I can remember a hot summer day when I was biking down an old country road just outside Athens Georgia where I attended college at the University of Georgia. I love old houses and could not resist stopping when I stumbled across this abandoned old southern home. Peeling white paint, the tall grass and unkept grounds showed this unloved house had not seen owners for many years. I dropped my bike with curiosity leading my way up a large wrap around porch. I entered the half open old solid wood front door. It was so beautiful. Not one stitch of furniture but a old milk container and broken cane chair. There was a warn soap stone sink and cupboards dating back to the early part of our century. I walked up gorgeous dark oak stairs and the tall windows illuminated the old wide plank pine wood floors. On the floor where strewn old photographs and boxes of varying sizes with more old photos and many hand written letters. I picked up a box and sat on the dusty floor studying one photo after another. There where so many nameless faces and untold memories. these black and white photos from a loving family so many years gone by. It left in me a deep sadness. Where did they go? Why did they leave these behind? The letters so handsomely written. Some love letters and some graceful correspondences to loved ones and dear friends. I remember how amazed I was that all this was just left to no one. To nothing. Like the dust. No one would save it. No one would care or remember. The women so beautiful in her wedding dress and her husband in a soldiers uniform. That same women much older and alone on her front porch. The same porch I had just stepped onto. The heat of the day was making me thirsty and I knew that I needed to head back soon. I left the photos and yellow stained hand written letters as I had found them and biked away but I never forgot that experience. It stays with me still today. A box of memories. Written memoirs of someones long life. An entire life just left exposed to eventually be thrown away by whomever takes over the property. There was no one who would claim those precious memories. No one to preserve them and pass them down.

My own story begins, not here, but with my deep fascination with history and the personal stories of those from days gone by. Every chance I got, I would peck at my older family members to tell me about their youth, their life.  My start in this field of personal historian began so many years ago.  I cannot remember a time with my grandparents or Aunt or Uncle that I did not attempt to find out more about their history.  It was our history.  I would find the right questions as if an interviewer who was prying a story for the evening news.  The thing I began to realize is that if you keep digging, there was always more to add.  There was always more details that once you had enough sketched together then ideas and perceived knowledge would take a turn. A more accurate and true turn of how these people had to truly struggle. Or how miracles would be revealed. The stories that held the secrets of their lives and the times that formed them are truly something of one’s legacy.   If you are lucky, then truths to yourself would arise.  Some key idea or component about your grandfathers ideology that led to an “aha” moment.  This was the treasure I always wanted to dig up.  There is our history, and in this, our stories. Within the stories are truths more fascinating and amazing to me than any fantasy book.  In my own limited time to get these personal biographies from my grandparents and my own father, I never could get enough. Not near what I would love to have today, to pass down to my own kids.  Never enough time, not enough interest from them or means to preserve their words.  What was that they said about why Gramps didn’t have to go to war?  Was it an old injury or he was a year older then the cut off for them to accept him? I just could not remember what he had said.  It is too late now. He has long passed away.  How I wish I had more stories.  He was an amazing story teller. This is the beginning of my journey to Story Vines. I want to preserve your stories. To organize them in a way where they will be found and sharred in creative and loving ways for many generations to come. Story Vines is a small company based on Martha’s Vineyard dedicated to preserving your own personal history. Your photographs and letters, your memoirs and cherished events all in one place. To catch your life now while you are still here to share it all. To make sure your photos don’t end up in a box without any knowledge of where they came from. Don’t let them end up with the dust. Leave your story and give your descendants the best gift of all, Give them your legacy. 🌿