COUSIN KAROLYN, ONE OF THE guardians of our family's female past, has an old, wide-ruled school exercise book that is held together by black tape. On the cover is written simply “Old Recipes”.
Karolyn’s mother, my Great-Auntie Grace, transcribed in her vintage handwriting the precious recipes of her life that included: her Mother’s Pumpkin Pie, her sister Margaret’s Rhubarb Upside Down Cake, Mrs. Codnille’s pastry, and Mar Evan’s Tutti Frutti.
Reading each recipe title is a memory stamped in dough: mix, roll, bake and remember laughter and cake shared over tea, a plate full of cookies at the church bazaar, a festive Christmas table adorned with homemade pie. Decades have passed, but each recipe is forever connected with the woman who shared it.
As I stumble across the images on my computer, I am tugged towards the homemade past, my female ancestors and their friends, who shared joy, tears and sisterhood through food.
And so, in spite of pending deadlines, I drag out the flour canister, brown sugar, raisins and butter. I stir in chopped nuts, drop the dough by teaspoonful and bake in a “moderate oven”. My effort to recreate great-great Auntie Pitt’s Perfect Raisin Cookies is a Perfect Recipe for Remembering.
IT'S NO SECRET THAT I AM PASSIONATE about recording family stories. But what is the best way to preserve and share them? In spite of the wonders of the digital age, I am still a believer in print.
There is something magical about holding a tangible object in your hands, words and photos imprinted on a page. No matter how big or small your storytelling project may be, I think that there is value in having a hard copy to read yourself and share with family members.
In 2017 I decided to write the story of my 2ndgreat-grandmother, Renate Fooken Pedersen. She died in childbirth in Sims, North Dakota around 1901, but we had no records to back that up. A few years ago, I obtained a photo of her from a distant cousin; she stands outside in a muddy farmyard, tenderly holding a baby, and gazing out to the viewer. Her photo has sat on my living room side table for many years, and every time I looked at her I wanted to know more. My quest was to piece together the story of her life as best I could, using her photograph as a jumping off place.
I spent several months doing just that, weaving together the facts I discovered into a non-fiction narrative essay, and when I finished writing her story, I wanted to share it with my family members. I chose Blurb.ca as my self-publishing choice and was pleased with the results. My writing was essay length with photos, and so a 7 x 7 inch photo book fit my needs exactly.
Here are some of my tips to help you with your project:
When I received Remembering Renate in the mail, I was so excited. It is the best feeling to open up your package and seeing the final tangible product of all your research, writing, and design.
Let me know if you publish your family’s stories and how you decided to do it!
YESTERDAY AND TODAY WERE SNOW DAYS in what otherwise would be a very mild winter for us in the Vancouver Lower Mainland region. Schools were closed, and many people worked from home to avoid the roads and backed up transit. I just got back in from clearing off my car and re-parking it in front or our house (it had been ‘stuck’ in place down the street for the past few days). As I worked, I heard children’s delighted screams as they played in the snow and slid down the hill at the park. It reminded me of snow days from my own childhood.
I grew up in Powell River, and have glowing memories of donning a snow suit and sliding down the hill at Sunset Park on crazy carpets and toboggans. We made snow angels and threw snowballs, coming home with rosy cheeks. One year when I was about seven, long, clear icicles grew from the eaves of our house. Dad snapped them off and we sucked on them like popsicles. They didn’t taste very good, but it was fun.
For Christmas when I was about 11, my sister and I received matching ten speed bikes for Christmas. We couldn’t wait for Spring, so created our own track in the back yard and rode around and around in the snow for hours.
When I was 16, my dad helped teach me to drive, and a snow day was an opportunity to learn. Dad brought me and my sister to an empty parking lot at the old Brooks School and showed us how to get out of ice skids by turning the steering wheel into the slide, rather than jerking it in the opposite direction and hitting the brakes, a normal reaction and which would cause an accident. Not only did he show us, but he made us do it while he was sitting in the passenger seat. We became comfortable with having the car get out of and then regain control.
This skill has helped me avoid several accidents over the years. When I was at university I worked as a late-night janitor, cleaning the faculty offices and classrooms on campus. One winter night I drove home at 2 a.m., turned left onto my Provo street, and found my car sliding hopelessly towards the deep rain gutters. I remember thinking that there was nothing I could do, but I let up on the brake like my dad taught me, and the car came to a stop and stalled right on the edge of the gully. I carefully backed up and drove the remaining few meters home, shaken but safe.
Another time right after university graduation, I was living and working back in Powell River. I rented a basement suite in a house south of town on Byron Road. I made it up the first hill, but when I was turning right to go up the second hill, the loss of speed caused me to lose momentum. I started sliding backward towards a forested embankment on the opposite side of the street. I had the idea to quickly change gears into reverse, cause the car to slide around so that I was facing back down the first hill, and quickly change into drive to stop the slide and start going down the hill. It worked! I was shaken but managed to park at the bottom of the hill and decided to walk up and down the kilometre or so until the roads were better.
Although there is something fun about being out in the snow, there is also something peaceful about cozying up inside to watch the flakes come down and read a good book.
Writing prompt: How about you? What are your snow day memories?
TODAY WE REMEMBER THE END OF WWI and all those who served, were killed and impacted by the Great War. A few months ago, I was the keynote speaker at a family history conference in Victoria and a year previously had been given the topic: 100 years since the end of WWI. I was flattered to be asked to speak but was concerned about what I would say; although I loved history, I knew very little about WWI.
As I am neither a professional historian, nor an expert on WWI, I decided to focus on what I do best: gathering stories. I chose to study Duncan, BC and spent many hours at the BC Archives in Victoria where I read about Duncan and the War through the Cowichan Leader from 1914 through 1918. I found myself immersed in the initial excitement followed by the unsettling reality of war that was revealed through graphic and tragic letters from the boys at the front. I was caught up in the town’s fervor to wrap bandages, raise money, send parcels, and preserve food – anything to help with the war effort.
I felt an overwhelming sadness on the battle days when everything was being reported as normal at home in Duncan (whose chickens laid the largest eggs?) while I knew that thousands were at that moment being killed at places like Vimy Ridge. By digging deep into one town’s war experience, I was able to feel a small glimpse of what it was like to live through the war, as a soldier and as a loved one at home.
We have a tendency to think that those who lived before were naïve and led simpler lives; as I read articles in the newspaper I realized that their concerns were similar to those we see in the news today – how will returning veterans be reintegrated back into their communities and into the workplace; how have the horrors of war impacted them; how should immigrants (“enemy aliens”) be treated; the importance of buying local and supporting the local economy through troubling times; recycling products and saving food.
Immersing myself in local history and focusing on the community helped me to better understand my own family and what their lived experience was on the home front through the war. As a result of my year of research, Remembrance Day is more personal, more poignant, more sad.
Do you have any family members who served in WWI? If you haven’t had a chance to delve into WWI history, I would encourage you to do so. In Canada, we have an amazing array of digital archives and records to help you learn about the experience of your WWI ancestor. Check out the Library and Archives Canada site for photos, personnel databases, war diaries, and more.
I AM DRAWN TO THE PAST.
Although my father’s parents were both deceased by the time I was 11 years old, I can still map out the layout of their home in my mind: the black flagstones in the entranceway where I gave untutored tap dance recitals in my black patent shoes, the sliding screen door that grandpa walked through by accident (accompanied by some very choice words not fit for small ears), and the piano with the cushioned bench that I have in my home now; I loved to pretend that I could play elegantly just like Grannie Inkster.
Perhaps the fact that my beloved grandparents died when I was so young impressed on me the fragility of a life, the transience of unpreserved stories.
As a teenager and young adult, I travelled to Duncan, BC and interviewed my great-aunt, neighbours, and childhood friends of Grannie. One of them gave me the photo above; Peter had transferred from Nanaimo to work in the Nanaimo Duncan Utilities office while native Duncanite Kay worked next door at Fletcher Music.
I also met with a man who had served overseas with Grandpa Inkster in WWII in No. 16 Canada General Hospital Army unit. He provided me with photos, memorabilia, timelines, and most precious of all: stories.
A passion for stories has stayed with me and sharing these glimpses into the past brings me joy. Join me as I memorialize some of my family story adventures and as I share how you can do the same.