Reflections from Modern Memoirs Client Marian Leibold

Marian Leibold published her book entitled Forever Now: The Interconnectedness of All Things with Modern Memoirs in 2020. This collection of poetry took four months from the day she first contacted us to the day books arrived on her doorstep. We asked Leibold to reflect on what the publication process was like for her, and what it has meant to share her book with others.

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1. You say that the poems in your book were written from 1980 to 2019, spanning many stages of your life. What inspired you to collect them for publication when you did? Who were your intended readers?

Marian Leibold: I have been writing all of my life, and something deep inside said it was time to offer some of my work to the world. I listened to this inner prompting. With the help of Modern Memoirs, I was able to bring together a collection of poems that speaks from my heart and my experiences. My intended readers are both those who know me (or think they do) and those who don’t. I have always found poetry a deeply personal and communicative experience. I hope those who pick up my book may find something that touches their hearts and souls and brings them into the human community all the more. I hope that my poems may serve as a two-way bridge: from the reader to their own interior, and from the reader to the outside world. Poems can function as a secret code of the human heart in all of its raw and honest forms.

2. In addition to being a writer, you are also a pianist and a painter. How have these additional forms of creative expression influenced your poetry?

Marian Leibold: Writing, piano playing, and painting are all forms of expression that actually influence each other. Imagine a three-part harmony with one finger on a pen (or computer key), another on a paint brush, and a third on a piano key! Each one informs/relates to the other, and they all come from the same deep well of creative energy that lives within me (and in all of us). It’s enjoyable to play with all three and ask: What color is this sound? What sound is this word or phrase? What word or sound is this landscape? Choosing which modality to express comes from listening and trusting that energy which has not yet taken form and letting it guide me to its source. It can be tricky sometimes, as they all seem to vibrate on the same wavelength.

Marian Leibold and her equine friend, Stitch-in-Time

3. You placed your painting “Light through the Woodlands” on the cover of your book. In beautiful autumn colors, it pictures a path lined by trees. Can you share a bit about when and how you came to paint this picture? Why did you select it for your collection of poetry?

Marian Leibold: The cover painting, “Light through the Woodlands,” is one of my favorite horseback riding trails. My equine friend and I traveled that trail together many times through every season over the past twenty years. There is no happier place for me than being on horseback in the woods. I chose it for the cover because my horse gifted me simultaneously with a connection to the earth and to the sky/heights above my reach, just as I hope my poetry may be grounding and freeing for others. The painting reminds me of the natural world and the ephemeral/spiritual world and their inseparable communion with each other.

4. Tell us more about your equestrian life since several of your poems describe rides you have taken with your horse in fields and forests. In one poem, “An August Ride,” you write, “I am transported by his spirit and his body into a world / that would be devoid / Were I to be there without him.” What makes him such a critical companion on your journey?

Marian Leibold: My horse has been a very important companion and mirror on my journey because the connection between horse and rider creates a language all of its own. My horse has been my “anam cara” (loyal friend), and over the years, a mutual, unspoken trust built up such that each ride made manifest the value of this form of communication between living beings. I feel a profound joy, a clarity of thought, and a heart full of gratitude every time I ride. A writer’s muse is not unlike a trusted horse. They both carry us places we cannot find alone. Stitch-in-Time, my horse, sadly passed away last year. I will continue to find my way to horses, for they are comrades of spirit. They bring presence, honesty, and another dimension of feedback to our personal, human experience. Without a doubt, they also bring adventure!

5. What would you say to an aspiring writer who is inhibited by the idea that she or he might not have anything original to say? How might your advice find its roots in the theme of interconnectedness?

Marian Leibold: I am now a Spiritual Director, which I practice in person and on Zoom. In this work, I have the opportunity to offer deep listening, spiritual insights, and a confidential space to anyone interested in contemplating how the mystical plays an important role in the unfolding of their life’s meaning/purpose. Before I begin each session, I pray that the person I am about to see will feel safe and free to share whatever wants to come forward, and that I will help them connect with their inner goodness. I would offer this same sentiment to writers who have yet to release their words and thoughts to others. Just as no two individuals are the same, no two written works are the same. The writings are all as unique as the hand that composes them. A writer “connects” every time a word goes onto a page. “Interconnectedness” becomes apparent over time as life’s meanderings wake us up to ourselves and to the world. I would ask an aspiring writer to be brave and to trust where their writing will take them. It will be a rich and fulfilling experience to let their light come into the world, and it is a gift that gives twice: to oneself, and to others.

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The Messenger: On Inscribing a Book

Note from the author: Inscriptions appearing at the end of this blogpost were loosely based on actual clients’ dedication pages. You know who you are! Thank you for the inspiration!

I am your memoir. I am your baby, your love, your best self. Or your worst fears. I am filled with bliss and regret, perhaps in equal measures, perhaps not. Accomplishments. Hurdles. Pitfalls. Miracles. Outer successes. And the veritable inner successes, like getting through each day with a little grace.

I stand alone now, before you. Your book. A mirror, smoky or clear, streaked with tears or reflecting a Buddha’s half-smile. Proud, anxious, wary, exhilarated. A fledgling ready to flee. I want to make my way into the world. Let me go!

But wait. Before you free me… take your hand and your pen, give me one more long, deep gaze. Write your heart one more time, there on my opening pages, inscribe your soul.

And then release me to the ones you cherish. The inscription shall be a clue to my provenance, to your essence.

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To my husband,
whose everlasting love
makes my life complete

To my wife,
You taught me to notice who’s not in the room

To my eldest brother,
you put the whole family on your shoulders
for over half a century

To my son, with hopes for all who seek rights and dignity
in a world of disability

To my grandchildren, and
all of the grandchildren of the world—
may you live life and enjoy it!

To my dear friend,
You give me vital, everyday nourishment
and dance with me in the creative realm. 

To my children,
Because there were some things I couldn’t say when you were growing up,
some things I didn’t know how to say—

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Bookplate inscription from a Modern Memoirs client to his grandson, 2020

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Reflections from Modern Memoirs Client Paul Jensen

Paul Jensen published his book entitled Higher Ground: Journals of a Jaguar Monk with Modern Memoirs this year. This specialty book of journal excerpts took eleven months from the day he first contacted us to the day books arrived on his doorstep. We asked Jensen to reflect on what the publication process was like for him, and what it has meant to share his book with others.

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1. What was your process for creating the book? How did you decide which journal excerpts you would include?

The author’s desk, and a book in the making

Paul Jensen: Some of this process can be explained, and some of it remains mystically inexplicable. But the first step is writing what you live, honestly, for life should be “grand enough.” I started journaling in the seventh grade when I had a creative writing teacher who really inspired me. I use small journals that fit easily into a daypack, and Ticonderoga #2 pencils. I do all my writing by hand. Then when I’m in the editing phase, I write over it again, retracing my handwriting and bolding it. It allows me to integrate with my work and to catch the juicy lines. I select the portions to “move on” with—approximately only two-thirds of the original document—and type them into a Word document. Over the years the different entries seemed to fall into categories based on events and places, and this book began to take shape. I’d say I carried it around with me for more than a dozen years before it was completed.

2. Who was the book intended for? What feedback have you gotten from readers?

Paul Jensen: I've never really had thoughts about the “end user” at the front of my mind. There is a purity to art that must transcend the thought of who the listener or reader will be. I would think that such thoughts would tend to influence the art’s outcome, and so far, my projects have stayed true to their “natural course.” The reaction from readers has been great; people really embrace it. There’s a spirituality to it that they appreciate. And they relate to my descriptions of the places I’ve traveled.

3. You have been a musician for over 40 years and put out at least four CDs of original acoustic guitar music and songs, with two more on the way. Yet even with such a large body of work, you say in your book that “the process of songwriting still perplexes me.” You also say, “Music discovers its players, the players don’t discover the music.” What is the best way an artist can open himself or herself to being found?

Paul Jensen: If we can figure that out, we’ll have to bottle it! I think that people need to follow their dispositions, because then there’s more opportunity to connect with their true passion. I’ve been writing for a long time. My mom and I created poetry together, and my father instructed me on guitar. That was the birth of a songwriter. I’ve always had an overwhelming need to write; it’s an extension of myself. If it feels good, do it—and then you’ve got to listen to what the experience teaches you. You need to BE. The trigger to being found by the music is to live free. And the wilderness is the best place I know to experience that freedom, that simplicity. In nature we are free from confinement. It is a place for content meditation, where our senses are heightened.

4. One of your CDs is entitled John Otto: Man of the Canyon, and you talk about John Otto in several pages of your book. Who was he, and how did he influence your life?

The gravestone of John Otto (December 30, 1870–June 19, 1952). Inscription:
“Do your best for the West, the best for the world. The new day, get it going.”
John Otto, promoter and first custodian of Colorado National Monument. National Park Service photo

Paul Jensen: John Otto was the founder of Colorado National Monument. He was an eccentric, local guy who lived in the red rock canyons. He climbed the cliffs and developed the trails and advocated for the creation of a national park. Not only was that a Herculean physical effort, but the muse captured him as well, and he wrote newspaper editorials and letters to Washington, D.C. People thought he was half crazy, but he eventually persuaded President Taft to establish the park. I would hike and find the historic sites that he preserved. I read about him and became a real enthusiast of his. He lived nature; he was the Thoreau of the West. Otto said, “The truer you live, the freer you are.” When he died, he was very poor and there was no money to pay for a tombstone. So, twenty years ago, my dear friend Michael O’Boyle started a fundraising campaign to get him one, and I became very involved selling my John Otto CDs. We finally succeeded, and at the dedication ceremony they told me they had sealed a copy of the CD in the base of the stone. I couldn’t believe it. I was so honored.

5. You said that what you admire are the qualities of the “Joyful Monk.” How would you describe that person? What is the origin of the book title “Jaguar Monk”?

Paul Jensen: In my younger life, I was introduced to the monks at a Catholic monastery in Huntsville, Utah. That’s where I met Father Patrick, who spent his whole life there and embodies what I mean by the “Joyful Monk.” He had a loving heart, he bubbled over with love. He is still at his center, the peaceful monk attending to his moment. I asked him, “Why is it so easy for me to play guitar?” and he said, “It’s because you’re feeling God.” I call myself the Jaguar Monk because, after my divorce, I went through changes and was writing music and had enough income that I could buy an old Jaguar, a 1988 XK8 convertible. I could fit all of my needs into the trunk—bedroll, journals, food—and head out to sit underneath the stars. It would be my chariot for the next five years, my way of saying goodbye, and saying hello to a whole new, adventurous life. I’ll admit there is some materialism mixed in with my spirituality... It’s a narrow road to walk.

6. The cover of your book is an adaption of the cover of your forthcoming CD. It features an image of you standing beside a guitar that is burning in a fire. What is the meaning of that image to you?

Paul Jensen: First, I have to say that Modern Memoirs did such a great job with the book. There has been an overwhelming response to the cover (original design by John Malvey; photos by Mike Davenport) — not just the look, but the feel of it, too. Someone saw the image of the burning guitar and was offended by it. But it’s not meant to be an awful thing. It’s meant to symbolize a paradigm shift for me. I played guitar from the time I was fifteen years old until five years ago, when I became ill and had to give it up full-time. I can still play, but now I’m focused more on writing books. So, to me, the image is about change, about saying goodbye to the past and going forward from that moment. It’s about exploring the shift from musician to author. I’m the kind of person who refuses to give up. Instead, it’s more like, “OK, what can I do now?”

Smiling,
I write my lines.
Finish what I’ve started.
Now I have become the music I’ve written.
the verse spreads out like prayers on a spinning wheel, touching everything.
There is no time, just the illusion of it.

—Paul Jensen

Interested in reading more? Purchase this book at the link below:

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Guiding Writers in Reflecting on Good Times and Bad

This post is the sixth 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.

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Megan St. Marie’s great-grandparents Anastasie “Tazzy” Delia Raymond Lambert and Alfred “Fred” Damian Lambert celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary, 1955

I recently wrote an editorial letter to a client, encouraging him to say more about his wife in his memoir. The two met as teenagers and have been together for over 50 years. It seems clear from his narrative that he adores her and that she has played a big role in supporting him in his success as a businessman. Even though his memoir is mainly focused on his career, that sense of adoration made me very curious about the woman he married. I want to know more about her, and I’m guessing that she’d be moved by what her husband has to say about her. However, this client may choose not to add more detail about his wife’s life and their marriage, and that’s absolutely fine. We take our tagline, “Your Memoir, the Way You Want It,” seriously at Modern Memoirs, and I respect a person’s wish to protect others’ privacy even as they share much about their own lives through their writing. It’s a fine line to walk. But, oh, how I love a good love story!

“The Story of the Elopement” by John A. Lennox, a print of which hung in Tazzy and Fred Lambert’s home and is now in Megan St. Marie’s office at Modern Memoirs

My Modern Memoirs office is filled with mementos from ancestors’ and relatives’ love stories, including one to which I can only tangentially lay claim as family history. My uncle Steve Lambert recently gave me a framed picture from an 1897 edition of The London News, which hung in the home of my great-grandparents Alfred “Fred” Damian Lambert (1882‒1963) and Anastasie “Tazzy” Delia Raymond (1886‒1971). Entitled “The Story of the Elopement,” this print of a painting by John A. Lennox has a great narrative quality, inviting the viewer to speculate about the story the painter was trying to tell. An older man in the painting looks upset, his posture rigid as he stares out a window with his back to the room, while a young woman sits with her head on the table in front of her, weeping. Is this an angry father and his daughter after her elopement? To me, that seems likely, but there is no accompanying text to offer the precise details of what transpired between these two characters and the others in the composition.

“The Reconciliation” by John A. Lennox

A bit of online research by staff Genealogist Liz Sonnenberg revealed a companion image called “The Reconciliation,” by the same artist, which ran in The London News soon after this first picture was published. In it, the same cast of characters is present, and the scene looks relaxed and joyous. Whatever upset the elopement caused in the first painting seems resolved in this second scene. I ended up wondering: Why did my Lambert great-grandparents keep that first print in their home? What did they make of the domestic drama it depicts? Did this scene make them reflect on their own marriage? Or others’ marriages in their family? And, did they ever see the second picture of a happy reconciliation?

A copy of the 1905 marriage license of Anastasie “Tazzy” Delia Raymond and Alfred “Fred” Damian Lambert

The wedding photo of Megan St. Marie’s paternal grandparents, Homer Raymond Lambert and Lucienne Marie Laroche Lambert, 1936

I know that Fred and Tazzy did not elope, and in fact, I know of no stories of elopement in my family history (though I have to imagine there were some). One rather humorous family story that I did hear about the beginning of a marriage concerned my Lambert grandparents. Fred and Tazzy’s son, my grandfather Homer Raymond Lambert (1908‒1974), married my grandmother Lucienne Marie Laroche (1915‒1986) on October 7, 1936. They ended up having what might be considered the exact opposite of an elopement when her parents accompanied them on their honeymoon to the mountainous area north of the St. Lawrence River in Québec. After many months of supervised courtship in their rural, Catholic, Franco American community, this was not the romantic post-nuptial getaway my grandfather, in particular, had envisioned. As those events were recounted over the years, my grandmother would say that her parents just wanted to visit relatives along the way, while my grandfather reportedly countered that they could have done so some other time—any other time.

Wedding cake toppers used by Tazzy and Fred Lambert at their 1905 wedding

Megan and Sean St. Marie cut their wedding cake, decorated with the same cake toppers used by Fred and Tazzy Lambert at their 1905 wedding, October 11, 2014

These grandparents were married for just under 38 years, until Homer died in 1974, while Fred and Tazzy’s marriage lasted for nearly 58 years until Fred’s death in February 1963. Perhaps my favorite heirlooms from a family love story are the wedding cake toppers Fred and Tazzy used at their 1905 wedding. When my husband, Sean, and I married in 2014, we used those little figurines on our cake, too. Then last summer, I brought them to a family reunion where they decorated a cake I ordered to surprise my Aunt Molly and Uncle Hank Lambert with a cake to mark their 50th wedding anniversary. Since we married later in life, Sean and I will need to live well into our 80s and 90s, respectively, to reach such a milestone in 2064, but it would be so special to use the toppers again that year. For now, they’re protected in a pretty blue box on a shelf in my office, out of reach from my small children, who are frequent after-school visitors.

Fred and Tazzy Lambert’s wedding cake toppers decorate a 50th anniversary cake for Megan St. Marie’s aunt and uncle Molly and Henry “Hank” Lambert, 2022

The strength of Uncle Hank and Aunt Molly’s marriage has always been apparent to me, and family lore seems to confirm that Fred and Tazzy were devoted to each other, as were Homer and Lucy; but the longevity of a marriage is not necessarily an indication of its happiness. There are also stories of sad marriages and divorce in my family history, as well as those of estrangement between grown siblings, and other heartaches. It’s easy for me to encourage a client like the one I mention in the first paragraph of this piece to share more about an adored spouse; the work of guiding authors in writing about ex-spouses or estranged relatives is harder. When I’ve tried to help memoir and family-history writers decide how or if to write about strained, severed, or otherwise painful family relationships, I start from a place of empathy that arises from my own experiences of witnessing or hearing the hard family stories in addition to the happy ones.

No one gets married hoping to divorce, any more than a parent looks at their children and imagines a day when they won’t be on speaking terms. While cautioning clients against any risk of libel, my rule of thumb in guiding them editorially in writing about not just the good times, but the bad, is to consider the intentions behind the words they write, as well as their intended audience. If they are in the midst of a scene like the tumult depicted in “The Story of the Elopement,” do they hope their books will promote an eventual reconciliation? If not, what do they hope to achieve by not just writing about, but publishing, their reflections on painful family dynamics? If they imagine their children and grandchildren reading their books, what do they aim for those readers to gain from difficult family stories—beyond knowledge of the fact that virtually every family has challenges of one sort or another?

Writing about one’s life, including marriages, divorces, estrangements, and reconciliations, can bring about perspective, clarity, and sometimes even healing. Ultimately, I hope that all of our clients will write and publish their stories in ways that will bring them and their readers fulfillment and pride, joy and peace—now, fifty years from now, and for generations to come.

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Reflections from Modern Memoirs Client Robert G. Dillard, M.D.

Robert G. Dillard, M.D. published his book entitled My Life as a Neonatologist with Modern Memoirs in 2021. This Assisted Memoir took seven months from the day he first contacted us to the day books arrived on his doorstep. We asked Dr. Dillard to reflect on what the publication process was like for him, and what it has meant to share his book with others.

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1. Neonatology is a medical specialty focused on the care of newborn infants. You began your 40-year practice in the field in the early 1970s, just as a new treatment was developed that revolutionized the management of babies with breathing problems. In the preface, you describe your memoir as “a personal history of those four decades,” and as “a recollection of my professional experiences over time.” What was your goal in writing a memoir focused solely on your work life, as opposed to one about your personal life, too?

Robert Dillard: My primary goal was to document the historical advances in neonatology. I was lucky enough to become a neonatologist and experienced in real time many of the developments in my specialty. For a variety of reasons, being a physician requires maintaining a distance between one’s personal and professional life; therefore, I made a conscious decision only to write about my professional life.

2. What was one of the most rewarding events of your career?

Robert Dillard: A new treatment of a condition called respiratory distress syndrome, the most life-threatening problem that premature infants developed, became prevalent in neonatal intensive care units while I was a general pediatrician in the U.S. Army. When I begin my first job as a neonatologist upon leaving the Army, I was overwhelmed by the survival of babies with this condition. They were being treated with a radically new approach called continuous positive airway pressure (CPAP). Because of the success of the new treatment, the pediatric subspecialty of neonatology began to flourish. One of the greatest compliments I continue to receive is from parents who express their thanks for the healthcare I provided for their children. Because of that care, many of these parents have become grandparents.

3. In your book, you describe several people who inspired and mentored you by example, including a surgeon who was “the epitome of the compassionate physician,” and a faculty member who “combined clinical brilliance with caring” like no other. What potential role can a memoir play in mentorship—in guiding and teaching students?

Robert Dillard: The process of becoming a physician is a long and complex one. More than any other profession, substantial human interaction and the learning that comes from it are the cornerstones of the education of a doctor of medicine. A physician’s memoir can give the reader an introduction into the role that such interaction must play in any successful physician’s practice.

4. You donated copies of your memoir to Wake Forest University School of Medicine in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, where you taught first-year students in your retirement. What feedback have you received from those readers, or others?

Robert Dillard: I’ve not been involved in teaching medical students for a number of years and have, therefore, not received feedback from them. However, a former colleague of mine who works closely with the neonatology fellows at the Wake Forest University School of Medicine has decided to make my book required reading for first-year fellows so that they might have a better understanding of past challenges in the field of neonatology. Feedback from other readers has been positive. I was pleasantly surprised that my non-medical friends said that my book was easy to understand, and they were fascinated at the speed of progress in such a young specialty.

5. Yours was an Assisted Memoir, meaning you sent us your written manuscript, and we edited it at the level you wished, maintaining the authenticity of your voice. We then continued to work closely with you through the design and printing phases. What did you learn about yourself as a writer through this process? Did anything surprise you at any step of the way?

Robert Dillard: As a professor of pediatrics at the Wake Forest University School of Medicine, I was expected to “publish or perish,” as they say. I have always enjoyed writing, and have been accused on more than one occasion of being a frustrated English teacher. I honestly can say that I didn’t learn anything more about myself, but I enjoyed immensely remembering my professional life. Professional medical writing is primarily objective and factual. Writing my memoir provided an opportunity to give my perspective on challenges and accomplishments in neonatology. I was able not only to give factual information, but also to share personal anecdotes both heartwarming and tragic. I believe this enables the reader to feel a personal connection to a profession that I cherish and believe has made a difference in the world.

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A Comic, a Bomb, and an Essay: Finding Stories in My Abuela’s Stuff

A blog post by Publishing Intern Emma Solis

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Sunday picnic in the pine forest. My abuela, Sefita Beceiro, is the young girl drinking from a cup, circa 1950

During a recent visit to my abuelos’ small house in Lubbock, Texas, my mom told my abuela she could throw away a comic I drew in the third grade. The comic features an alien who tells a girl that invading Earth is his “duty,” and the girl falls over laughing because she heard him say “doodie.” As soon as I developed the capacity for embarrassment (and better humor), this cartoon’s perpetual place hanging up on the fridge began to taunt me. Before every visit, I hoped, even prayed, that she’d have thrown the thing out.

“No!” Abuela scolded my mom when she brought it up. “I don’t throw anything. I never throw anything.” Despite the cringeworthy cartoon, my abuela’s penchant for “never throwing anything” has always made me treasure our visits. Each one would yield a new and exciting artifact of the (not-so-distant) past, unearthed from an odd closet or drawer or pile for my siblings and me to inspect: a pair of jeans my mom wore in the 1980s, with so many giant holes she could barely work out how to put them on; a Walkman; my aunt and uncles’ school records and spelling books; a high school yearbook signature teasing my mom, “Can’t wait to see you with kids!”

Most recently, while digging through some utterly unremarkable files and manila folders, I found a college essay my Uncle Carlos wrote as an undergrad. It wasn’t a dry research paper; it was a story I had never been told. In it, he writes about visiting his own grandparents in Spain as a teenager in the 1980s, when they received a panicked call from an aunt saying, “Get out of the apartment! The Communists planted a bomb on the statue of Francisco Franco!”

The family rushed to the window to see. Sure enough, the statue of Franco mounted on horseback in the square below had forty to fifty sticks of dynamite strapped to each of the horse’s legs. Someone was called to disarm them, but in what my uncle called the “Spanish style,” that person didn’t arrive until three hours later due to a long lunch and nap. And, in “especially Spanish moods,” my family gathered on the balcony with coffees after lunch and watched the process with binoculars instead of evacuating.

After I told her about finding this paper, my abuela revealed a beautiful, disorganized photo album I hadn’t ever seen before. It’s one thing to know that my family lived through significant historical events in Spanish history, but it’s something more to see my relatives as they wanted to be seen in that era: the clothes they wore, the beach they loved, and the traditions they continued, like Sunday picnics in the pine forest. My abuelos’ immigration to America meant that I didn’t grow up around many of my Spanish relatives. Seeing those pictures and hearing stories about them helped mend this rift of connection; it almost made me feel like I was there, too.

My great-grandaunt Sara, circa 1930s

My abuela as a young girl (middle) with her parents in the foreground and other relatives, circa 1950

My granduncle Juan Manuel (left) with his parents and my abuela’s in-laws, circa 1960s

My great-grandmother Pura (short for Purificacion) playing guitar, date unknown

A “liminal space” describes a space that is transitional, derived from “limen” in Latin, which means “threshold.” Reading my uncle’s essay and looking at the photos in my abuelos’ house, itself a melange of Old-World traditions and American icons, made me feel like I occupied a blurred threshold between times and places; somewhere they seemed to overlap. Because Abuela “never throws anything,” it was as if layers of time built up in her house, accumulating evidence of my family’s lives on two continents, like a geologic cross-section of the Earth, that showed me its entire history at once.

The fact that my abuela keeps so many objects around has let my family tell stories that might otherwise have been forgotten or lost. Sometimes I worry about whether my future kids and grandkids will be able to experience the same thrill of re-discovery, because all of my pictures (and most of my music, some of my books, and many other things) are digital and therefore impermanent and intangible. A photograph or essay in hard copy can be destroyed or get lost, yes, but barring such occurrences, it can be rediscovered by anyone willing to go looking, leading to sudden, unexpected connections to the past.

So, I’m going to try to live out (within reason) my abuela’s mantra: “Never throw anything!” You might say I’ve come to think of this as a duty.

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