Reflections from Modern Memoirs Client Eileen Hultin

Eileen Hultin published her book entitled Embracing the Unexpected: A Memoir with Modern Memoirs in 2021. This Assisted Memoir took one year and one month from the day she first contacted us to the day books arrived on her doorstep. We asked Hultin to reflect on what the publication process was like for her, and what it’s meant to share her book with others.

1. You said that, reflecting back on your decades of accumulated memories, you have much to share with your grandchildren, “who simply cannot imagine what the world looked like when we were small.” What strikes you as the biggest way the world has changed, and what has stayed the same?

Eileen Hultin: Very, very little is the same. Only the basic need for human contact has stayed the same. People still love to celebrate holidays and birthdays together. We are still human beings with the need for human touch, but everything external is different. If someone came back now from 1947 or 1950, they would not recognize the planet. For me, the most significant changes are in communications and travel, which have opened up the world to a vast number of people. There have also been great changes in medicine. With the risks surrounding surgery, disease, and infection, life was much more tenuous when I was a child. Another thing I have never gotten over is appliances! Household chores used to be terrible—you worked so hard. We didn’t have electric mixers, irons, dishwashers, hairdryers, curling irons, vacuum cleaners, floor polishers, leaf blowers. We did everything by hand, so that something that takes ten minutes today would’ve taken two hours back then.

I also see some negative changes, especially here in the West with a decline of our culture that is very worrisome. There was a bigger emphasis on people trying to be their best when I was a child. If you weren’t doing what was expected of you, there was an element of shame, and it seems we’ve lost that. We need to teach the children a little differently—from making sure children are still able to write in cursive to providing strong lessons on history. Without an understanding of history, there is a loss of wisdom. Great leaders have made great mistakes, and if we remember that, it will help us to avoid the same mistakes in the future. I admit I’m not an educator, it’s just a sense I have after 87 years of living.

2. You were born in England, have lived in Mexico and the United States (of which you are now a citizen), and have traveled extensively around the world. What have all of your moves and travels taught you about connection to place?

Eileen Hultin: When we travel, it’s very easy to become what they call an “Ugly American,” to be unconsciously rude. You can’t do that. When I travel to or live in a new place, the first thing I try to do is to stop thinking of myself as British. It’s really important to absorb the culture in which you find yourself. You don’t have to pretend to be Mexican, for example, but I think you’re really missing a wonderful opportunity if you don’t learn to love Mexico. Some people I knew in Mexico never tried to learn to speak the language, but I got a teaching diploma in Spanish so that I could talk with my Mexican friends in their language. I wanted to know about the food, their life, what they believed.

I also think it’s a mistake to continue to think of your birth country as “your” country if you live elsewhere. There’s not any one thing that makes a new country become “your” country, but the first time you hear someone condemn it and you become upset, that is when you realize where your loyalty lies. You’re not going to have your adopted country defamed. I am fiercely loyal to America, embarrassingly so!

3. You said you were raised in a community in which the prevailing belief was that “education was wasted on girls who would marry anyway and stay home raising children.” What role has education played in shaping your life?

Eileen Hultin: Working-class parents couldn’t wait for their teenaged girl to leave school so that she could get a job and earn a living. That’s the way it would’ve been for me had I not gone to high school. Without my uncle, who said, “Let’s make sure she gets an education,” it would not have happened. Then Renee Webster, the headmistress, saw something in me and never let me drop any of the classes I asked to drop. She never gave up hope on me. I was very taken with Renee Webster, and she was a fabulous role model for me. She came from an upper-class family, and her parents traveled extensively with her when she was a little girl. She was elegant, and it seemed like she knew everything. She represented another world to me. She seemed so in control of her life, and that was important to me. I always kept in touch with her afterwards.

It was Renee Webster’s approach to education that propelled me to become a re-entry student at Stanford University, graduating at age forty-eight with a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Art History. That led to an offer to become a docent at the Cantor Museum on the Stanford campus. Graduating from Stanford, a year after my first marriage fell apart, is the one achievement in my entire life of which I am most proud. I have lived a much richer life as a result of the extra years of study.

4. You express your creative self through painting and photography. How do you think that the visual arts influenced you as the writer of your memoir?

Eileen Hultin: Writing is another form of self-expression, and it needs to please the senses. So, every time I was describing a scene, whether it was something horribly dramatic and sad, or something frightening, like the stormy, week-long kayaking trip my second husband, Johan, and I did in Tofino, I tried to bring it to life with sensory detail. That’s very like painting or photography because you want the person who views your composition to sense what you’re painting. When I do a landscape, I want to present it in such a way that the person is there. They can really see that beautiful light on the trees and sparkling on the water. It is the same with writing. When I was writing about Tofino, I thought, “This was the most horrifying experience, thinking I was not going to live through it, that I was going to drown. How can I capture the impact of that moment?” So, instead of hurrying along with the story, I tried to get the reader onto the kayak with me in the rain, to see my swollen hands and feel my shoulders wracked with pain. I know I was successful because of all the readers who’ve told me they can’t put the book down. They talk about the Tofino trip and say, “God, that was a terrifying experience.” And I think, “Good, that worked!”

5. In the conclusion of the book you say, “Having lived this long, eventful, and happy life, I have learned to forever expect the unexpected.” Were you aware of the truths that you wanted to share in your memoir, or did the writing process help reveal them to you?

Eileen Hultin: As I wrote, I realized that finishing the book was supremely important to me. I wanted to inspire others who were struggling with any turn of events that overwhelmed them. I believe the universe works in strange ways, but there are no accidents. Somebody will read this book at the right moment for them, when they think they can’t face reality, and they’ll realize, “Sure I can.” Also, I wanted to point out that one doesn’t have to start out in life with a proverbial silver spoon. You can succeed when the odds are stacked against you. Attitude is very important, and so is gratitude. If we could just learn to be grateful for what we have instead of looking at what we don’t have, I think the world would be a much nicer place, and I think people would be a lot happier. If you can be grateful for what you have, it helps you to have a good attitude going forward. I think the two words go together.

Written By Hand

Is there any joy quite like receiving a real card or letter in the mail? This milestone occurs at the mailbox at the end of the driveway—usually when you have gone out in your old slippers to bring in the mail. Amongst the rectangular, frowning bills and the shouting ads of junk mail, you see a square, a handwritten envelope. The ink is blue, or black, or occasionally a colorful marker. The shiny stamp, manually applied and slightly askew, has been bought by a person, likely from a person behind a counter who brought out soft binders of clear plastic sleeves holding thousands of stamps from which to choose—fish, wildflowers, jazz in America, breast cancer awareness, holiday, vintage cars. Stamps are their own works of art. On this envelope, you have to squint to see beneath the wavy black lines left by the postal machine, but in little multicolored dots the stamp proclaims, “Celebrate.”

Before noticing the recipient’s address in the upper left hand corner or on the back, your eyes fall on the main address with immediate recognition of the sender. The writer is almost standing before you. Oh, hello, sister… mother… son… old friend. It’s nice of you to stop by.

There’s a distinct feeling of relief and exhilaration that you have something other than bills to pay and ads to recycle. Dog barks. You wave to a neighbor. The day, though drizzly, has cracked a smile. You walk back in the house, having placed the little square on top of the pile in your hands.

In your eagerness to open the envelope, you struggle to get the corner started with your finger, resulting in a paper cut. Couldn’t you wait to walk to your desk and grab the letter opener? If you were able to muster such patience and foresight, you would slice the envelope with clean satisfaction, then put the letter opener back in its place, in a ceramic mug that says “Stay Calm and Carry On,” the handle of which broke off some years back.

You gently pull the card from its casing; it is artsy or cute or inspiring, with a folded-up letter on ruled notebook paper inside it. That handwriting. There it is again, adorning the card, filling the page. You even hear the writer’s voice somewhere in your mind as you read.

There is the time delay factor to manage. Written time vs. Real time. Four or five days or maybe a week has passed from the time the letter was penned until this moment that you hold it in your hands. When you read the line “By the time you read this I will be in [city, state, or country]…” you have to wonder, “So where is she? Is she there yet?” But then again, time doesn’t matter. The essence of the person captured in those lines leaps out at you. A holograph. Timeless, singular, and almost real.

And how is it possible that even though we all (of a certain generation) learned penmanship in elementary school, handwriting can become so unique to each of us? Almost like snowflakes and faces.

There might be occasional mistakes in the writing. Oops, that word was spelled wrong! That word didn’t fit on the line and couldn’t be hyphenated. An “h” is crossed instead of the “t.” The mistakes remain, crossed out with the pen because there is no “delete” key. The imperfections last, like scars and wrinkles and varicose veins.

You sit at the counter and read the card quickly, then start over again, slowly.

You can read it as many times as you wish. You can read it aloud to your dog.

Then you place the card on the table, or perhaps the mantelpiece. How long will it stay there? A day? A week? A month? I tend to keep cards for a year, minimum.

Does every home contain a shoebox of cards and letters hidden somewhere in the attic, under the bed, or in the basement? I have boxes and boxes (and boxes) of letters and cards. I’m not proud of this, but I’ve found no way to discard the papery versions of my sister, mother, son, or friend. Don’t cross me! I love them! Call me a hoarder, museum docent, or even a graveyard keeper, I’ve been tending this mausoleum of correspondence for over half a century.

I apologize to those who will have to deal with my boxes of letters and cards some day in the future. You have my permission to dispose of them, light a bonfire, or make a book out of the ones that are important to you.

For now I will delight in every card I receive and every one I write. And I trust you will always recognize my handwriting.

Watch out for Loose Freds: Confirming Identity in Genealogical Research

A connected Fred Sonnenberg, listed in the 1900 U.S. census with his wife and five of their six children (one of whom is also named Fred) in LeRay, Blue Earth County, Minnesota. Source: Ancestry.com

When I first started studying my family history, I was determined to research and write about my ancestors (especially the women) as individuals, instead of focusing on who they were in relationship to others. Rather than thinking about people as someone else’s spouse or parent, I wanted to consider them on their own merits, to find out as much as I could about each person’s own feelings and ideas, struggles and accomplishments.

Unfortunately, I soon learned that focusing on individuals while conducting genealogical research can lead to mistakes. A source or document might list only the name we are researching, and no other people who are readily associated with our research subject; because of that, we can’t be sure, without additional analysis, that the individual named in that source or document is the one we are researching—that he or she is our he or she. Of course, an individual’s name, birthdate, birthplace, residence, and occupation take us a long way toward identifying that person. But genealogical research is (obviously!) firmly rooted in relationships. With some records, we need to confirm the identity of an individual through connections with other people: parents, siblings, spouses, children, extended family members, friends, associates, and neighbors.

The shorthand quip I’ve devised to remind myself of this key lesson is: Watch out for loose Freds!

One of my paternal great-great-grandparents was Friedrich “Fred” Sonnenberg. As I began to research him, I knew very little about his life. But according to a family tree drawn by my paternal grandmother, he had married a woman named “Pauline Silkey.” I knew that any documents I found that listed the two of them together would be connected to the “right” Fred Sonnenberg.

I soon came across a cemetery record and obituary that said that Fred, who was born in Posen, Prussia in 1850, “came to this country when a young man and settled in Minnesota.” In 1879, he married “Paulina Silke” near Smith’s Mill, and together, they raised a family of six children on a farm in LeRay Township.

Most of the documents I found in initial internet searches—marriage, birth, death, and census records—listed Pauline and their children and were clearly associated with my Fred Sonnenberg. I quickly made printouts of those findings and put them in my binder.

But then there were other documents associated with the vague “came to this country when a young man” phase of his life, and they were problematic. According to the 1900 and 1910 U.S. censuses, Fred came to the United States in 1872. When I searched passenger lists with that year of arrival, I found one “Fred Sonnenby” from Germany, born about 1850, traveling from Liverpool, England to Boston, Massachusetts. But he was apparently traveling alone, and there was no other information to confirm whether he was my Fred.

Similarly, I found a “Fredrick Sonnenberg” listed in the 1875 Minnesota census, as well as variously spelled Frederick Sonnenbergs listed in several early Minnesota city directories. But in these records, his name was not listed in association with anyone else to confirm his identity. It appeared that Fred Sonnenberg was not an unusual name, and the ones who were listed alone could not be immediately confirmed as correct. I put these printouts in a pile labeled “Loose Freds.”

It’s not that I could never confirm whether any of these Freds were my Fred; it’s just that I couldn’t confirm them right away. Loose Freds require caution. They require analysis of other evidence and the formulation of an argument that explains a conclusion. I’ve made mistakes when I have found someone by name only and assumed they were mine. And I’ve seen others include documents on online family trees that I too might have thought belonged with that person, but later figured out were not.

For example, a client had an ancestor named William Rooney. We knew that this ancestor was born in Wisconsin in 1861, but we didn’t know who his parents were. In the 1880 U.S. census, two William Rooneys who were five years apart in age were found living in the household of a Patrick and Mary Rooney. One William was listed as a son, and the other was listed as a boarder. On the online family tree we were reviewing for clues, we found this census attached to a person who appeared to be “our” William Rooney, and it was attached as evidence that Patrick and Mary were his parents. However, the calculated birth year of the William listed as the son didn’t match the birth year of the William we were researching, and the calculated birth year of the William listed as the boarder did. The person who attached this census to “our” William didn’t realize that it was William the boarder and not William the son who was “our” William. In this case, William the boarder was a loose Fred, found in a family that was not his own (though Patrick and Mary may have been his uncle and aunt.)

When a record turns up in an online search results list, we are often anxious to add it to our collection of evidence. But it’s important to know that some documents end up on “suggested records” results lists simply because other people have attached them to online family trees—and other people can make mistakes. Finding a person in name only is sometimes not enough. Before jumping to conclusions, return to relationships and connect those loose Freds!

Reflections from Modern Memoirs Client Mary Alice Dillman

Mary Alice Dillman is a repeat client with Modern Memoirs. Her first book, entitled Gratitude: A Legacy of a Life, was an Assisted Memoir published in 2012. Her second book, entitled Thoughts in Motion: A Collection of Essays, came out just this year and is available for sale through the author (see details below). We asked Dillman to reflect on the publication process of her second book and what it has meant to share it with others.

1. Your newest book reflects on a wide range of subjects you have read about over time, in a variety of literary forms. How did you discover the books that grew your reading list?

Mary Alice Dillman: Visiting bookstores is a hobby of sorts that has let me find many wonderful books over the years, though they sometimes seem to find me. I have a keen interest in researching the ideas of notable figures such as Thomas Jefferson, Sojourner Truth, and John Steinbeck. My own library searches and book purchases helped me learn about their intriguing lives and perspectives. In addition, I scan book reviews, eagerly accept suggested titles from friends, participate in a book club, and receive books about interesting topics as gifts.

2. In the introduction to Thoughts in Motion, you write, “Through the years, the capacity and desire to read has been the beginning of my writing.” How do the processes of reading and writing feed one another in your life?

Mary Alice Dillman: Reading gives one the ability to get inside someone else’s world; it enhances other ways of thinking; and it engages learning that may shift one’s perspective. For this author, the process of reading other authors and researching their subjects inspires a desire to write. Organizing the material, and then writing a response in the form of an essay helps me to clarify what I think and what I believe. Furthermore, while writing my thoughts, I may have an idea that I would never have had if I weren’t recording my thoughts more permanently. Therein, as an author, I make connections with other authors to create original ideas of my own. To quote historian David McCullough, reading and writing stimulate “the calisthenics for the brain.”

3.   An essay is by definition an analytic, interpretative, or critical literary composition, and you share in your introduction that you find essay writing to be a creative outlet, as well. How is that so for you?

Mary Alice Dillman: Essay writing is a creative outlet that best expresses my intellectual self. My talent lies more in analytical, speculative, philosophical, and interpretive thinking rather than in writing fiction. Novels require a broad imagination that commands visionary, inventive language with a multicolor syntax. Writing essays best fits my writing strengths. The form of an essay invites my creative talent into invigorating, compelling, and stimulating thinking.

4.   What inspired you to collect your essays into a book to be shared with others?

Mary Alice Dillman: When I collected all the essays I had written, I realized I could either leave them in limbo or share them with others for consideration. I wanted to share them. Since the essays reflect my thoughts, ideas, and values, perhaps an audience would emerge to debate, discuss, or enter a conversation about these ideas. Thus, I collected the essays in a published book. The usefulness, worth, and importance of this collection will dwell with the reader. If they are inspired by these essays and enjoy them, the purpose of sharing them with others will have been achieved.

5.   How do the title of your book and the image on the cover capture the essence of your project?

Mary Alice Dillman: The image on the cover of Thoughts in Motion portrays a rushing stream cascading down a rocky slope of a mountain. The flow of water is not static but dynamic in its intensity as it rumbles across rigid stones. Likewise, the thoughts of a writer flow in words like a stream in motion. For the writer, the pace of thinking increases or decreases in its flow, inspired by constant gleanings, or hindered by blocks of silence. Thereupon, a link between the title of the book and the image on the cover appropriately connects the theme of resilience moving through these essays.

Interested in reading more? Readers can purchase Dillman’s book Thoughts in Motion: A Collection of Essays by emailing her at maryalicedillman@gmail.com.

Hail Grandma: A Clock's Chimes Evoke Devotion to Family

This post is the third in a series-in-progress by company president Megan St. Marie about heirlooms and objects related to her family history that she keeps in her office to inform and inspire her work at Modern Memoirs.

Close-up of the clock that hangs in Megan St. Marie’s office at Modern Memoirs

In her book The Writing Life,[i] Annie Dillard writes, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing.” I’ve recalled these deceptively simple lines many times over the years in what has sometimes felt like a failing struggle to devote enough time to family, while also working outside the home and following creative pursuits.

This struggle was more difficult when I worked in academia than it is now. When I was teaching, the blur of days moving from one to the next often made me feel like I was missing out on the very life I’d built, especially as I saw my children growing up all too fast. Where did the time go? was a near-constant refrain running just under the surface of my Sisyphean to-do list.

It took me far too long to admit that the strain I was under was unsustainable because I was terrified of losing the stability of steady contracts and reliable benefits for my family. I also truly loved teaching, and even though I was overloaded, I felt appreciation from my students and from the university itself. Midway through my faculty years, I was invited to select a gift from a catalog to mark a milestone year of service to the university. Thinking that a timekeeping device was a good symbolic choice to mark an anniversary, I selected a wall clock with a pendulum. I didn’t, however, consider where I would actually put the clock, and so it sat in its box in my home office for several years.

In fact, I didn’t unbox the clock until the summer after I concluded my final semester of teaching to focus on my work with Modern Memoirs. My husband, Sean, and I had purchased the company from founder Kitty Axelson-Berry in July 2019, at which point I’d scaled back to a part-time contract for the 2019/2020 academic year. While we were optimistic about our new business’s prospects, we had taken a big risk by drawing on retirement savings for the purchase, and I was initially leery of abandoning the security of my teaching career. Honestly? I never would have made the leap if it weren’t for Sean’s faith in me. “It’s a big investment,” he told me during one of our many conversations leading up to the closing date on the business. “But if I’m going to invest in anything, it’s you.”

How could I resist such an encouraging sentiment? I will forever be glad I did not. My work at Modern Memoirs is extraordinarily fulfilling, and perhaps because lockdowns during the pandemic inspired many people to take the time to write their memoirs and research their family trees, 2020 proved to be the most successful year in the company’s history. This achievement gave me the confidence to leave academia for good and to move Modern Memoirs to larger offices with plans for continued growth. It was this move that prompted me to bring my clock from the university to my new office, where I thought it could serve both as a memento of the many good experiences I had in academia, and as a tangible reminder to be deliberate in how I spend this hour, and that one, my days, my life. I was determined that my change in career would mean more time with my family.

When I opened the box and looked at the instruction manual, I discovered a way that the clock would not just encourage my resolve to protect family time, but prompt time spent in communion with my ancestors. The manual noted several options for the chimes the clock could play on the hour, among them the song “Ave Maria.” The choice was easy. Not only did “Ave Maria” evoke the surname I took when Sean and I married, St. Marie, it was also a favorite song of my paternal grandmother, Lucienne Marie Laroche Lambert (1915–1986). I very much liked the idea of hearing its melody throughout the day in a space where I had set about surrounding myself with heirlooms and other objects connected to my heritage to inform and inspire my efforts to guide others in their memoirs and family-history work.

The eldest of thirteen children who survived to adulthood (two more siblings died as infants), Grandma Lambert was born in the border town of Highgate, Vermont to parents who emigrated from Québec. She left school after the sixth grade to help her family at home, married at twenty-one, and had thirteen children with my grandfather, Homer Raymond Lambert (1908–1974). She died when I was ten years old, and I am fortunate to have many memories of time spent at her house with our extended Franco American family. Some of my most vivid memories are simple ones of Grandma greeting us upon our arrival at the homestead. On Thanksgiving Day 1982, when I was six years old, she proudly welcomed everyone wearing the red velvet dress from her 1936 wedding day. The article of clothing I most closely associate with her, however, is an apron. It seemed that whenever my family walked into the house through the kitchen door, she would be standing at the sink doing dishes with her back to us. Hearing us, she’d turn and walk over, calling, “Alloo! Alloo! Alloo!” in French-accented English while wiping her hands on her apron before wrapping us up in warm hugs.

A devout Catholic, my grandmother’s faith was the very core of her life. Like countless other Catholic women before her and since, she drew strength from Mary as a paragon of motherhood, which explains why “Ave Maria,” its lyrics the Latin version of the prayer “Hail Mary,” was so special to her.

Lucienne Marie Laroche Lambert, Thanksgiving 1982, when she greeted her family wearing the dress from her 1936 wedding day. Her hand is touching her wedding photo, and the wedding photo of her parents hangs above on the wall.

Ave Maria, gratia plena
(Hail Mary, full of grace)
Dominus tecum.
(the Lord is with you.)
Benedicta tu in mulieribus,
(Blessed are you among women,)
et benedictus fructus ventris tui,
Iesus.
(and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.)
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,
(Holy Mary, Mother of God,)
ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
(pray for us sinners,)
nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.
(now and at the hour of our death.)
Amen.
(Amen.)

My grandmother’s thirteen children were with her at the hour of her death, and her greatest legacy is how close-knit the family remains to this day. In my experience, it is a family full of grace in how it welcomes newcomers, sets aside differences, and lovingly affirms the individuality of its members. Cousins, aunts, and uncles keep in touch with phone calls, visits, letters, and private social media groups, and we gather annually at the family homestead for a reunion each summer. Last year’s gathering was especially joyous since the pandemic had prevented our reunion in 2020. As I caught up with one of my aunts about the success of our business and how well Sean and the kids and I were doing, she said, “You’re in a sweet spot now, aren’t you? Savor it!”

This was good advice. I count myself lucky to have both a full family life and a rewarding career; but even though my life’s pace is much less hectic now, it is still too easy to let the days blur into each other without savoring the sweetness of the hours. I know that in the midst of her busy life managing her full household, my grandmother regularly prayed the rosary, a practice that arose from her devotion to Mary and that I imagine gave her precious contemplative moments. My own relationship to Catholicism has lapsed in a formal sense—perhaps a topic for another piece of writing—but my clock’s chiming of “Ave Maria” never fails to ground me in that part of my heritage by connecting me to the blessed memory of this woman who spent her days, spent her life, caring for her family. I hear the melody, and I pause for just a moment in my workday, sometimes more, to think of her devotion to family, grateful for how it inspires mine.

[i] Dillard, Annie. The Writing Life. New York: Harper & Row, 1989.

Reflections from Modern Memoirs Client Stephen Rostand

Dr. Stephen Rostand is a repeat client with Modern Memoirs. His photography book entitled Mostly Paris was his first project, and it came out in 2007. The second book, a department history entitled The Division of Nephrology at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, 1958–2008, Fifty Years of Excellence, was published in 2014 and reprinted in 2019. The third book, a family history book entitled Photographs and Memories: Our Family History, was published in 2020.

We asked the author to reflect on what the publication process was like for him for these three very different books, and what it has meant to share them with others.

1.  While you are an M.D. by profession, your hobby/passion is photography. What prompted you to have a sampling of original 8x10 glossy prints transformed into a book? Do you have a favorite photo or two in this collection?

Stephen Rostand: I have been actively photographing for at least 50 years. During that time, I have accumulated thousands of photographs and have reduced the number to those that I think are exceptional. At one point I started considering what to do with them and how to preserve them for family and friends who seemed to like them. I had been to many photo exhibitions and had also seen the works of well-known photographers in books. I felt that many of my photographs were as good as theirs, and that gave me the idea for a book in which I could preserve the best of them. However, because I am a private person, I had to overcome my initial reluctance to expose my inner self to others. After all, what is the photograph but a projection of the photographer, his/her vision, viewpoint, and attitude towards the subject? The photographer is the photograph and vice-versa. It took me about a year to further winnow the photographs, select or write commentary to accompany those photographs, and find someone to produce the book. I was fortunate to find Modern Memoirs through their small ad in The New Yorker. They produced a magnificent book that is, in itself, a work of art. I have distributed the books as gifts to family and friends in the United States and Europe. It’s hard to answer which photo is my favorite because, truthfully, all of them are. Each one represents something different, and I cannot select one over another. It’s like asking who your favorite child is.

2.  Your department history is shared with students, colleagues, and residents of the Division of Nephrology at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. What sort of feedback have you received from your book’s readers? How does providing them with this institutional knowledge enhance their studies and their practice?

Stephen Rostand: When I retired after nearly 40 years on the faculty, my director asked me if I would write a history of our division. I had been one of the original members of the division and had participated in its growth and subsequent importance. Having majored in history in college and having read many historical works, I was flattered and eager to do it. More than a chronology or collection of anecdotes, I decided to write a historical narrative that spanned 50 years, from the beginning of our division to the arrival of the chief who asked me to write the story. I used the university archives, interviewed past and present colleagues, discussed some of the university politics affecting our division, and dealt with some very sensitive issues involving people who were still on the faculty. It took nearly three years to research and writing. To say the least, it was very well received and has been distributed to all our past trainees, the dean, university president, visiting faculty, and each trainee at the time of their graduation. It also serves a public relations function for our division. Although the book is not meant to help our graduates in their medical practice, many of our graduates are bench researchers. It describes the evolution of our field, the growth and development of our division, its faculty, and how the division was managed through a variety of difficult problems and gained its national prominence. It is instructive about how to grow a successful group and it should give our graduates a sense of pride for having been associated with the program.

3.  Your third book, Photographs and Memories, is a lovely blend of genealogy, historical context, and personal story. It includes genealogy charts, many photographs, and an appendix of “legendary” anecdotes. What did you learn about gathering a family’s history into one book, and what advice do you have for others who may be considering a similar project?

Stephen Rostand: Writing a family history requires time, attention to detail, persistence, objectivity, tact, understanding of what kind of history you wish to write, and what its goal is. Will it be an attempt to find and catalog every member of your immediate and distant family? Or will it be a more personal, intimate look at who and what kind of people your first-degree relatives were? You will need to determine if there are any existing documents and photographs of past and present family. If there are living parents and grandparents, try to interview them. Include aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, and anyone who knew them well. Draw on your own memories as well. Also remember that your childhood impressions of your parents, grandparents, and other family members may well be different from your opinions as an adult. Thus, make sure that what you write is objective or else you may create friction and enemies in the family. If necessary, you may need to get help with your genealogical research.

4.  After previously completing two very different books, why did you add this third book to the collection? Why was it important to you that you record your family history?

Stephen Rostand: As I wrote in the preface to my family history, “Our worst fear may not be death but rather the loss of memory. Life is short, memory fleeting, and the nuclear family temporary and centrifugal. Over time we disperse.” After several generations we become strangers. I wanted to make sure my children and grandchildren and cousins knew something about their origins so they would not be orphans in history. After all, our past is part of all of us and knowing who we are should help guide us in the future. As I am nearing the end of my life, I thought this history would be an important gift to pass on. I was fortunate to have all the notes my father took when he interviewed his family when he was a young man and to have various documents and the family photo album that contains photos going back to 1898. Because these important items are not in the best condition, I felt they should be preserved. It was for these reasons that I wrote the family history.

5.  How did the writing process itself help you reflect upon or uncover insights into the people and events you wrote about?

Stephen Rostand: In writing the family history I was able to reassess my parents’, grandparents’, aunts’, and uncles’ lives by placing them in historical context and seeing their growth and development through photographs. It gave me an adult perspective of my forbears, an opportunity, for the first time, to understand the complex relationships between our families, and to understand myself and my relationships better. It also brought me in contact with more distant family members whose history I could only touch on peripherally and superficially. These relatives provided me with additional details of our genealogical tree and sent me the personal memoirs of at least one family member whose experiences living in Europe from 1910 until 1949 were fascinating. Unfortunately, it arrived in my hands well after my history was published. Thus, a written family history is part of a continuum and is never really completed. Mine was written in the hope that one of my children would continue the story.