As a young girl, I cherished our winter-break visits to my maternal grandparents’ bungalow in southern Florida. I remember every sensation vividly—the rush of humid air upon exiting the terminal, the breathless squeeze of my grandfather’s embrace, the tanginess of fresh juice made from oranges picked out back, the satisfying click of shuffleboard pucks, and the thrill of stealing into my grandmother’s powder-blue bedroom to try on pearls and peek at the mysterious framed photographs of her as a young bride in Germany after the war.
Unfortunately, I also carry vivid memories of the confusion and pain that surrounded my grandmother’s long and heart-wrenching decline following a diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer’s. As I got older, I came to understand the magnitude of my loss. I had not been privileged to know and learn from my grandmother as a young woman, or even to hear her remarkable story first-hand. Her story was now in the hands of others— her sisters—and the clock was ticking. The story of my paternal grandmother, who had emigrated to this country from Safed, was similarly at risk. By 2000, the window of opportunity to preserve my family’s quiet but significant legacy was small and rapidly narrowing. I decided to seize it and, with the help of an indulgent aunt, I purchased a recording device and went on the road to retrieve these precious stories.
I heard about how my maternal grandmother, bookish and reserved, taught herself to sew, enabling her to make fancy dresses for the wives of concentration camp commandants and provide extra food for her three sisters during the Holocaust. I learned that years later, as a housewife in the Bronx, she made those same grateful sisters dazzling replicas of Fifth Avenue dresses from her attic, stopping only when she smelled dinner burning. I heard how the women of my father’s family escaped the Palestine riots of 1929 with the help of their Arab servant. I saw a tattered photograph of the mulberry tree that my paternal great-grandmother sat under while reading Tzenah U’rena to the illiterate women of the town on Shabbat afternoons.
The experience of collecting my family’s stories, especially women’s stories, had a profound impact on me and it planted a seed that years later, during a hiatus from my job as a museum curator, blossomed into Art of Memory Press. While taking a break to be home with my young son, it occurred to me that the process of curating exhibits was not so different from “curating” lives. Since then, I have been entrusted with documenting and preserving the stories of other fascinating women. Some have played prominent roles in the public arena— women such as Clara Peller, a Russian immigrant who at age 80 became an overnight sensation through the popular Burger King “Where’s the beef?” ad campaign— and others who are less known, but are no less cherished by their families and friends for their roles as talented household managers, fundraisers and forces for good in the community, behind-the scenes players in businesses, and devoted and nurturing mothers and wives. (And of course there have been many impressive men as well!)
I would like to walk you through some of the general principles and guidelines that I have found to be effective in documenting these stories. I will focus on the oral history, which is generally the starting point for my memory books, and a great way for anyone to document his or her precious family stories.
One hundred questions. In advance of your interview session, develop a list of about 100 questions for your subject. Although major life/world events may be foremost on your mind, do not forget to ask about the more mundane aspects of everyday life, such as: How much did food staples cost when you were young? What was your first car? How were holidays celebrated in your home? Did you have a favorite dish? What did you do over summer break? Where was your first date with your spouse? Often the things that are most fascinating and surprising to learn are the details that never come up in day-to-day conversation. While developing your question list, I also recommend doing some basic research into the time, places, and world events that the subject has lived through. This will make your questions richer and better informed.
Come prepared. On the day of the interview make sure that you have a functioning recording device (audio or video), a backup device, as well as extra batteries or a charge cord. You should be sufficiently familiar with the setup that the technical aspects will not distract you from the task at hand. Good old pen and paper are also helpful for jotting down additional questions as they occur to you or points to clarify later on.
When someone tells you who they are, listen. Taking a life history requires a great deal of quiet listening. It is best to avoid sharing your own anecdotes and experiences and to focus instead on prompting your subject’s recollections. It is important that the subject feel supported and encouraged and that you be mindful of his or her stamina. Plan on regular breaks about every two hours, especially if your subject is elderly or if the subject matter is emotional. You may also want to spend time together reviewing old photographs and documents. These serve as great memory aids and can highlight experiences that might have been forgotten.
Go with the flow. Although prepared questions are a great starting point, don’t be afraid to deviate from them. Stories tend to go forward and backward over time and to conjure up other reminiscences. It is important to follow the lead of your subject, even if it doesn’t conform to your plan. Recently, for instance, I interviewed the owner of a three-generation shoe business who is known to be a fabulous storyteller. After half an hour of struggling with my questions, I quietly put them away and let him take the lead. We passed the day in wonderful conversation and many of my questions were eventually answered— on his terms!
Don’t be afraid to ask. Often there will be subjects that your subject has never talked about or avoided talking about because they are scary, sad, or painful. These include such topics as periods of struggle (financial, marital, health, etc.), the death of loved ones, and even attitudes toward mortality. Give your subject the opportunity to speak about these things. I have found that my clients have generally embraced the opportunity to discuss difficult topics in the quiet, reflective, therapeutic environment that the interview setting offers. One subject told me, for example, that after discussing her Holocaust experience with me she now feels comfortable talking about it with her children and grandchildren for the first time. Of course, if your subject is having difficulty proceeding, give him or her the opportunity to take a break or move on to a different topic.
Ethical will. There is a strong tradition of the ethical will in Judaism, tracing back to the patriarch Jacob, and through the Middle Ages. Give your subject a chance to reflect upon and share the values and life lessons that matter most to her. Ask about her hopes and dreams for her loved ones. A modern ethical will need not take the form of stern admonitions. A young mother with cancer, for example, passed on advice in the form of humorous little tidbits that have contributed to her worldview. On a cold winter day in Communist Russia she discovered swarms of people eating ice cream. When questioned why, their response was simply, “Because today there is ice cream!” She took away from that experience that one needs to appreciate what one has and seize the moment. She did just that when she turned her own diagnosis of cancer into a national organization that supports tens of thousands of Jewish women in their fight against the disease.
My grandmother’s pearls, which I had so admired as a child, were eventually passed down to me, but my grandmother’s true legacy would not have without dedicated effort—my own small seizing of a moment. Even though we may not like to think about it, we are all conscious of the highly ephemeral nature of our family stories. Just because we sometimes talk to our loved ones about the past, it doesn’t mean that we truly know their stories and it certainly doesn’t ensure that they will be preserved intact for future generations. The broad biographical information may endure, but the things that animate the story—the humor, the anecdotes, the colorful details, the specificity—will disappear without dedicated efforts to preserve them. These stories, preserved and handed down, allow something precious of the storyteller to endure—something more precious than pearls.