In this post I divide my 'leave it all on the page' version of my story into three discreet scenes. Reformatting a story into scenes in this way is something the folks at StoryCenter recommend for digital storytellers, given that the output of a digital storytelling process is, at the end of the day, a film. Writing in scenes makes for a good next step in the direction of writing for film.
Divvying up a story into scenes also makes good compositional sense in that doing so helps keep things organized and concise. This makes a story easier for an audience to follow, and kind of gently forces an author/director to be clear. The 'scenification' process also enables a more 'cinematic' mode of thinking to be enfolded into the process. Cinematic thinking involves blending all of the story elements (text, spoken text, image, sonic content, and moving images) together, in concert so to speak, within a series of coherent scenes that, taken together, add up in the end to a coherently whole digital story.
I have also added notes at the end of each to my scenes that call attention to inclusions referenced in the Digital Storytelling Rubric. These notes are a bit like stage directions or director's notes.
Anyway here goes ... my digital story, The Burnished Letter, in three scenes ...
My mom grew up in the same Pennsylvania town my dad did, Grove City, one of three kids in her immediate family. Her crew was much more demure and seemingly well-ordered, but appearances can be deceiving. I mean let's face it, they were all small-town, or small town + country kids. And given the nature of small town country life, the kids in both families of course knew each other, and all of them had to invent most of their own amusements and diversions. In their youth, again growing up in the 1920's and 30's, radio would have occupied the position of high tech. So they of course had to be creative.
In many ways my parents grew up in a storybook setting -- at least it always seemed that way to me -- and I mean for example how could any rural family with twelve kids fail to generate plenty of story material? When I got older and played a role in starting a family myself, I remember referring to certain kinds of rural events or humorous commonplaces as "country entertainment" when I was out and about with my two sons. This phrase came in part from hearing stories of pranks and so forth perpetrated on younger sibs by older ones in my dad's family. So I grew up hearing stories from the heart of a truly storybook place and time.
World War Two dropped a metaphoric bomb on all of that. When the U.S. entered the war my dad and several of his brothers, like many others throughout the country, more or less immediately shipped out across vast distances to fight in various places in Europe and the Pacific. My dad was involved in some of the most horrific fighting of the war, in Okinawa Japan, for which he received a Purple Heart for being wounded in action, and a Bronze star for heroic service.
After the war my dad returned to Pennsylvania and began reassembling his life, picking up more or less where he had left off, completing a college degree and getting on with his adult life full speed ahead. But... according to my grandmother on my mother's side, he had returned from the war "A changed person" -- to a country and culture that at the time did not recognize PTSD or anything like it.
So from my eventual vantage point, the relentless shiny-surface optimism of postwar 1950's America, seen in advertising and movies constantly in those days, was underwritten or scarred by trails of distance, damage, and denial. Noire fiction and cinema of the time captured some of this. When my dad died, way before his time, I was sent to school the next day. That's how deep the denial was in those days. Got trauma? Just pick up and move on.
So anyway, after a short stint back in Pennsylvania after the war ended, my dad and several of his siblings picked up and moved on to southern California, one by one, settling in various towns east of Los Angeles within a fifty-mile radius of one another, and within shouting distance of one of the epicenters of denial-culture, Hollywood. The remainder of my dad's family stayed in the Pittsburgh area within a similar fifty-mile-or-so radius of one another.
During the war years my mom had moved to Pittsburgh to become a registered nurse. Then after the war she too moved on to southern California to be with my dad. The two of them married in Tijuana Mexico and set up shop in Ontario California, a town about forty miles east of Los Angeles at the foot of the mighty San Gabriel Mountains, in a brand new house that cost all of ten thousand dollars.
The remainder of my mom's family (including her parents) remained in the previously mentioned small Pennsylvania town of Grove City, within the familiar fifty-mile or so radius.
So my older sister and I were both born in California, but in many ways our childhoods were organized by a bifurcated family diaspora consisting of two fifty-mile radiuses more than two thousand miles apart.
[Media notes: I am imagining black and white imagery of desert landscapes, vast distances, possibly with semi-transparent pictures of my mom and dad sort of floating within the landscapes. I have three general/abstract themes to perhaps put into play: 1) vast expanses of water and water-surfaces, 2) vast expanses of land and desert landscapes, and 3) images with strong light and shadow. Maybe a map-graphic with a line between Pittsburgh and Los Angeles, also in black and white. Possibly WW2 imagery, or pix of my dad as a soldier. I'm also going to search the Internet Archive website for public domain 1950's media artifacts -- possibly video as well as images -- to possibly convey the advertising of the era, particularly ads for cars and various kinds of travel, and perhaps ads for long distance telephone, things like that. I will need to experiment with WeVideo to see how it will handle overlays, etc.]
[Non-redundancy notes: My strongest intuition at present is to create a more or less freestanding image track of black and white and semi transparent, partially recognizable images -- in part to suggest memory. I may use something like garbled phone conversation audio, with perhaps maybe 'Listening Station' audio interspersed to create a similarly freestanding sonic media track -- I should be able to find vintage public-domain media materials on the Internet Archive website.]
[Narrative-inquiry notes: The cultural narrative of optimism (and denial) is one of the narrative-inquiry intersections that I will pursue in my story. It is of interest to me that my family narrative drops seamlessly into a kind of pandemic 'positive thinking' cultural narrative of the 1950's. I will investigate this and include mention of it in my story.]
[Layering notes: On the surface, my story covers a plot set in the postwar 1950's involving two families. Peeled back slightly, it is a story of trauma and its denial. Peeled back again, it is a story of generational inheritances -- a bifurcated diaspora set in place in one generation becomes the taken-for-granted setting for the next generation -- which in turn sets the stage for trauma itself to be passed between generations.]
Many of my childhood memories center around transcontinental family car and train trips to Pennsylvania. Connecting the radiuses. We made such trips just about every other year, usually during the summer months, which sometimes meant loading my sister and I into the car in pajamas before dawn and heading due east on interstate 10 to get through as much of the Mojave Desert as possible before the heat got too intense. Cars in those days had the propensity to overheat, so humans and machines agreed on the importance of early start times.
Long-distance calls between the radiuses were without exception special family events. And in those days exchanges of letters were also fairly common and had that 'message in a bottle' magic they still have today.
In retrospect I experienced the 1950's as a time of almost obsessive optimism and 'positive thinking,' a time when the realities of old problems and new circumstances -- things like vast distances and how to bridge them for example -- were in the process of being solved by denials that took the form of new cars, a new interstate highway system, new passenger trains, long-distance telephone calls, and airmail. It seems the 1950's mindset never encountered a problem that could not be fixed by moving on -- with a positive attitude, with the help of a new product, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and the latest or technology within easy reach. A sort of perennial forecast of bright sun with no chance of shadows.
So in some ways the world of the 1950's was the new storybook for my family and many others in the postwar generation, and SoCal in many ways served as a testing site or proof-of-concept. Los Angeles was designed in large part as a transportation hub, no center, various destinations connected via the automobile, and semi-disposable tract and apartment houses played a part as well. Moving on (past the confines of one's own tract house or neighborhood via the automobile). Meanwhile Hollywood churned out an endless string of new feature films in which the stories on screen were literally larger than life. Moving on (past the confines of one's own past, one's own shadows, one's own stories even).
This was the new-and-improved storybook world that my own immediate family-of-four inhabited when I was growing up. And into this new storybook, other types of bombs -- -- perhaps echoes of earlier ones -- soon began to fall. When I was five years old my dad's older brother Gaylord (who lived in the Pittsburgh-cluster radius) died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of thirty-nine, and this event found a way to cast a shadow two thousand miles long.
So let me return to my dad's story just for a minute. He's the guy introduced a few minutes ago who came back from WW2 a changed person -- and meanwhile, in the rush and speed of laying out the storylines of SoCal in the 50's and so on, I managed to pave right over this, moving on. Interesting how that happens, no?
So... three years after his older brother Gaylord died suddenly of a heart attack at thirty-nine, my dad died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of thirty-eight. Whatever remained of the generational weave-of-storybooks, a weave of small town Pennsylvania and suburban SoCal, was now emphatically unraveled and rent. Darkness at the break of noon is a phrase that comes to mind. PTSD is another phrase that comes to mind.
And, characteristically enough, we all just moved on. It was as if my dad had just vanished into thin air. But it felt like a gaping hole in the center of my being. A Paul Simon lyric puts the feeling pretty well...
Losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody sees the wind blow
So moving on carried with it an emotional toll. My dad was the wise and emotionally-connected one in our family, so he would of course have known what to say and do, but of course in this instance he could not do that. So yes, of course, what could we do but move on? I kept going for the most part, but my deepest self felt stopped in my tracks, blown open and apart, with no idea of how to move forward.
My dad died when I was eight years old, and I am now sixty six years old. That's a lot of moving on. But there it is. Where to now?
[Media notes: Pictures documenting the history of the interstate highway system. Pix of phone poles and lines running through arid west landscapes. Possibly vintage motion video clips taken from inside moving trains (look to the Internet Archive for these). A theme of travel and movement, of moving on. Similar vintage photos of long-distance passenger trains such as the Santa Fe El Capitan. Pix of telephone transmission lines might work as well. A family photo or two might make sense in this scene as well. Pix of billboards from the 50's perhaps. Pix of SoCal tract house mazes. Ads for travel and products including alcohol. The scene might want to close with desert imagery of some sort, and perhaps 'Listening Station' audio -- I may want to pick just a few audio feeds to combine into a sound track, and have parts repeat to enhance unity and transitions.]
So my time now is mainly organized by ways of sitting still and being still. For the time being my world still includes teaching, but the beating heart of my current life exists in twice per day yoga+meditation sessions that I schedule and manage on my own, meditative kayaking sessions on nearby Salem Lake several times a week weather permitting, and the making of burnished-metal wall sculptures at a local makerspace. My current life also revolves around the lives of my two grown sons, both in their twenties, both of whom reveal elements of character that I first met a long time ago in their grandpa. One of the wonders of being a parent. All of these things are currently delivering me from a lifetime of moving on.
And amazingly enough I recently received a message from my dad after all, a message contained in a letter sealed and mailed in 1958 and relayed to me by my sister in 2018 -- that is about a 60 year transit time, so literally as well as figuratively true that I had waited a lifetime for it!
So it was a message burnished by time itself, in some ways it was a message from beyond time. And this has caused me to reconsider some things. Maybe heartstring connections have a span that exceeds individual lifetimes? Maybe such things whisper of eternity? Maybe sometimes moving onward to get certain kinds of things is less effective than moving inward? Maybe the meaning of life ultimately exceeds our intellectual capacity but not our presence?
The letter opens with my dad catching his sister up on California-radius family news, and sending his apologies for not being able to attend his older brother Gaylord's funeral due to matters of time and budget. He then mentions the role distance played in their lives, and notes that no amount of distance could have prevented him from feeling the shock of losing his older brother.
Then he goes on to add a simple expression of sorrow at his brother's passing, and a simple recognition of what his brother's passing would mean for his brother's kids...
"Being this far away makes a difference I guess, but it was quite a jolt just the same. Feel sorry for the boys, what a change in their lives this will be."
Given the events about to unfold in his own life three years later, my dad may as well have been writing directly to my sister and I. Hence my newfound stillness.. my sense there really is no moving on from this, nor any need to, it is the kind of thing one simply has to be present to, and deepen into. A message from the other side of time has been delivered.
[Media notes: Of course this is where the images of the actual letter go, but other work to do on the media elements here -- maybe a murky pic of my dad comes into clear focus? Maybe pix of my sons? Maybe a message from me to them?]
[Narrative-inquiry notes: My dad clearly worried about his brother's passing at an early age, and this gives me a window into his lived world, his own narrative, which of course intersects with my story. I can investigate this in narrative-inquiry fashion by interviewing my older sister, who has served as the default family archivist for many years.]
Divvying up a story into scenes also makes good compositional sense in that doing so helps keep things organized and concise. This makes a story easier for an audience to follow, and kind of gently forces an author/director to be clear. The 'scenification' process also enables a more 'cinematic' mode of thinking to be enfolded into the process. Cinematic thinking involves blending all of the story elements (text, spoken text, image, sonic content, and moving images) together, in concert so to speak, within a series of coherent scenes that, taken together, add up in the end to a coherently whole digital story.
I have also added notes at the end of each to my scenes that call attention to inclusions referenced in the Digital Storytelling Rubric. These notes are a bit like stage directions or director's notes.
Anyway here goes ... my digital story, The Burnished Letter, in three scenes ...
Scene one: Distance, Damage, and Denial
My dad grew up at a time, and in circumstances, I can barely even get my mind around. He grew up one of twelve kids in a tightly-knit, loud, emotive family during the Great Depression on a dairy farm on the outskirts of a small Pennsylvania town situated roughly fifty miles north of Pittsburgh. Crazy stuff from my perspective. Difficult for me to even imagine. In stark contrast, my own experience of growing up took place in the context of a relatively quiet suburban family of four in the southern California of the 1950's -- an entirely different world, and an entirely different time, from the one my dad inhabited when he was growing up.My mom grew up in the same Pennsylvania town my dad did, Grove City, one of three kids in her immediate family. Her crew was much more demure and seemingly well-ordered, but appearances can be deceiving. I mean let's face it, they were all small-town, or small town + country kids. And given the nature of small town country life, the kids in both families of course knew each other, and all of them had to invent most of their own amusements and diversions. In their youth, again growing up in the 1920's and 30's, radio would have occupied the position of high tech. So they of course had to be creative.
In many ways my parents grew up in a storybook setting -- at least it always seemed that way to me -- and I mean for example how could any rural family with twelve kids fail to generate plenty of story material? When I got older and played a role in starting a family myself, I remember referring to certain kinds of rural events or humorous commonplaces as "country entertainment" when I was out and about with my two sons. This phrase came in part from hearing stories of pranks and so forth perpetrated on younger sibs by older ones in my dad's family. So I grew up hearing stories from the heart of a truly storybook place and time.
World War Two dropped a metaphoric bomb on all of that. When the U.S. entered the war my dad and several of his brothers, like many others throughout the country, more or less immediately shipped out across vast distances to fight in various places in Europe and the Pacific. My dad was involved in some of the most horrific fighting of the war, in Okinawa Japan, for which he received a Purple Heart for being wounded in action, and a Bronze star for heroic service.
After the war my dad returned to Pennsylvania and began reassembling his life, picking up more or less where he had left off, completing a college degree and getting on with his adult life full speed ahead. But... according to my grandmother on my mother's side, he had returned from the war "A changed person" -- to a country and culture that at the time did not recognize PTSD or anything like it.
So from my eventual vantage point, the relentless shiny-surface optimism of postwar 1950's America, seen in advertising and movies constantly in those days, was underwritten or scarred by trails of distance, damage, and denial. Noire fiction and cinema of the time captured some of this. When my dad died, way before his time, I was sent to school the next day. That's how deep the denial was in those days. Got trauma? Just pick up and move on.
So anyway, after a short stint back in Pennsylvania after the war ended, my dad and several of his siblings picked up and moved on to southern California, one by one, settling in various towns east of Los Angeles within a fifty-mile radius of one another, and within shouting distance of one of the epicenters of denial-culture, Hollywood. The remainder of my dad's family stayed in the Pittsburgh area within a similar fifty-mile-or-so radius of one another.
During the war years my mom had moved to Pittsburgh to become a registered nurse. Then after the war she too moved on to southern California to be with my dad. The two of them married in Tijuana Mexico and set up shop in Ontario California, a town about forty miles east of Los Angeles at the foot of the mighty San Gabriel Mountains, in a brand new house that cost all of ten thousand dollars.
The remainder of my mom's family (including her parents) remained in the previously mentioned small Pennsylvania town of Grove City, within the familiar fifty-mile or so radius.
So my older sister and I were both born in California, but in many ways our childhoods were organized by a bifurcated family diaspora consisting of two fifty-mile radiuses more than two thousand miles apart.
[Media notes: I am imagining black and white imagery of desert landscapes, vast distances, possibly with semi-transparent pictures of my mom and dad sort of floating within the landscapes. I have three general/abstract themes to perhaps put into play: 1) vast expanses of water and water-surfaces, 2) vast expanses of land and desert landscapes, and 3) images with strong light and shadow. Maybe a map-graphic with a line between Pittsburgh and Los Angeles, also in black and white. Possibly WW2 imagery, or pix of my dad as a soldier. I'm also going to search the Internet Archive website for public domain 1950's media artifacts -- possibly video as well as images -- to possibly convey the advertising of the era, particularly ads for cars and various kinds of travel, and perhaps ads for long distance telephone, things like that. I will need to experiment with WeVideo to see how it will handle overlays, etc.]
[Non-redundancy notes: My strongest intuition at present is to create a more or less freestanding image track of black and white and semi transparent, partially recognizable images -- in part to suggest memory. I may use something like garbled phone conversation audio, with perhaps maybe 'Listening Station' audio interspersed to create a similarly freestanding sonic media track -- I should be able to find vintage public-domain media materials on the Internet Archive website.]
[Narrative-inquiry notes: The cultural narrative of optimism (and denial) is one of the narrative-inquiry intersections that I will pursue in my story. It is of interest to me that my family narrative drops seamlessly into a kind of pandemic 'positive thinking' cultural narrative of the 1950's. I will investigate this and include mention of it in my story.]
[Layering notes: On the surface, my story covers a plot set in the postwar 1950's involving two families. Peeled back slightly, it is a story of trauma and its denial. Peeled back again, it is a story of generational inheritances -- a bifurcated diaspora set in place in one generation becomes the taken-for-granted setting for the next generation -- which in turn sets the stage for trauma itself to be passed between generations.]
Scene two: Long-distance calls and long shadows
The California-radius families remained close emotionally and geographically, so I grew up in a loving and quite wonderful extended family. The SoCal families visited each other fairly often, and often on a drop-in basis, and big family reunions/parties were held twice per year. Connections between the two clusters were fewer and further between, but these also happened on a more or less regular basis.Many of my childhood memories center around transcontinental family car and train trips to Pennsylvania. Connecting the radiuses. We made such trips just about every other year, usually during the summer months, which sometimes meant loading my sister and I into the car in pajamas before dawn and heading due east on interstate 10 to get through as much of the Mojave Desert as possible before the heat got too intense. Cars in those days had the propensity to overheat, so humans and machines agreed on the importance of early start times.
Long-distance calls between the radiuses were without exception special family events. And in those days exchanges of letters were also fairly common and had that 'message in a bottle' magic they still have today.
In retrospect I experienced the 1950's as a time of almost obsessive optimism and 'positive thinking,' a time when the realities of old problems and new circumstances -- things like vast distances and how to bridge them for example -- were in the process of being solved by denials that took the form of new cars, a new interstate highway system, new passenger trains, long-distance telephone calls, and airmail. It seems the 1950's mindset never encountered a problem that could not be fixed by moving on -- with a positive attitude, with the help of a new product, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and the latest or technology within easy reach. A sort of perennial forecast of bright sun with no chance of shadows.
So in some ways the world of the 1950's was the new storybook for my family and many others in the postwar generation, and SoCal in many ways served as a testing site or proof-of-concept. Los Angeles was designed in large part as a transportation hub, no center, various destinations connected via the automobile, and semi-disposable tract and apartment houses played a part as well. Moving on (past the confines of one's own tract house or neighborhood via the automobile). Meanwhile Hollywood churned out an endless string of new feature films in which the stories on screen were literally larger than life. Moving on (past the confines of one's own past, one's own shadows, one's own stories even).
This was the new-and-improved storybook world that my own immediate family-of-four inhabited when I was growing up. And into this new storybook, other types of bombs -- -- perhaps echoes of earlier ones -- soon began to fall. When I was five years old my dad's older brother Gaylord (who lived in the Pittsburgh-cluster radius) died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of thirty-nine, and this event found a way to cast a shadow two thousand miles long.
So let me return to my dad's story just for a minute. He's the guy introduced a few minutes ago who came back from WW2 a changed person -- and meanwhile, in the rush and speed of laying out the storylines of SoCal in the 50's and so on, I managed to pave right over this, moving on. Interesting how that happens, no?
So... three years after his older brother Gaylord died suddenly of a heart attack at thirty-nine, my dad died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of thirty-eight. Whatever remained of the generational weave-of-storybooks, a weave of small town Pennsylvania and suburban SoCal, was now emphatically unraveled and rent. Darkness at the break of noon is a phrase that comes to mind. PTSD is another phrase that comes to mind.
And, characteristically enough, we all just moved on. It was as if my dad had just vanished into thin air. But it felt like a gaping hole in the center of my being. A Paul Simon lyric puts the feeling pretty well...
Losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody sees the wind blow
So moving on carried with it an emotional toll. My dad was the wise and emotionally-connected one in our family, so he would of course have known what to say and do, but of course in this instance he could not do that. So yes, of course, what could we do but move on? I kept going for the most part, but my deepest self felt stopped in my tracks, blown open and apart, with no idea of how to move forward.
My dad died when I was eight years old, and I am now sixty six years old. That's a lot of moving on. But there it is. Where to now?
[Media notes: Pictures documenting the history of the interstate highway system. Pix of phone poles and lines running through arid west landscapes. Possibly vintage motion video clips taken from inside moving trains (look to the Internet Archive for these). A theme of travel and movement, of moving on. Similar vintage photos of long-distance passenger trains such as the Santa Fe El Capitan. Pix of telephone transmission lines might work as well. A family photo or two might make sense in this scene as well. Pix of billboards from the 50's perhaps. Pix of SoCal tract house mazes. Ads for travel and products including alcohol. The scene might want to close with desert imagery of some sort, and perhaps 'Listening Station' audio -- I may want to pick just a few audio feeds to combine into a sound track, and have parts repeat to enhance unity and transitions.]
Scene three: Deliverance
I don't know what I would have wanted really. Everything to be different I suppose, except perhaps the California sunshine and the steadying, ever-changing, and awesomely beautiful presence of the San Gabriel mountains. I might have just been wanting to get over it. But that wasn't happening. A silence bigger than the Mojave Desert had set in. A distance no car or train trip, no long-distance call, could close. My dad's wartime trauma had become my peacetime trauma. Last words? A chance to say goodbye? His presence at father-son events. His presence at my sporting events of course (he was an athlete, as was I) and at family events. Anything. All of it. Some soothing words. Some kind of sign that he knew how much we would all miss him. But hey, life is life, we moved on.
(pause)
So my time now is mainly organized by ways of sitting still and being still. For the time being my world still includes teaching, but the beating heart of my current life exists in twice per day yoga+meditation sessions that I schedule and manage on my own, meditative kayaking sessions on nearby Salem Lake several times a week weather permitting, and the making of burnished-metal wall sculptures at a local makerspace. My current life also revolves around the lives of my two grown sons, both in their twenties, both of whom reveal elements of character that I first met a long time ago in their grandpa. One of the wonders of being a parent. All of these things are currently delivering me from a lifetime of moving on.
And amazingly enough I recently received a message from my dad after all, a message contained in a letter sealed and mailed in 1958 and relayed to me by my sister in 2018 -- that is about a 60 year transit time, so literally as well as figuratively true that I had waited a lifetime for it!
So it was a message burnished by time itself, in some ways it was a message from beyond time. And this has caused me to reconsider some things. Maybe heartstring connections have a span that exceeds individual lifetimes? Maybe such things whisper of eternity? Maybe sometimes moving onward to get certain kinds of things is less effective than moving inward? Maybe the meaning of life ultimately exceeds our intellectual capacity but not our presence?
The letter opens with my dad catching his sister up on California-radius family news, and sending his apologies for not being able to attend his older brother Gaylord's funeral due to matters of time and budget. He then mentions the role distance played in their lives, and notes that no amount of distance could have prevented him from feeling the shock of losing his older brother.
Then he goes on to add a simple expression of sorrow at his brother's passing, and a simple recognition of what his brother's passing would mean for his brother's kids...
"Being this far away makes a difference I guess, but it was quite a jolt just the same. Feel sorry for the boys, what a change in their lives this will be."
Given the events about to unfold in his own life three years later, my dad may as well have been writing directly to my sister and I. Hence my newfound stillness.. my sense there really is no moving on from this, nor any need to, it is the kind of thing one simply has to be present to, and deepen into. A message from the other side of time has been delivered.
[Media notes: Of course this is where the images of the actual letter go, but other work to do on the media elements here -- maybe a murky pic of my dad comes into clear focus? Maybe pix of my sons? Maybe a message from me to them?]
[Narrative-inquiry notes: My dad clearly worried about his brother's passing at an early age, and this gives me a window into his lived world, his own narrative, which of course intersects with my story. I can investigate this in narrative-inquiry fashion by interviewing my older sister, who has served as the default family archivist for many years.]
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