Write What Should Not Be Forgotten: A Lesson from My Great-Aunts

Isabel Allende's profound statement, ‘Write what should not be forgotten,’ in her essay Writing as an Act of Hope, speaks to all of us. We all have stories, or stories we know from our grandparents or relatives, that we have not taken the time to write down. It’s easy to think we’ll get to it, and it’s also easy to think it doesn’t matter. That everyone who matters knows the stories.  

Yet sometimes, these stories or partial stories flood our memories uninvited. We strive to overcome our regret for not writing them down with the whisps of stories we recall. Sadly, regret often wins the day. 

One of my regrets is not documenting the day I spent with my eccentric great aunts, Laura and Gus, in St. Louis fifty years ago. My parents were from St. Louis. My mother had a traumatic childhood, the specifics of which she alluded to yet never divulged the details, and chose never to return to St. Louis from Chicago, where we lived. 

It was on her Aunt Leah’s and Uncle Phil’s fiftieth wedding anniversary when she relinquished. I was sixteen and delighted to meet relatives I had heard about but never met on both her mother's and father's sides of the family. One afternoon, we were invited to Laura’s farm, about sixty miles northwest of St. Louis in Lincoln Hills. 

Aunt Gus picked us up at our hotel. Both women were in their early eighties. They were the daughters of my great-grandfather, Marcus Harris,  a wool and fur entrepreneur who built a successful business that began in Dodge City in the untamed West. Not ready to retire at seventy, he started a second incarnation of his company in the 1940s with his four daughters, including Gus and Laura. 

With a stick shift, Gus tested our cheerful, chatty exchange in her red Impala sedan. She drove fast and did not slow down when the terrain became hilly and curvy. She chatted about her kids and grandkids, Laura’s fondness for her farm, and discussed Marcus’s global celebration for his 75th birthday at their building in the Washington Avenue business district.  He received telegrams from bankers, merchants, and colleagues from all over the world. Three hundred people attended, and Marcus danced the lindy hop well into the night. 

We arrived at lunchtime. Aunt Laura served cold salmon, cucumber sandwiches, cookies, and tea. We chatted for three hours, mostly filling my mother in on family happenings. 

“What do you want to study when you go to college? You are going to college, dear, aren’t you?” asked Laura, her eagle eyes penetrating my shocked ones.

“Well, yes,” I replied. “I enjoy writing poetry and short stories, volunteering as a tutor, and playing the guitar.”

“All so practical,” she smiled and passed me the plate of cookies.

We talked much about Marcus, whose short memoir I had read several times by then. Laura brought out her scrapbook, and I saw pictures of him as a young, vibrant man. His strong stance and sparkle in his eye remained well into his early 80s. These images began to replace the picture of him in a wheelchair at my parents' wedding in my mind. I  looked at that album hundreds of times throughout my years growing up.  

“He looks so handsome. He looks like he can take on the world,” I remarked. 

Gus interjected, “Yes, dear. He carried a lot on those broad shoulders of his.”

We all agreed that we needed to leave before dark. My mother, exchanging a glance, indicated neither wanted to be in a car with Aunt Gus after dark. I hugged my dear Aunt Laura’s frail and bony body as we left.

“Come back, dear, and stay for a few weeks. You can help with the gardening.”  

I shook my head. Yes, I thought that might be fun, yet somehow, I knew I would not see her again. 

Now, at seventy, that age he was when he started his second company with his daughters, I wish I had asked more questions. I can appreciate, as never before in my life, his values, entrepreneurial spirit, and scrappy, humble beginnings. As a woman who worked in corporations for forty years and was involved in my entrepreneurial ventures, I wish I had asked them questions about their careers and businesses. What was it like for women to be business owners in the 1940s? What was it like working for their dad? Why did he go into business with his daughter and not his sons?  How did they share in the responsibilities?  What was their vision for the company? Did they want to continue after Marus had a stroke? Would they have had careers if this opportunity did not present itself?  

There were so many other questions I did not know how to ask in my twenties.  Still, I wish I had written down what they had told me. I would love to read that account today rather than depending on my wispy memory. 

Regret has won the day, yet I am grateful they have come alive to me again as I write this blog. We all have stories like this to write and leave as inspiration and a legacy. Let’s let action win the day.