I have always been fascinated by story. As I get older and my elders pass on, I seem to have become a family repository of sorts: sepia tone photographs, 8mm movie reels, letters home written by a 21-year-old uncle I never met who was killed in World War II, my grandmother’s handwritten recipes, my fathers state champion gymnastics medals from the 1930s.
Each of these artifacts tell a story. And our family history is enriched by the ability to hold an object and help us remember who we are and where we came from.
The power of storytelling took on added significance this past week as I watched a documentary entitled Memory Box: Echoes of 9/11.
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