The Roots Within
“What are veins?”
I turned my wrist over, exposing the blue veins branching up like trees from forearm to palm. In a very non-scientific and probably half-true way, I tried my best to explain the function of veins to my oldest.
But my six-year-old already grasped the concept better than me.
“Oh,” he said. “Veins are like roots in our bodies!” He bounded off to play.
I’ve been thinking about his understanding—my revelation—all week.
The Memories Stories Hold
A few days later, I asked my husband what book he was going to read next. (He’s currently on the last book of the Throne of Glass series, and I understand the emotional slump that can come after finishing a big series. It’s important to have a game plan!)
He said he was thinking about something Western. I grabbed a collector’s edition of 3 Louis L’Amour novels off the teal bookcase in our bedroom, an edition I once found on my Paw Paw’s office shelf.
After my grandparents died, we looked through their house. Multiple times. It feels both irreverent and comforting to rifle through the material things of loved ones who’ve relinquished earth for eternity.
Ultimately, I’ve been glad of the the items that moved from their house to ours, like my Nan’s original painting of an old barn framed by storm clouds. Like the mug that sat in my Paw Paw’s office for years and now holds my coffee. And the brown leather book that sits in our room.
Blood and Roots
When I opened that book the other night, I rediscovered the small photo one of them had, once upon a time, tucked inside the pages. The old snapshot preserved young smiles, a literal representation of the way loved ones live on in the stories they pass down.
Like the blood in our veins, their stories determine the person we become. The true stories of their lives, the myths they immortalize, and the fiction they treasure enough to share…they all form us.
The stories my parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents gave me intentionally make up my DNA just as much as the genes they gave by accident.
They’re my roots.
P.S. Save Their Stories
I’m eternally grateful for my writing teacher, Mrs. Blalock, who introduced me and many other homeschooled students to the concept of books like the Foxfire Series. In the same vein, we released two editions of the Bois d’ Arc Magazine, collections of stories from the senior citizens in our north Texas region. That experience afforded the opportunity to hear stories from so many fascinating people, including several members of my own family who can’t tell their stories anymore.
Today, I’m thankful that my dad serves as our family scribe. He didn’t need a class in middle school to teach him the importance of preserving memories, anecdotes, and special moments. For his whole life, he’s collected these treasures, and is now compiling them into a volume so our own family doesn’t forget its roots.
Have you saved any family stories?
