As I was sorting through boxes yesterday, I found a mini-memoir written in brief chapters by my grandmother's youngest sister. Aunt Reba was born in 1917 and passed away in 2001, the last living sibling of 14. The typed pages I found were copies of some recollections she had written for her grandchildren, which told stories of her childhood.
I remember hearing about these tales, and maybe even seeing them once at my mother's house, and I'm sure she gave them to me before she died, part of a thick stack of photos and artifacts. I'd never read them, though until today.
I was charmed and absorbed in her stories of the huge pecan tree outside the family home (it thrived as soon as they put the outhouse under it), her mother's center table, which was in the parlor and served as the altar for three of her sister's weddings, the first snow she ever saw: it fell three days before Christmas in 1928, and the birth of her youngest brother, when her mother was 48.
She also tells how the first of her line made their way from South Carolina to Collins, Mississippi, and hints at the dark changes that the depression made in their lives. She mentions tenant farmers, camellia trees, magnolia blossoms, and the big, beautiful oak table that came to her via one of her siblings and a German doctor's estate in Wisconsin.
Last week, as I cleaned out my closet, I listened to a recording of Anna Quindlen reading her book-length essay, Write for Your Life. In the piece, she advocates for journaling, letter writing, and any other form of personal expression that gives all of us the chance to record our lives. She argues that this type of writing serves both the writer and any future audience, whether known or intended, who may just treasure it.
Aunt Reba's reflections are certainly a testament to that notion.
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