Saving Libraries, One Story At A Time

(This is a repost of an earlier piece I'd written about honoring the stories of the elderly.  Linking up with Ann Voskamp today, considering the spiritual practice of: Caring for the least of these)

The death of an old person is like the burning of a library. Alex Haley

During my childhood, most Sunday afternoons were spent at my grandparents' farm with aunts, uncles, and cousins. At lunchtime several of the cousins sat on an old farm bench, trapped against the windows by the adults who sat around the table for an insufferable length of time talking about the most boring things in the universe. All we wanted was to escape the confines of the kitchen and the boredom and get outside to play in the woods and in the barns. Sometimes we would crawl under the table through the tangle of grown-up legs and feet to make our escape.

One of those sitting around the table was my Uncle Chuck, a bus mechanic. It never occurred to me to listen to anything he had to say, boring grown-up that he was. Sometime after his death, I learned that he'd served as crew chief of a C-47 aircraft during World War II. He'd received a medal for meritorious achievement for dropping paratroopers ahead of the Normandy invasion which, as history would have it, turned out to be sort of a big deal.

I wish I had known that.

I came across the above quote in this book about caring for elderly loved ones. One of the author's suggestions is to take the time to listen to their stories. These are people whose life stories have intersected with world history in fascinating times and places--the Great Depression, D-Day, the Korean Conflict, the battle for Civil Rights. We can read about any and all of these things in history books, but hearing the stories from those who lived through them breathes life into them and makes them seem much more real.

Recently, I had the opportunity to spend about a year interviewing an elderly friend who was declining from dementia. I knew she had lived a life and wanted to get as much of it down on paper as I could, capturing as many memories for her family as possible. Her first husband had been a test pilot with Chuck Yeager and had been killed in the crash of a test flight. My friend had had a front row seat to the events surrounding the breaking of the sound barrier and the inauguration of the space program. She was certain that, had her husband lived, he'd have been one of the country's first astronauts.

One of my favorite stories of hers was of becoming a stewardess (pre-flight attendant days) during World War II. There was a shortage of women available for the airlines to hire because many had been assigned to jobs overseas in hospitals or other war-related support positions. She had taken a train into Washington, DC, for the interview not having told her parents what she was up to. After her training, she was asked where she wanted to be assigned, and she chose Hollywood, California. She often served on flights carrying Hollywood movie stars of the day and lived with some friends in a house near the parents of some famous celebrity. At the time I interviewed her, she couldn't remember who the star was.

Last Christmas, I bound and wrapped my friend's memoirs for her to give to her family as gifts. She helped me tie the bows and attach the labels for each of them. My friend died this past summer, and I am thankful that some of her stories endure on paper. One of her granddaughters recognized the story about the movie star's parents and filled in the missing detail--the mystery celebrity was Bing Crosby. Learning that detail was a gift to me this Christmas. Everytime I heard one of Bing's classic Christmas songs, I thought of my friend and smiled.

If you're reading this and have hung with me this far, let me encourage you to pay attention to the elderly around you and look for opportunities to listen to their stories. It will bless them, and it will bless you. And you'll get to be part of preserving the history of a life that matters.

Saving Libraries--An Update

So I write this little blog and refer to myself as a freelance writer on my Facebook page.  Ah, the beauty of the internet where you can say anything and declare it to be true.

Anyway, I write this little blog and do some freelance stuff as a volunteer for the CCO, but to date have yet to earn a dime as a writer.  All eight of you who stop by and read my blog from time to time know that I sometimes have issues with things like grammar, syntax, or simply making any sense whatsoever.  I know I've got work to do to feel like I've earned the street cred I need to call myself a bona fide writer.

In any case, a friend of mine--we'll call her Ethel (and we'll refer to me as Lucy--you get the idea), took an idea from this post about talking with the elderly and recording their stories.  Ethel needed to design a classroom service project for an education course she was taking and decided to use the idea of having students interview nursing home residents.  She told another friend, who is a teacher, and that friend decided to implement Ethel's idea in her classroom.

So, bona fide or not, and having an appalling lack of dimes to show for my efforts, today I'm happy to call myself a writer.  And thankful to all eight of you who show up now and then and read me.  And aren't I doing a nice job with my hyper-linking?

Love, Lucy

Story Magnet

Maybe it’s because I’ve seen it so many times I can practically recite it from memory, but I think there are few situations in life that can’t be illustrated using a scene from It’s a Wonderful Life. I thought this week about Uncle Billy; the quirky, forgetful, and loveable character who, but for the presence of George Bailey, would have lost the family business. I’ve often wondered why Frank Capra decided to surround Uncle Billy with wild animals—the crow in the building and loan office and the squirrel that seems to comfort him when he can’t find the missing eight thousand dollars. No explanation is given about the animals. They’re there, I think, to suggest that as quirky and forgetful as Uncle Billy might be, he is a good-hearted man, loved even by the beasts of the field that are inexplicably drawn to him.

I thought about Uncle Billy this week because I had a seemingly random conversation with an elderly woman at a local shopping mall. I was sitting outside a bookstore reading, waiting to pick my son up from school. She stopped and asked if I knew where in the mall people went to rent motorized scooters. The woman’s daughter had gone to get one and it seemed to her as though she had been gone for a long time. I pointed to the mall rental sign and then listened as the woman told me about how hard it was getting old.

She told me of multiple hospitalizations and diagnoses of both osteoarthritis and myeloma she had received during the past year. Her husband had survived a heart attack, she told me. She said that she thought she bore her illnesses and pain better than he and suggested that if anything happened to her, he would probably start drinking again. He’d stopped twenty-five years ago. My friend, if I can call her that, carried a tone that suggested she wasn’t sure it was worth putting up with the pain anymore. I started to tell her that I would pray for God’s blessing in a very real, tangible way for her that day when her daughter arrived with the scooter. I complimented her on raising such a caring daughter, wished her God’s blessing, and then prayed for this dear elderly woman.

This isn’t the first time that a complete stranger has approached me or sat down next to me and started telling me very personal stories. I’m starting to wonder if I’m some kind of a magnet, especially for elderly people, in much the same way Uncle Billy draws small animals to himself. I don’t go looking for these conversations, they just seem to happen. I believe they are divine invitations to speak blessing, encouragement, and hope into someone’s life. I’m not sure I succeeded the other day. I was a compassionate listener. I prayed for this stranger. But I fumbled to put into words that there is a gracious God in whose image she was made; the God of all hope who sent His son to bring healing to all sadness and sickness and death.

May God have mercy on this dear woman. May He fill up by his grace where I was lacking. May I cling closer to Him and His word and be better prepared for my next divine appointment.  May I truly give thanks for each opportunity God presents.





97. Opportunities to be a compassionate listener. God’s grace in filling up where I am lacking.

98. Warm, sunny January afternoons and the opportunity to get out for a hike and soak up some vitamin D.

99. Tulip bouquets in supermarkets.

100. The Spring countdown sign at the local nursery.

101. Pheasants

102. Emergency rooms.

103. Cold medicine

104. Surprise parties

105. Having a husband who loves me well and is easy to respect and grace, once again, to fill up where I am lacking.

106. The willingness of my brother and his wife to lead the Love and Respect class at church.

107. Apologies

108. Rain that falls on both the just and the unjust.

109. An invitation to walk.

110. Antivirus software.

111. A doctor’s report that is 10,000 times better than the first one.

112. Seeing the deer while on route 6 with a car full of youths and having enough time to brake; also that the driver following closely behind noticed that I was braking.

113. Childhood memories that make me smile.

Saving Libraries, One Story at a Time

The death of an old person is like the burning of a library.  Alex Haley

During my childhood, most Sunday afternoons were spent at my grandparents' farm with aunts, uncles, and cousins.  At lunchtime several of the cousins sat on an old farm bench, trapped against the windows by the adults who sat around the table for an insufferable length of time talking about the most boring things in the universe.  All we wanted was to escape the confines of the kitchen and the boredom and get outside to play in the woods and in the barns.  Sometimes we would crawl under the table through the tangle of grown-up legs and feet to make our escape.

One of those sitting around the table was my Uncle Chuck, a bus mechanic.  It never occurred to me to listen to anything he had to say, boring grown-up that he was.  Sometime after his death, I learned that he'd served as crew chief of a C-47 aircraft during World War II.  He'd received a medal for meritorious achievement for dropping paratroopers ahead of the Normandy invasion which, as history would have it, turned out to be sort of a big deal.

I wish I had known that.