. That makes me like the cobbler's child who has no shoes. I'm a personal historian who doesn't have the stories that I spend so much time preserving for others.

But enough about me. With this blog, I want to talk about the people whose memories and lessons from life I've been honored to hear from them and preserve.

It will be an incredible ride. Hang on.