Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Paper Is Forever

By Liz Adair

I don’t trust electronic copies. In the first blush of new computer ownership, I reveled in the ease of keeping copies of letters I wrote to children and family. No need to worry about piles of filing accumulating in a bin when, with a few simple keystrokes, a copy could be etched forever on a five-and-a-half inch floppy disk and kept for posterity. Years later, I realize that my current posterity has never heard of a floppy disk, and the letters are irretrievable, since we haven’t had a computer with a five-and-a-half inch drive for well over a decade, and even if we did, I doubt my current word processing program could read it.

I do have a letter, though, written by my great, great grandfather in 1856. I have a fistful of letters written by and to my grandmother, who died in 1965. And, I have every letter I ever wrote my mother, including one from Girl Scout Camp in 1954, but all before the advent of the computer.

I love computers and the ease of storing files electronically, but my mantra has become Make a Hard Copy! Paper is low tech, but that is its virtue. It will last. And last. And last. Especially now that most good quality bond paper for photocopying or printing from a computer is acid free.

So, I urge all to hit that print button, be it for an email written or received or a piece of research found. Take the time to make a copy and a little more time to file it. Ten or fifteen years hence, you’ll be glad you did.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Fruit Jars Under the Windmill

By Liz Adair

One of the earliest family stories I remember hearing as a child, sitting on the swept-earthen dooryard of my grandmother's house, listening to the grownups rocking and reminiscing in the balmy air of a New Mexican summer evening, was how a team that my grandfather was breaking to harness bolted. He had them hitched to a buckboard, and as he tried to gain control, he stood in the wagon and hauled back on the reins.

This was about 1920; my mother was four years old, the last of nine children raised on a starve-out homestead. In the front yard was a derelict windmill fan, and under its spreading blades my grandmother stored all her fruit jars. As the runaway team cut through the yard, my Uncle Curtis scooped up my mother and carried her to the safety of the doorway of the house. Just as they reached the doorway, they turned in time to see the horses leap over the fan, dragging the wagon behind, with Granddad still on his feet, cursing and sawing on the reins.

The scene must have been etched in more than one memory, because whenever the family gathered, someone would tell the story. It was eerie, forty years later, to drive out to the old homesite and find the rusted windmill fan with broken, blue-glass shards underneath, a testament to the story's veracity.

I used this story as I wrote The Honest in Heart. Here's the passage:

Emory took his cigarette papers out of his pocket, selected one and slowly made a crease in it. Without taking his eyes from the job at hand, he asked, “Do you remember that flashy chestnut that appeared one day at our place out at Cutter?”

“The one we called Dutchess? Sure, I remember. She wasn’t a mustang, that was for sure!”

“Nope. She was one of them five-hunnerd-dollar horses with a pedigree long as old Ollie’s face come payday. The old Gent took his time about finding who she belonged to. I don’t know, but I think he’d like to’ve had a foal out of her before he went lookin’ for the owner.” Emory licked the paper and twisted the end of his cigarette. He put it in his mouth and turned sideways to get a match out of his pocket. “Do you remember the day he decided to break Dutchess to harness?” Lighting the cigarette, he pitched the flaming match out the window and looked inquisitively at Heck.

“Sure I remember! He had her doubled with old Headlight. I was the one that got Lucy out of the way when they bolted.”

“I can still see Papa standin’ up on the wagon box, whippin’ those horses and cussin’ a bluestreak, with Dutchess all white-eyed, and Headlight—danged if I don’t think he was enjoyin’ it! They went right over that old windmill fan that was lyin’ on the ground. It’s a wonder one of ‘em—horse or man—didn’t get killed.”

“Yep, and Mama had her empty fruit jars stored under that windmill. Broke pretty near every one.”

They both sat still, remembering, seeing again their father standing in the wagon as it pitched and reeled and finally flew through the air as the horses, galloping, pulled it over the huge silver blades.

Welcome to Family Writers!

Thank you for visiting us here at our new Family Writers blog, brought to you by two women who love to write and who love family. Now, in addition to powerful presentations, novels and non-fiction writing, Liz Adair and Cecily Markland bring you this blog. Here we will share ideas for adding color and exciting details to your personal and family history and for using real-life events, characters and settings in your fiction writing. Most of all, we will use this blog to create a family of writers who are committed to preserving family values and tradition through the written word.
Feel free to join in. Share your comments, post your questions, and tell us about the experiences you have had in combining family history and writing.