“That’s YOU???
The eact words from my granddaughter, Joss, when flipping through a very old (falling apart) leather scrapbook from my grandparents. The scrapbook contains letters from my dad during his college years from the late 1930’s. There are also Western Union telegrams from his experience fighting in World War II.
Stuck in the pages were a few pictures of my younger self. The “Is that you followed quickly by…wait a minute…who is that?” Great fun as a child starts putting together family relationships. Learning grandparents weren’t born this way.
“So my dad is your son???” That’s really weird. And the questions start flowing directed by a little pointed finger going around the room connecting the generations and relationships. With love and a smile, the conclusion is, “you look different!”

This blog is focused on a business called StoryWorth branded as “the most meaning gift for your family”. A gift to share memories between generations.
But first, I want to tell you about the best conversation I had with my grandmother. She was born back in the 1890s living a life we would not recognize today.
My Grandmother’s Story
I had a driver’s permit back in the 1960s and would drive my dad through city streets (Rochester, New York), across town every Sunday to visit my grandmother to practice my city driving.
One day, she shared a story from the early 1900s. As a young girl, she was out riding a horse and in a mood of rebellion (which happened rarely in her long life) switched from riding side saddle (which was the custom for girls at the time) and decided to swing her leg around to ride like the boys. Obviously a much better way to ride a horse. But a moment of cherished rebellion.
In those days, girls wore long dresses every day. NEVER pants! Must have been part of the reason for the ladylike style of riding that was required for her.
She lived a life as a dutiful minister’s wife who spent many years as a missionary in Brazil where my father and her children were born. Her oldest child, a daughter, passed away in Brazil. My dad spoke of a desire to return to Brazil to find where she was buried. She lived a life of sacrifice. And likely a life of judgment as the minister’s wife.
My reaction to her story was “way to go Gramma!” A reminder to me that she was once youthful with a spirit to have fun.