Must Read After My Death

Once again, this is not a book review but it is somewhat literary. And I have 3 books going right now-I may finish one.

In the past, Robin and I have discussed journaling. Not the "I arose to a beautiful cloudless blue sky, had dates and walnuts with tea for breakfast and went for a walk along the shore. The birds sang as the sharp salt air tickled my nose and sand encrusted the hem of my white linen shift much like a sequin trim" but the "my job sucks, my husband is an idiot and my children must have been switched at birth because there is no way they came from my body" kind of journaling. Our discussion usually revolves around what to do with those pages, keep them, hide them away for years or burn them. After reading Danny Miller's blog today-I'm thinking the purge by fire is the way to go. Danny often writes about his family and wonders who might be offended by the stories much as I do when writing even if it will only be seen by me. I soften the edges because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, not even in my own head.

Danny always includes great pictures in his posts and those of us born in the 50's-60's have similar pictures stuffed into shoeboxes in the top of some closet somewhere. Even though he was a Jewish boy growing up in Chicago and I was an excommunicated Catholic+Baptist=Methodist girl in a tiny town on the edge of Appalachia, I find his photos could be my pictures or a neighbors' and that's the fascinating thing for me-the picture only tells a part of the story. I grew up with 2 brothers, eight and 10 years older and one a few years younger. We were close-both parents in the home, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins within walking distance. Sunday dinner at MawMaw's every week, everyone together for holidays. A Mayberry kind of existence. We were happy-i have pictures to prove it.

We all left home as soon as we could, settled in geographically diverse areas, never visit and communicate only intermittently; the younger one speaks to none of us. We all look so happy in those shiny, B&W scalloped edge Christmas morning photos. The picture only tells a part of the story.

Must Read After My Death tells the other part of a story, not just the static version of old photos. I watched Capturing the Friedmans earlier this year and was so taken by the story I had to then watch the extended version with all the commentary and interviews. It is a fascinating film given the subject matter because it shows a "normal" family going through a shattering experience, much of it" captured" on film. I was fascinated by the fact that despite the lies, pain, anger, imprisonment, they were still able to find some love for each other.

I don't know the part of my family story that is missing but I may reconsider that purge by fire. Maybe what we can't say aloud should be left behind.

Judy