That became my outline.
I took the list along when I visited my grandchildren (my daughter had
briefed the family beforehand about Grandpa's list.) Evenings, relaxed at
the table after dinner, Grandson or Granddaughter would call out, for
example, 'Grandpa! Number 67!' I made a big deal out of hauling the
list from my back pocket, carefully unfolding it, locating the number and
reading the title aloud. Then, on to chin-rubbing, head scratching, ceiling
staring, and after enough 'C'mon, grandpa! Get with it!' from all
directions I went into my act, narrating in words, tone, gestures, and body
language the events of oft-told 'Number 67', or whatever number they
had chosen.
They would listen, spellbound and cut in with comments and questions.
To them, it was their family history and often, drama, and they really
want to know. Invariably, the story was followed with reminiscences by
their Mom and Dad who added variations, details, interpretations from
their memories, and spin off comparable events in their lives, often long
into the wee hours.
Autobiography became living history-the occasion of the telling, itself, is
now an event not to be forgotten-and the finest kind of intergenerational
communication.
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