“War is hell.” 
General William Tecumseh Sherman

From the Civil War to the present military conflicts, war continues to be hell both on those who take part, and those who support them.  Whether we are defending our country or fighting on behalf of others, there is always a price to pay. 

The Library of Congress is archiving first-hand accounts of American war veterans and civilian workers who support them via The Veterans History Project.  From World War I to the Afghanistan and Iraq conflicts, these stories provide a valuable resource to researchers, students and teachers.  The Project also collects original memoirs, military documents, collections of letters, and original photographs and artwork. 

Do you know someone who has served on behalf of the United States and would like to contribute to the Project?

Visit http://www.loc.gov/vets/ and you can download The Veterans History Project Field Kit, which includes interview tips and resources, and tips for veterans who are telling the story themselves.

Who will you be honoring this Veteran’s Day?

For some people, spending time with family during the holidays does not warm the cockles of their hearts.  There are arguments, disputes, old resentments resurface, lives are judged and criticized, etc.  There is a way, however, to ease the emotional pain of the holiday season. 

Who, in your family, is sincerely cherished by all; someone who is truly respected and held in high regard?  Consider giving a tribute to him or her this holiday season.  A tribute is something the entire family can be involved in, both separately and together. 

When I am hired to put together a personal history, every single person in the family – even the ones who aren’t speaking to anyone – happily donate their time for an interview, because they want to preserve that relative’s memory.  They actually move beyond their issues with the family, and focus on the much loved relative.  When the book is complete, relatives read about the special memories others have – some unique, some shared – about the same individual, and the fondness they once had for each other rises up above the old grudges and disputes.  A healing begins to grow, working its way through each branch and leaf on the family tree.

You have the ability to create a powerful gifted family legacy for future generations.

It begins with one.

Whose life story could you preserve that would reconnect your family?

With genealogy, you learn about your family tree through names, dates, locations and, sometimes, occupations.  You usually do not learn about who they were as individuals; their personalities, obstacles they faced and overcame, travels, interests, education, etc.  It’s unfortunate, because those experiences influenced their choices and decisions, which flowed through that family tree to ultimately impact how you were raised and how you reached your current perspectives on life.

Imagine yourself listed on a family tree in the distant future, indicating only your name, birth and death dates.  How sad it would be for your descendants not to know who you were as a person; your life experiences, so they could better understand themselves.

As a personal historian, I constantly and consistently witness families looking at one another with renewed appreciation after reading a relative’s life story.  They see their parents, grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles as unique, interesting human beings, with whom they just happen to be related.

The holidays are fast approaching.  Do yourself and those you love a favor.  Take advantage of your time together by asking questions regarding their lives.  It can be lighthearted (e.g., What were your favorite toys or games when you were little?) or insightful (e.g., What was the best advice you ever received?).  Record them.  Transcribe them.  Save them for the future. 

Don’t forget to make notes of your answers as well.  You, too, are an important part of the family history.

What questions do you wish you could ask your ancestors?

Every summer, my family would spend a couple of weeks in a cabin in an abandoned logging camp along the Ten Mile River in Mendocino County, just north of Fort Bragg. There were a couple of other cabins there as well, and there would be cousins of all ages to visit. For us kids, it was the best playground ever, because we could run all over the place, making trails, chasing chipmunks, searching for deer, and yell across the river to the log truck drivers to, “Blow your horn!”

In addition to the cabins, there were campers, tents and sleeping bags spread out everywhere.  One year, my great-aunt Mary passed around a guestbook and we counted over 300 names! 

I’ve been told that when I was two or three, I decided to just take off when no one was looking.  Dozens of relatives looked for me everywhere.  Couldn’t find me.  So, my great-aunt Rena took matters into her own hands.  She and her brother Cub (real name Alfred) were both trackers.  So, she literally tracked me down, following my intermittent prints in the dirt.  She found me a mile and a-half down an old logging road, rapidly approaching an old, broken-down train trestle that crossed the river.  I think it was fitting that Rena was the one who found me, because she loved to just take off, too, up into her 90’s.  (In the early 1910’s, she and a friend hitchhiked from Fort Bragg to Eureka, with just a bedroll to sleep by the side of the road.)

Behind each cabin was a fire pit, and behind our cabin was a self-standing bar (made from leftover wood from the mill) in a circle of redwood trees.  There was a record player, and to give you a sense of time and place, records included Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” and the Rolling Stones’ “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.”   

Just outside the entrance of the bar, were a couple of sawhorses with saddles on top for the kids to play on.  Until, of course, some kid fell off, then the horses rode away. 

Abutting the back of our cabin was a bed swing, behind which were a row of sword ferns.  We kids loved to lie back on the bed, grab and pull a fern to rock ourselves back and forth.  The gentle sway would quickly seque to wild abandon until the bed would slam against the cabin, causing my grandmother to slam out of the cabin yelling at us to stop.  So, we would.  Until we’d do it again.

A cousin created a tree swing with simply a rope tied around a sawed-off branch. He even built steps up a tree, leading to a platform. You’d carry the swing up with you, and either jump from the platform sitting on the swing, or jump onto the swing mid-air. It was fantastic.

My great-uncle worked at the lumber mill, and he’d borrow a CAT to create a swimming hole for the kids. Someone built a raft, and there was a rowboat and a few large inner tubes.

I’ve been thinking about how my life has come full circle. I find myself returning to similar simple pleasures. When I hike with friends, I am once again enjoying nature, laughter and conversation. A cousin tells me that when she meditates, she imagines herself back at Camp Ten Mile, re-visiting the redwoods, good food, hugs, comfort and joy.

Those childhood summers were gifts, for which I will forever be grateful.

“I don’t like that man.  I must get to know him better.”  Abraham Lincoln

In 1923, Robert Todd Lincoln (Abraham’s son) donated his father’s papers to the Library of Congress.  This year, in celebration of the 200th anniversary of President Lincoln’s birth, the Library of Congress is sharing some of those papers and personal items of the President with the country via a traveling exhibition.

We, as a country, are fortunate, indeed, that we are able to understand a former president – centuries before our time – in very personal ways due to the preservation of his writings.  His personality and thought processes are revealed in intimate ways through letters with peers, friends and his wife.  We can more fully appreciate what inner battles he faced when dealing with unfathomable adversity and conflicts, and yet continued to follow his passion in pursuing freedom for all.

He was very articulate, possessed a great writing prowess, could be very direct, had a great sense of humor, and the persuasive gift of reason (for those who were willing to listen).

On the day of his assassination, President Lincoln told his wife that he wanted to visit the Holy Land, Europe and California.  It is only fitting that California was one of the few states chosen for the Lincoln Exhibit to be viewed.  (As I reside in California, I am a little biased.)  I can’t help wonder, though, if he had lived, what impacts his visit on the West Coast might have had on its residents.

If you could go back in time, what question would you like to ask President Lincoln?

I answered the phone at my desk.

“Hello?”

“This is the last time I’m going to read this to you.”  I immediately recognized my father’s voice, who offered no salutation.

“I had to read this to you over and over and over again,” he continued.  “’I will not eat it in a box, I will not eat it with a fox. I will not eat green eggs and ham.  I will not eat it, Sam I Am.’”

“Oka-a-y,” I responded, somewhat hesitantly, wondering where this was going.  I glanced around the busy law office, processing this surreal moment of having my father read a childhood book to me.

“Dr. Seuss recently died,” he said, “and I’m reading a column in today’s San Francisco Chronicle paying tribute to him.  I was thinking about how many times I had to read his books to you over and over again.  So, I’m just letting you know, that this is the last time I’m reading this to you.” 

Laughing, I thought, “That’s my dad.”

When my brothers and I were kids, he liked to direct us in home movies.  We couldn’t just walk up a sand dune.  We had to crawl on our bellies, with tongues hanging out as if we were dying of thirst in the Sahara Desert.  Too bad movie cameras didn’t have sound back then. It would be fun to hear our comments.

And, he would just make stuff up.  For instance, my great-grandfather’s name was William Harrison.  So, my dad told me that I was related to President William Henry Harrison.  I told all my friends that I was related to a president, until I found out it wasn’t true.  Not even close.  In fact, President Harrison was in office about 40 years before my great-grandfather immigrated to this country.

My brothers like to tell the story of when our family was camping near Mt. Lassen.  Dad decides that we’re going to hike up the mountain.  Our mother suggests we bring jackets.  Dad said, “No, we don’t need them.  As we hike up the mountain, we’ll be getting closer to the sun.”

He had kept the manuscript of “Pirates of Penzance” from his college acting days, and one day decided that he, my brothers and I were going to act out the different parts, and he would record us on the tape recorder.  I can still see him coaching my brothers on the “correct” way to say “Arrgh,” as my mother walked through the room rolling her eyes.

My father taught me how to use my imagination; to look at people and situations at different angles.  I am grateful to him for this, because it allows me to see and understand different points of view, and to appreciate an individual’s uniqueness.

I am a personal historian.  I am very good at it.  I have a strong background in organizational skills, but, more importantly, I was blessed with an upbringing of storytelling and a curiosity about life.  Because of my father’s influence, I am able to preserve life stories for families around the world in a fun, educational and insightful manner; the benefits of which will be enjoyed generation after generation.

Thanks, Dad.

How has your father influenced you?

“Pick out any record you want,” my father said, gesturing toward a wall of 45 rpm singles.   He loved music, and had even spent some time as a DJ in the early 50’s. Still, he was quite the spendthrift, so I was rather surprised at this magnanimous gesture.  But, even at the tender age of 12, I understood this was his attempt at bonding. 

So, I made my selection and he made his, and on the way home he happily discussed his new Hi-Fi purchase and how the records would sound.  Once at home, he put the yellow adapter disc into the 45, and dropped it onto the turntable. 

Smiling, he turned to me and said, “Okay, here you go!” 

His happy countenance quickly segued into horror as Steppenwolf blared out his new stereo speakers, “Born to Be Wild!”  Jaw dropping, he turned and stared at me.  I could almost hear his stunned thought, “Wasn’t she just listening to Woody Woodpecker?!”

This and other memories came flooding back as vinyls return:

• The record player had options for 33, 45 and 78 rpms. 
• My slumber party in the backyard with Land of the Thousand Dances playing on the record player, as my friends and I danced our little hearts away was so much fun.
• Blowing dust off the needle for a clearer sound.
• The “proofs” of Paul McCartney’s demise on The Beatles recordings and album cover (Abby Road).
• Taping a song meant holding the tape recorder up to the speakers.
• Cutting out the red colored record out of a cereal box – The Archies’, “Sugar Sugar.”  (I still can’t believe it could actually play.)

What memories do you have regarding the days of vinyl?

That I couldn’t get away with much, because she had already done it.

Laugh much.

Sew my own clothes when on a tight budget.

Be adventurous.

Don’t let the sales clerk sell you something you don’t need.

Attend all family events.

Washing the dishes includes wiping down the sinks and countertops.

Love unconditionally.

Too much sun causes melanoma.

What did you learn from your mother?

“Let’s the follow the deer trail,” my father suggested, always ready to introduce his family to new adventures.  We walked along single file, one brother in the lead, followed by my other brother, myself, my mother and my father at the end.

Screams suddenly pierced the quiet, grassy woods, emanating from my young brother in the lead.  My second brother began screaming as well, batting his head and running around in circles.  I stopped to see what was going on, and my eyes grew large at the sight of several rather large, thick bees furiously flying around my poor brothers’ heads. 

My father, annoyed, asked, “What’s wrong with everyone?” 

My mother angrily replied, “Eric stepped onto a bee’s nest.  They’re all getting stung!” 

My father didn’t get stung and, thankfully, neither did I.  It scared the hell out of me, though.

To this day, my brothers and I will exchange serio-comic looks when we go hiking.  “Beware of deer trails …”

But, we had learned a valuable lesson that day – watch where you’re walking.

I went on a hike this past weekend up to Zim Zim Falls in Napa County.  I was looking up at the falls, and not where I was walking – down a steep hill, with slippery, flattened grasses.  Visually, I must’ve looked like I had slipped on a banana peel the way my foot easily slid out from under me and my leg flew up in the air.  I now have a large gash (with a somewhat flair to it) on my leg outlined with a greenish-grayish-purplish tint.

Fred Astaire and Judy Garland sang “Easter Parade” on TV, while my Mom and I dyed Easter eggs, and I thought of the Easter basket that would be waiting for me in the morning when I woke up, filled with candy.

One year, someone gave me a little chick for Easter.  It was cute and fluffy, and would chirp back to me when I spoke to it.

And, then, it grew up …

…  into an aggressive, vicious, Stephen King-ish, psycho rooster, that would chase everyone across the yard, and peck them in the legs.

It utilized psychological warfare, by allowing you periods of time of peace and serenity.  Then, just when you had been lulled into a false sense of security, up it would rise with a fury of a tornado -  feathers flapping and squawking maniacally.  There has never been a sprint runner in the history of mankind who could ever have matched the speed with which I flew up the two steps to the back door and into the house. 

One day, it was gone.  My father told me that a neighbor had shot it out of an annoyance of being woken up at the crack o’ dawn each morning.  However, years later, when I was an adult, he confessed what really happened.  He became so tired of being terrorized in his own backyard, that he borrowed an ax from a neighbor and cut the rooster’s neck off. 

“Oh, in your Easter bonnet, with all the frills upon it …”

What’s your favorite Easter memory?