‘Of the making of many books, there is no end’, so states Ecclesiastes 12:2. And I am so glad there is no end, for as long as there are people there will always be stories and as long as there are stories there always will be books. Each of us is a story…not always in print or verbalized but a story of achievement, disaster, love, anger, determination etc…we are each unique and our stories are unique.
However, I recently a read a book that captured so many memories of my past, that I was torn between tears and laughter. I would recommend it to anyone who lived through the Depression, especially those who were teachers out West.
The title say’s it all: With Unshakeable Persistence by Elizabeth McLachlan, (Rural Teachers of the Depression Era.)
A younger person reading it would probably just say, “no way, I can’t believe that” but I said “oh, yes” as I flipped through the pages and recalled my mother placing my Dad’s worn, grey work socks on the kitchen table, taking my little hand, drawing an outline and cutting away the worn bottom, sewing up the remaining sock and handing me a lovely warm mitt with a heavy cuff to keep out the snow. I have always loved mittens ever since.
The story of the old round stove in the corner reminded me of my first Sunday school class where we all sat as close as we dared around the stove, in the church basement , in order to stay warm. At least none of us fell asleep…which may have been happening upstairs in the Sanctuary for all we knew.
But there are memories of games, long forgotten; like Run-sheep-run and Red light-green-light. I have actually forgotten how they were played but they filled up a lot of after-school hours. There were swings in the school yard and a lovely long slide, and those I truly remember.
Memory is such a gift and one we take for granted. I have a school friend who I met in grade 5…I phoned her yesterday and the image of her in her high school attire surfaced and would not vanish…to me she is forever young. Her husband has Alzheimer’s and the memories that they might have shared are all gone. My heart aches for her.
I have memories of reading, lying in bed, flashlight on, no doubt contributing to the failing eyesight I have now, but oh the joy of living in other worlds, crying as they too wept and laughing as they laughed. Good memories.
Books have been with us for a long time (as stated in Ecclesiastes) and because there will always be stories to tell, there will always be some way of recording them, in books, on tapes, CDs, memory sticks or wherever.
Our personal stories are often recorded in other person’s memories…our children, our friends, or our associates. You too are the recipient of so many stories of others lives. Only God knows what others believe about you. I hope they will be fair, loving and non-judgmental…and I hope when I think of others I will be too.
Photo by fang’s photos via Flickr/CC
