While visiting our oldest son and his family in Georgia, my daughter-in-law set up a camera and taped my husband telling his story. They both seemed to enjoy the experience.
Not everyone cares to hear the old folks’ boring stories of the old days, which is a shame, because the old folks don’t stay around forever. I desperately wish I had written down all the stories my Dad told. I thought I would remember them, but the details have gotten misty, if not vanished altogether,
A few years ago, I started a kind of memoir for my grandchildren. I wrote for awhile, gathered pictures and family genealogy, but then gave it up. I didn’t think anyone would be interested.
Now I’m wondering if I shouldn’t complete the project. I can’t truthfully say no one is interested, it’s just that no one is interested now. (with the exception of my son’s wife). But, Like her and like me, the grandkids may become interested in their family history in their middle years, when the people who could tell them about it will be gone.
It isn’t that I had such a riveting life. But I did (and do) live in riveting times. Born in the tail end of the Great Depression, I had a child’s eye view of World War II. I remember when we got our first telephone with a party line. Now my grandkids have iPhones. Our television had a small black and white screen, usually filled with “snow”, and the one station we got signed off by playing the national anthem at 11 o’clock at night. I remember when it was exciting to see a jet air plane fly overhead and the sadness I felt when the last steam engine gave way to the diesel locomotive. I recall the Cold War, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the first man on the moon.
Of course, there is one problem. My grandkids will probably file such a book under “historical fiction.”