Words We Keep: Stories Give Us a Voice

When I was three years old, I wanted one thing from my father: his big, heavy Webster's dictionary. It sat on a low shelf, its cover worn smooth. When I opened it, the pages were thin, delicate, and represented accumulated knowledge.

Words were important in our family. My father read science fiction, political history, and memoirs of politicians. He was immersed in the history of World War II, having served in the army. My mother loved to read fiction. She spent an hour a day on crossword puzzles, constantly expanding her vocabulary.

That dictionary wasn't just a reference book; it was a reminder that words matter.

So when I picked up the book The Dictionary of Lost Words by Pip Williams, I was already halfway in love. It's historical fiction about the making of the first Oxford English Dictionary, told through the eyes of a young girl, Esme, who grows up in the Scriptorium where her father works for the decades-long project to collect, define, and publish words for the dictionary.

Over time, as Esme matures and grows to love working at the Scriptorium more with each year, she notices something the men in charge don't seem to care about: some words are left out. Often, they're words used by women, or tied to their everyday lives.

The story unfolds against the backdrop of the women's suffrage movement, when women were fighting for the right to vote, to speak, to be heard. Esme begins to collect her own "dictionary"—the words no one else seems to value. The dictionary of lost words is her unique and impactful legacy that her daughter embraces decades later.

I loved the history, the meticulous detail of how the dictionary was created, and the weaving in of a woman's evolving voice and place in society. The salient question the book presents is Whose words are we leaving out and why?

Every family has its dictionary. Words, phrases, and sayings that might mean nothing to an outsider but hold entire stories for the people who lived them. "Dad's fishing hat." "Grandma's pot roast." "The blizzard of '67." "And they're off!" These aren't just words; they are overlooked doors to our shared life experience and interpretation.

If we don't write them down, they fade.

That's the heartbeat of legacy writing. It isn't measured in sweeping timelines or world-changing events. It's tucked inside the everyday words and moments that made you who you are.

My husband's tool bench will never be in a museum, as he works with our grandchildren on their first 'workshop' projects. He might say 'let's make sure it's level,' meaning more than just building something. It is an invitation to stand beside him, learn, and pass on a skill to his grandchildren, from his grandfather to his father, to him. The ethereal yet solid bridge between us in our minds could vanish if we don't write it down.

You don't have to be making the Oxford English Dictionary to preserve history. You can start your own "dictionary of remembered words"—one that tells the story of your life in the language you lived it.