The Memory Weaver

The Memory Weaver The greatest gift we can give is not our possessions, it is our stories. Looking back and sharing your special memories can be both rewarding and entertaining.

The Memory Weaver is a personal historian service offering guided recordings, transcriptions and more for those looking to have their lifetime remembered. The Memory Weaver is a personal historian service by Diane Littlefield, in Loveland, Colorado, offering a wide variety of services to record and help tell the story of your life. A personal history is one of the most valuable and lasting gifts y

ou can give your loved ones. A personal historian records the stories behind the genealogy. We can be the gateway through generations. We are curious about people, the journeys you have taken and what you have seen, done and learned along the way. Services include: Guided interviews (2 hour minimum), digital recordings, transcriptions and books, among many other items and services.

Last post was July 2017? Goodness, I knew it had been a long time, but not that long. I am back now after a couple of ...
05/20/2020

Last post was July 2017? Goodness, I knew it had been a long time, but not that long. I am back now after a couple of years of sadness and tragedies. I hope to update more consistently as my life gets on track again, a new normal even before the new normal caused by this virus.

So here we are in the midst of a major pandemic. COVID -19 or in the beginning called Coronavirus. I have been wondering why the name change and this is what I found: “On February 11, 2020 the official name of this new disease by the WHO is the ‘Coronavirus Disease 2019’. It was pretty quickly shortened “Coronavirus”. From there it was abbreviated to COVID-19, the ‘CO’ stands for ‘corona’, ‘VI’ for ‘virus’ and ‘D’ for ‘disease’.”

Thankfully all my memories will be minor in the scheme of things. They are mostly inconveniences. I know many others have not faired so well. My memories include (not all and listed are not in any order):

*not being able to hug my grandchildren and visits were held in their driveways with a yardstick.

*the sadness about all the economic struggles in families and the loss of jobs if not for a couple of months, forever. Then the nightmare of trying to find another job while many, many others are also looking.

*My scrapbook of COVID-19 political cartoons.

*Not being able to go out to dinner. Restaurants have been great about having take-out. But it’s not the same, definitely not the food.

*having to stand in lines at grocery stores.

*wearing a mask and gloves.

*correct way to hand wash.

*use of sanitizers.

*confusion as to why people were hoarding toilet paper of all things.

*graduation ceremonies cancelled.

*wondering when schools will open in the fall and how kids will catch up. The same for college students.

*My obsession with disaster movies the past six weeks. I went through 52 of them and yet I still got stuff done during the day.

*the depression, worse than other on certain days.

*the loneliness. Being lonely but not alone because everyone was on the same ship.

*messages on my driveway.

*the dwindling size of the newspaper as a result of less ads to fund the paper.

*24/7 news about the virus.

*the cancellation of plans to fly somewhere.

These are just some of the memories I will carry the rest of my life. What about you?

What will be your memories?

I am easily distracted. I was just looking for an address in my dad’s scrapbooks. I suddenly decided to weigh one becaus...
07/29/2017

I am easily distracted. I was just looking for an address in my dad’s scrapbooks. I suddenly decided to weigh one because they are pretty heavy. Each one weighs between 11 and 12 lbs. depending on if they had a regular cover or wooden one! (*Judy – why do I bother going to the gym – we could just lift these for an hour!). My dad made the wooden covers when he couldn't find the others anymore. Sadly, we have to get a new A/C unit (who knew they cost so much!) and most everything has to come out of our storage area including all the bins of scrapbooks. I publicly thank my brother, Dale, for finding bins many years ago and dating each bin. I also thank our son, Kris, who in in 2016, carried bin, each fully loaded, down the stairs to our storage area.
Yes, I am like my dad, a historian, not only of my family but others as well. But I am not sure he would have called himself one . I keep scrapbooks complete with newspapers, programs, etc. People get very fancy with scrapbooking now. I commend those who make the beautiful ones, but mine are like my dad’s without the frills. I don't have the patience or time before I die to put that much effort into one scrapbook unless it’s a gift.
The next problem will be how to scan each scrapbook and contents.

My dad had a dry sense of humor in his letters that I will always miss. 8 July 1981 he says “We do not receive the news...
07/10/2017

My dad had a dry sense of humor in his letters that I will always miss.

8 July 1981 he says “We do not receive the newspaper during the summer and I watch Twilight Zone instead of the news so I’m not sure what is going on. I gather, however, that Reagan has appointed a female judge from Phoenix to the Supreme Court. I presume you, as a long time resident, are proud of that?”

(This next letter excerpt has to do with a gift for my mom I probably apologized for purchasing at a garage sale)

18 September 1986: “Mother was thrilled with her bread-making set. She has looked all over for the round glass mold but everyone tells her Corning no longer makes them. At the moment, I cannot think of a present she would have enjoyed more. What difference is there in giving “used” gifts and in buying “used” articles at a garage sale for gifts?”

The written word is wonderful when you as fortunate as myself with my parents’ letters. In a sad way at the time and yet grateful now, I lived across the country. Everyone isn’t as fortunate to have these kind of written messages, but there is still a way to learn about your past and a relative’s past. It’s called the recorder. It can be used anywhere or anytime but you have to schedule yourself. If you put it on the back burner, the idea will fizzle. That’s when you schedule an appointment or give a gift certificate to that friend or loved one to have a personal historian walk you or them down memory lane.

We have two Victrolas. A full size one we inherited from my maternal grandparents who had purchased it in the 1920s. W...
06/20/2017

We have two Victrolas. A full size one we inherited from my maternal grandparents who had purchased it in the 1920s. We also inherited a child’s standing victrola from my mom after she died. She received it in 1938 as a gift, she was four years old. Both work beautifully. We also inherited many records, a 6” one is priceless to our family.

In 1943, my mom was 19 years old living in Greenwich Village, NYC. My dad was in the Navy finishing up his pilot training. My mom decided to record herself singing “Lovin’ That Man of Mine” (just her) on one side and on the flip side, “Sentimental Journey” (with her roommate) as a gift for my dad. We can only assume it went over well as my dad died before we had even found out about this record. I still have that it and although a little beat up, it still sounds pretty good. A little scratchy, but you can definitely hear her voice as a very young woman.

In 2016, my brother went to an exhibition in NYC and was surprised to see on display one of only two working Aberlour “Voice-O-Graphs”. Sadly, my mom had died the year before – so we were not able to ask her more about her recording. However, we are 100% sure this was the kind of machine she would have used to make the record for my dad.

Another treasure for me, my siblings, our children and future generations. It’s all about the voice.

04/16/2017

One of the most satisying aspects of my work is watching the person whose story I am saving come alive. Recording a life story is a journey.

03/14/2017

A personal history will last so much longer than the memories of a cruise and will be passed on to future generations. Something to think about….

02/27/2017

Memories of a Navy petty officer on an aircraft carrier:

These are excerpts of a client interviewed about his service in Vietnam.

I remember you ran out of fresh milk about a day out from the port in San Francisco. It was because all the refrigerators were full of reconnaissance film and it had to be refrigerated. So you’d have dried milk, or you’d have Kool-Aid that they didn’t put enough sugar in. Those were your two options. We wouldn’t get any more milk until we’d hit Hong Kong. At Hong Kong, everybody would run off the ship and to the Hong Kong Hilton because you could get fresh milk there.

There was only mail on the ship. No telephones, no email. You lived for mail. Being on a carrier is a little lucky because they fly it all in to you. So you get mail probably once a week. I remember once when they flew in a bunch of mail for our escorts. They were unloading the plane and the kid threw a bag of the escort’s mail over the side of the ship. I remember the Captain put him on a chopper, flew him over there and made him explain to them what had happened to their mail. You lived for your mail.

Vietnam caused a lot of hate and discontent from both sides. I came through San Francisco on leave and got spit on. I can remember sitting down in bars and people getting up and moving. The last half of my military career I quit wearing my ribbons because people would look at you and know you’d been to Viet Nam. A lot of people just didn’t like being around you because you served over there.

When my wife and I were raising our kids, some of their friends weren’t allowed to come over because I served in Viet Nam. They were afraid I was going to go crazy any minute. It was a tough time. You can’t go to war; I don’t care what war, and come back the same person. You know, you’re raised to love other people; you’re raised to think of other people as love like a brother. You go into the military and then all of a sudden it’s okay to kill someone.

In the process of transcribing my mom’s letters, I come across one from Feb 1953 in regards to thanking her mother for t...
02/21/2017

In the process of transcribing my mom’s letters, I come across one from Feb 1953 in regards to thanking her mother for the “adorable pink silk French Yolande coat for Diane”. A lightbulb went off and sure enough in the back of my closet was the coat given back to me at some point by my mom. Then I remembered a family Christmas picture Dec 1953. Sure enough, it’s the same coat! I know there are other pictures in my dad’s scrapbooks but too much to look for right now. Moral – don’t ever throw out your family’s letters. Just put them away and one day you will pull them out and learn more about yourself than you would ever remember. Letters are just another gift of learning your family history.

02/12/2017

This story takes place at Denver International Airport a couple of years ago.

With sadness, I said goodbye to my son who was going back to Japan and hobbled back to parking to pick up my car. Twenty minutes before we left for the airport, I was climbing one of those kiddie fences (used for my dogs) and didn’t make it, crashing instead on my knee. In great pain I put a knee brace on because I knew we didn’t have the time to stop at Urgent Care.

Back to my story: I take the elevator to the parking garage because my leg is starting to really hurt. I needed to hurry because the weather was getting really bad and I didn’t want to get in a hailstorm on the way home.

My son had told me not to forget I was parked in Q. I read the posted sign: to the right is A-N go left for 0-Z. I went to the left and I walked and walked and walked. It didn’t make sense. The garage only went to N upon which you hit one of the cement walls. I walked back to the elevator and checked again. I had gone the correct way. Perhaps the signs were mixed up due to the construction so this time I went to the right. When I got to K I realized this was a mistake.

I started to panic when I realized I left my phone in the car so couldn’t even call anyone for help. I have yet to see a single person in the garage. After almost a half hour of aimlessly walking I see an employee vehicle truck cruising two aisles over. I drag my leg in an attempt to hurry and catch up with him. I even yell, “Stop” because the parking lot must echo! He’s at the end about to turn by the time I get to the aisle. I frantically stand in the aisle waving my hands; surely he will see me in his rearview mirror!

But he doesn’t and continues on. At this point my leg is throbbing and I want to sit down and cry. My breathing accelerates and my brain starts going wild. What if I continue to walk around for another two hours? What if I never seen another soul? What if I fall again? I begin my trek, going in more circles. This is crazy where the heck is Q?

I come to a wall and look over – why there is more parking over there! That must be where my car is! Then I see the signs JJ22, JJ23, JJ24. My heart falls. It can’t be over there.

I see the stairs, knowing it was crazy because I was sure we parked on the below ground area. I struggled up with a bit of excitement because I am sure my car must be up there! Then I see the big letter “M”. What? I decided to sit down on the steps and wait for someone to find me. It could be days but I was tired. At this point I could care less if I look stupid because I can’t find my car, I am normally not claustrophobic but am certainly feeling that way.

Suddenly I see another employee. I yelled as loud as I could to stop him, I was so excited not only to see some possible help but also a human! I ask him where on earth “Q” is. He smiled and said, “people are always having problems finding the second area of parking. I had to help a gentleman earlier today.

Here, let me show you.” “Are you on break” I asked? “Yes, but it’s ok. It is hard to find but we must go to the first floor.” Dang here I go again! Once there he leans over the short wall and points. See that construction over there? I squint because it looks awfully far away. He says that sidewalk is the only way to get to the other parking area. Wait, my brain says, I don’t remember us walking across that. Then again my mind is no longer functional, so who am I to remember anything? I said, “Are you serious, I have to walk all the way over there?” He smiled and said, “I am sorry it will be better when the construction is done.” A lot of good that does me now!

So I trudge over towards the area to cross to the other parking area. I can’t see it anymore because we had leaned over the wall. But I know I am headed in the right direction. I swear my leg is numb now. Then I find it. Standing in the open air on the pedestrian I am excited just to be outside again! The length of the sidewalk looks soooooooooo long. But I get to the other side and am more than happy to see the letter “O”.

I’ve made it, well almost, but I feel great. I don’t even feel the pain anymore, it’s numb. I decide to go to the right and head over to Q. I walk and I walk. I kept thinking my car has to be here somewhere! Defeat starts creeping in. Where is my car?

Then I see a lady pushing the key fob (what a funny word!) to find her car, which she does in seconds. I will try that and listen for the beep but what if someone else hears it and robs my car? I don’t care! I hear a faint beep. Can it be mine? I try it again twice excited because it must be my car. I keep hitting it and it gets fainter and fainter instead of louder. Where is it? My heart starts to sink when the sound stops altogether. Could this really be happening? So close and yet so far? I go back the way I came. Suddenly I hear the beep and this time it is getting louder!

I look up and I am in row R. OMG, I see lights flashing! Never have my lights looked so wonderful! I want to run I am so excited but…..the brace is too heavy on my leg. One hour and 45 minutes later I am sitting in my seat. All I can do is smile, I am so very relieved. I see my phone on the seat which makes me mad and then remember where I am. I am safely back in my car. I smile some more as I drive out of the garage……..and then I am assaulted by hail.

Moral of this story: Know where you are parked and take lots of pictures. Take a marker and mark the trail! Having never forgotten this story it was the last time I ever “lost” my car in a parking area.

(These are the funny little stories one forgets if they are not recorded or written down, yes?)

02/04/2017

Why do I specialize in audio recordings? Because....."

What is as distinctive as a fingerprint,
as invisible as the wind,
more powerful than a sword,
that each of us was born with?

The Human Voice"

The greatest gift we can give is not our possessions, it is our stories.

In the late eighties my maternal grandmother’s best friend (Catherine) sent some photos of the two of them and their fri...
01/13/2017

In the late eighties my maternal grandmother’s best friend (Catherine) sent some photos of the two of them and their friends in 1916. My grandmother was 16 years old. They were probably taken with a Kodak Brownie camera. My grandmother died in 1975, before I learned about these, before I had the chance to talk to her about them. My grandmother (Lillian Marshall) is the one in black pants, the only one.

I knew my grandmother as a prim and proper woman. She was always dressed beautifully complimenting every outfit with pearls. As children, I had to dress up when we went to her house, my brothers did not. I don’t know if that was my mom’s thing or my grandmother’s. Her rules were strict. I do not remember her being a fun person, but I always liked her smile. Perhaps had we lived closer I would have had the chance to get to really know her. By the time we did start talking a little, I was a teenager and she seemed ancient and uninteresting to me.

I would have seen her in such a different light had she shown me these photos. Even my mom had never seen these of her mother until I received them. It never occurred to me my grandmother would have such fun, especially as a teenager. If only I had shown her similar shots like this of my friends and I. It would have opened many doors in our relationship. Still I was a teenager when life was all about me. We were so much alike and neither of us had any idea. I have so many questions about these photos. Who were the other girls? Where were these taken? What is the story about the handcuffs, the “knife” and the hanging? Who took these photos? Whose camera was it? So many questions of which I will never know the answers.

We so often don’t think of our grandparents as being young. It hardly seems possible they enjoyed the same thing as we did when we were teenagers. Haven’t they always been “old”?

This is such a good example of what we miss without interviewing our grandparents and parents. We miss these stories. We miss the chance to see them as young people enjoying life. We need to ask questions and listen to the answers. We need to see photos if they have them. We need to ask them about being a teenager. It takes time and patience to get the real answers. Perhaps my grandmother would not have mentioned these photos – but if I had shown her mine I believe she would have. Don’t miss these opportunities. Their stories are important!

Address

Loveland, CO
80538

Telephone

+19706699619

Website

Alerts

Be the first to know and let us send you an email when The Memory Weaver posts news and promotions. Your email address will not be used for any other purpose, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

Contact The Business

Send a message to The Memory Weaver:

Shortcuts

Share