e'd been telling the stories for years. When I was younger, it seemed as if I had far more important things to do then listen, but oftentimes they would catch me unawares and I would be swept up in the events and lives of people that I only vaguely knew or didn't know at all.
Some were delightful and some were dramatic, all were compelling. Maybe because they are my history too. Maybe because as my father related his stories of the depression or the war years I saw in them the stories of our country.
A few years ago he became aware of an urge to write down his stories. Perhaps the mid-eighties made him aware of his own mortality. Maybe he just didn't want the people he loved forgotten. At any rate, he struggled to get his thoughts on paper.
The best he could come up with was a very dry account of dates, places and names. Not what he had in mind at all. The project was shelved, but never really left his mind.
It wasn't until he, almost offhandedly, suggested that I write his history down that I gave it any thought. The idea fired my imagination. But how would I do it? Could I get him to open up to me any better then he did for a piece of paper? Perhaps getting it on tape instead of paper--at least initially--was the answer.