Tree of life.

A couple weekends ago, I went back home. Not North Texas where most of my family now lives, but the place where –after an exhausting labor for my mom– I came into the world. McLean, Virginia. I've not been back since we left in December, 1992.

I took PB with me and we walked around old Chesterbrook Park. I remember the sound of slapping sticks on bark, the trees where we built our world. The woods don't look quite the same, but that's ok. The smell hasn't changed. Wet leaves and damp dirt. Next time you cut into a raw potato, hold your nose up to the flesh and that's the smell of my childhood.

*A disclaimer here: I'm about to break blog rule #1 of brevity and #2 of emotional detachment. But some things are worth telling in long-form. And any writer (or journalist, dare I say it!) will tell you everything is subjective, everything is touched by our experience...

When I was a little thing in Virginia, I watched some black and white movie with my mom – Jimmy Stewart or Carey Grant, can't remember– in which the protagonist lives with his mother well into adulthood. I had recently learned I had an older sister, whom died as a baby, and I struggled to understand how that could be. Only old people died. So I told my mom I would be young forever just like the movie and would never move away. I would live with her and dad forever.

"Of course you'll move away. That's part of growing up," she said.

Well. If that was growing up, I didn't want any part of it. The thought of moving away from my parents, and my siblings growing old and all of us one day dying sank my little heart like a stone in the ocean. I decided that 4 years old was plenty for me thankyouverymuch and I would stop right there. It was a simple enough solution and I was astonished at how easy it was to outwit my mom and the rest of humanity! My goodness, hadn't anyone thought of stopping time before? So for the next year, my family had to keep up the charade that I was 4 years old, long after my 5th birthday.

More than twenty years later and I still question how can this be? How can it be that some of us live and some of us die too soon? Do we ever really die?

I called my parents to ask where I could find my sister. My mom said, "Fairfax Memorial Park. That's where Michelle lives." Of course, of course, of course. Lives. I felt embarrassed for asking where she was buried. Do parents ever bury a child and leave them entirely there? Do any of us? Graves are for the living, a place marker. But no grave can hold a spirit. I believe in reincarnation but even if you don't, we never really die.

I think when we left Virginia, the Memorial Park was our last stop on our way out of town. Or was it? Did I make that up? The Alzheimer's people I work with sometimes fabricate memories to fill in missing holes in their past; it helps them make sense of things. Did we really stop to say goodbye or was I a second grader trying to make sense of my world and death and family and leaving?

Now I found her headstone and did the first thing my hands commanded: I cleaned her off. On my knees in the grass, I swept away the dirt and leaves. Instinct. Then I sat back in wonder at how connected I could feel to someone I never knew.

And then I struggled. What conversation do you have with someone you've never spoken to? I did my best and left her a note:

The family loves you. I bet you would have been beautiful. Mom and Dad still miss you everyday, especially in pictures.
Your sister,
Phyllis

I was sad to leave her there with none of our family around. But that is where she lives and –like my Mom and Dad– I will have to take her with me, even if I still don't know why some of us live and some of us go too soon.

PB said, "I'm happy she has a tree. If you think about it, she's part of it now as it grows, she's in the ground and part of the roots."

And I think that is how my sister would be. Strong, able to weather the storm. Blooming, healthy, changing, growing. Reaching and striving for more.

Sister, I'm so happy you have a tree.

The magic of Three.

Some things are so disheartening, so awfully frightening, you just have to laugh– Alzheimer's disease, global warfare, reality television, Ann Coulter.

But the reality is, more than 5 million Americans suffer from Alzheimer's disease today. 14% of all people over the age of 71 have some form of dementia. Alzheimer's could steal the minds of 1 out of 8 baby boomers, and by 2050, 959,000 people could be diagnosed each year.

Still laughing?

But things like Alzheimer's, MCI, and dementia inspire me. They inspire in me a sense of urgency, an immediate need to take down people's stories, before the memories disappear with time. I've always been a storyteller, and there is no greater joy for me...a well told story transports us, challenges us, and stirs our soul.

Last week, we talked about nostalgia. Mostly, I just sat and listened to the random memories but I also heard from participants that life was simpler years ago:

There were 3 makes of car. Ford, Chevy, Buick.
There were 3 television stations. ABC, CBS, NBC.
There were 3 churches in town. Methodist, Baptist, Church of Christ.

Before television, people sat on the porch and talked to each other. Or kids listened to the radio and used their imagination. You could try and pull pranks in the neighborhood, but someone would always say, "Eugene Smith, I'll tell your father so you better think twice!"

Today, I learned that my mother cannot whistle. I was astonished. Not because she can't do it, but because I had no idea. What else do I not know about this lovely, complex person with whom I shared a body for nine months? Who cut my sandwiches into triangles?

Here's a challenge: get with someone dear to you (phone, email, or face-to-face) and ask them to tell you something most people wouldn't know about them. Or ask them what their morning routine is. How do they take their coffee? Ask them anything. The important thing is to write it down. And do it over and over again with other people.

There is disappointingly little resources for this sort of thing (I smell a personal project in the air!) but here are a couple sites to get you started:
Bicentennial Family History Project
Grub Street Memoir Project
GaGa Sisterhood
StoryCorps

Because if we don't tell each others stories, who will?