Memories are made of this

Anyone who reads this blog with any regularity knows that I have a strong interest in history and in family. I do strongly believe that "past is prologue" and that we can learn important lessons from those who have gone before us. And I also get a thrill from being in a place, or touching something, that has been seen or held by ancient hands.

I'm fortunate that both my mother and her father left written life stories, filled with details about life "back in the olden days." It gives me a sense of who they were and what life was like in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, during the Great Depression, World War II, and also sends me reminiscing about my own childhood. As a second-generation Floridian (although I no longer live there), I know that my own brain holds memories of Florida as it used to be - before Disney, NASA, and the Army Corps of Engineers got their hands on it! Those who came later, including my own children, have no way to experience the sleepy small-town atmosphere of Tampa, where I was born, or Miami - where I spent 26 years - prior to the great influx of refugees and the orgy of glitter and glamour that permeates the city now.

Jim, my dear partner, is native to the Northwest and has stories of logging, firefighting, hunting (he and his friends have hunted in the same location for almost 50 years!), white water rafting in areas that now require permits - Jim was there when there were no other rafters - and old growth trees that were so huge just one tree would fill a logging truck! He remembers our now-busy city before the interstate highway, when nearly all Oregonians were natives, and when the salmon runs were abundant in Northwest rivers.

In other words, Jim and I both have stories to tell of times that are no more. To us, they were just life and seem to have no special need to be recorded. But I remind myself often that my mother's and grandfather's lives must have seemed just as mundane to them and yet they had the foresight to know that those times deserved to be remembered. They took the time to write down those things - with pen and paper; no word processors for them! - so that future generations would know what had come before, from the viewpoint of those who had lived it.

Each of us has a unique story to tell, even those who don't think we do - like Jim. And I think - although not everyone shares this opinion - that we have a responsibility to future generations to leave a record of those stories. If you're inclined (and I hope you are) Story Corps has some information and help. And an online search for "oral history project" will give you links to some specialized oral history sites such as Vietnam Veterans, AIDS survivors, and a number of other organizations.

Each generation moves inevitably from making history to being history, and the only way future generations have to know our path is through our words. I hope you'll think about filling in some of the blanks for your family!

The way we were/The way we are/The way we can be

Kissimmee (pronounced Kuh-SIM-me; if you pronounce it wrong, the ghosts of ancient Indians will rise up and smack you!), Florida is a smallish town in Central Florida, located near DisneyWorld. When I was a small child, the population was a few thousand and the area was mostly cattle ranches and poor folks. African-Americans of the time were often victims of violence, frequently for the "crime" of being "uppity" or talking back to white people.

I grew up in this Florida, mostly in Tampa, but for a few years in Lake Wales, a nearby town. This was in the 1950s, when the South was littered with signs saying "White Only" or "Colored Only," over water fountains, bathrooms, and other public places. This was a time when it sometimes seemed that simply having dark skin was a crime, and anyone with light skin could be your judge, jury, and sometimes, executioner. In towns like Kissimmee, if you were black, being on the street after dark in the white area of town could cost you your life, and your executioner would most often be found blameless.

Last night on television, I watched in awe as a reported crowd of 35,000 people stood in Kissimmee, Florida, in the midnight chill of 42 degrees (cold for the Sunshine State) and waited to see and hear Barack Obama speak. There were old, middle-aged and young; black, brown and white; men, women and children, all gathered to hear a mixed-race man speak to them about the future of their country. He was cheered and respected, and I was enthralled. Forty years ago, Barack Obama's parents could not have shared a hotel room in Florida without being arrested. Today, their son stands an excellent chance of being the next President of these United States.

Now, most people don't think of Florida as "the South." Today it is mostly thought of in terms of Miami, DisneyWorld, white-sand beaches, a repository for Cuban and Haitian refugees, and retirees from the North. But when I was growing up there, at least in Central and Northern Florida, the state was as southern in attitude, societal values, accents, and segregation policies as any other southern state. To have witnessed via television the gathering in Kissimmee last night was as miraculous to me as anything I've ever seen. My spirits soared on the wings of Sen. Obama's words and the cheers of the crowd.

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This morning, as I was returning from my morning walk, the little girl across the street called out to me, "Obama rocks, doesn't he?" "Yes," I replied, "he does!" "Maybe," she said, "he'll be our first brown President!" "That would be great, Tiana!" I replied to her, my 9-year-old Mexican-American neighbor.

Upon reporting this conversation to Jim, I realized what an exciting idea that must be for this child and her family, and for so many others whose skins aren't white. Despite the conservative Christianity this family practices, they are able to visualize a world where hope and acceptance are more important than labels.