When my mother was born in May of 1924 the world took no notice of her arrival. There was no parade, no radio announcement, and no economic ripple. Her story began with little to no fanfare. In so many ways it was just like any other day in west Tennessee.
Her growing up years were uneventful on the world stage, or even on the national stage. Like many others her age, she enjoyed her summer visits to the relatives in the country, and was duly enthralled with the color that almost jumped off the screen when Dorothy opened the door of her small house, welcoming all of us into Oz, and eventually, the Emerald City in the 1939 classic, The Wizard of Oz.
As a young adult in east Tennessee, singing in a community chorus, she was introduced to my father. And as they say, “the rest is history.” Of course, the truth is . . . it is all history. Her history. Mine and my brother’s history. My children and their history. And now my grandson and his history.
The story – the telling of one’s tale – the building blocks of your life – the sometimes imperceptible influences that mold and shape your existence, and in turn . . . mold and shape the existence of countless others . . . these things are the stuff of life itself. And knowing them, knowing your story . . . can tie together the seemingly unrelated strands of your life.
Mother is 88 years old and in failing health. Dad has been dead for over 3 years now. My brother and I are both (although we find it difficult to believe this) older men now. Our Mother’s story shaped us. And yet, like so many others who sit in the rehab facility where she is currently, her story is fading. Her memories, while present with clarity sometimes, are often clouded with the passing of the years. Without the care to preserve it, her story will soon be a lost story, gone from memory.
This blog is an attempt to keep that story alive. And to invite others who can identify with what I am describing to share in the preservation of stories. To encourage others to take a look at their own story – this is the first step. I hope you will join me in this incredible journey. For each story is unique and possesses entire worlds.
The Lost Story 
How true, how true. How did we get here from the sandbox?
Yes, my beloved brother, we are older but not …old! We look in the mirror and see kids! We go to work masquerading as “adults” but, amazingly, no one has yet figured out that we’re just kids, showing up and collecting a paycheck, working with real “old” people.
Thank you! How are your stories coming along, Don?
My pleasure, Melodie.
Thank you, my friend. Wishing you well on your teaching this year.
I miss seeing you and singing with you, Ivan. I miss those times of growth spiritually and musically. Take care, brother.
I have been thinking about his for my own family. Thanks!
What a great idea! We have often talked about recording our family stories, and now my mother-in-law is living with us, so we have access to her stories as well. You’ve inspired me to work on it.