She listened as the door slid shut be- hind her. The music hadn’t stopped. Sighing in relief, she snuck down the hall on her bare feet and settled
herself at the top of the stairs. The music
floated up the stairs to meet her, whispering sweet lullabies in her ears. She laid her
cheek down on the cool wood of the top
step and let her mother’s music carry her
back to sleep, to a world of dreams and
beautiful adventures.
I wrote those words ten years ago,
when I was in the ninth grade. It was my
first;day;as;a;high;school;student,;and;I
was both excited and nervous. On our
first;day,;my;mom;handed;me;my;writ-ing textbook for the year—Write Your
Roots.;“At;the;end;of;the;year,”;she;said,
“you’ll be a published author. You’re
going;to;write;a;book;about;our;family
history.”;As;I;thumbed;through;my;text,
I thought: This woman is crazy. I can’t
write a book.;But;I;certainly;did.
“
You’ll;be;interviewing;family;mem-bers and writing vignettes about their
lives.;Your;book;will;be;a;collection;of
your;vignettes,”;she;explained.
“What’s;a;vignette?”;I;piped;up,;still
intimidated by the thought of being published.
“It’s;a;descriptive;snapshot,;a;brief;story
or even just a scene. It explains something
important about the person in the story so
the;reader;can;get;to;know;him;or;her;a
little;bit,;just;by;reading;your;vignette.”
We began the year by researching our
family history, and I found out about my
Norwegian, French, English, and Cana-
dian;background.;I;compiled;all;my;find-
ings into a beautiful family tree.
Next, I got to spend hours and hours
talking;to;my;family;members—first;my
mom and dad, learning all about their
childhoods and hearing their favorite
stories, and then my grandparents, aunts,
uncles, great aunts, and older cousins. I
loved collecting their stories, especially
hearing about my dad’s rambunctious
childhood from the perspective of his
older sisters.
With the interviews complete, I selected from the myriad of stories before
me;the;ones;that;would;be;in;my;book.;I
tried;to;divide;my;book;evenly;between
stories;from;my;mom’s;side;of;the;family
and;my;dad’s;side.
And then I wrote. And I wrote and I
wrote.
My;mom;didn’t;mind;if;I;made;mis-
takes;in;my;stories;the;first;time;around.
“We’ll;have;time;to;fix;all;that;later,”;she
told me. “Just enjoy writing your stories
for;now!”
I loved writing my stories. I wrote
about the time my dad had to go with his
sister on her date, because she was baby-
sitting;him;and;didn’t;want;to;stay;home,
and;how;he;spilled;his;chocolate;milk-
shake all over her creamy white dress
with all its lace. I wrote about my mom
getting;attacked;by;yellow;jackets;with
her sisters and about Grandmother play-
ing the piano so beautifully that my mom
would;stay;awake;to;listen.;And;I;wrote
about;myself—what;I;looked;like,;what;I
enjoyed,;what;my;daily;life;was;like.;I;felt
like;I;made;sense;when;I;learned;about
By;Annie;Reid
In almost all of
life, information is
accessible to us twenty-
four hours a day.
Memories are not.
