Of course that is not the whole story, but that is the way with stories; we make them what we will. It’s a way of explaining the universe while leaving the universe unexplained, it’s a way of keeping it all alive, not boxing it into time.
Jeanette Winterson
On the long winter nights when I was immersed in writing this book, I often felt our family spirits around me. One February night, my son Jack came in at 2:30 in the morning and, as he unlocked the back door, heard a man whistling in the summer kitchen. When Jack stepped inside the house, the summer kitchen was empty and dark. When I heard Jack’s story, I asked my mom and dad if any of our relatives were known for whistling. My dad said his father, Grandpa Morgan, loved to whistle but couldn’t anymore after having the tumor removed from his lip back in the 1930s. I had just finished the Montana Ghosts chapter, so I interpreted the whistling as a message from Grandpa Morgan, a friendly and distinctive way for him to let us know he was here for a visit and he was happy about the book project—and that he can whistle once again.
This past Memorial Day weekend, my parents and some of us kids and grandkids went down to southern Minnesota for a remembrance picnic, inspired by a recent conversation I had with Great-Aunt Clara for this book. My folks showed us the Schultz and Wieland family homesteads, which we had heard about but never seen. We stopped on the hill where Great-Great-Grandpa Schultz’s horse team had fallen on the snowy night in 1896 when my great-grandparents met. We visited the cemetery and went to our old farm and the church where my parents were married. We drove past Grandma and Grandpa Haraldson’s house, stopped at the town drug store for a soda, and did a walking tour of the street where Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa Schultz and other family members and friends had lived. We brought our genealogy books and old pictures to show the kids what it was like when we were young and when our mom and dad were young. We spent the day exploring and remembering our history.
Stories are gifts. They reveal our past, and the past is part of who we are, whether it is invisible to us or known. I am fortunate that people took the time here and there to jot down stories and save cards and letters, and that my uncle Larry and aunt Margie organized these stories and vignettes into more permanent documents that we can add to as time goes by.
Every family’s story is interesting and special. I hope this book inspires people to see the magic in their own experiences and to write down their family stories.