Capturing Memories

 Somewhere along the way as my children suddenly turned into adults, my parents aged as well. For many years it seemed they were always the same age ("old" to my teenage mind and only slightly older ever since then). Now, I sit back and take in their white hair, the occasional slight shuffle in their walks, the wrinkles in their soft skin, the fabricated teeth, their seeming fragility in the face of a pandemic, and the house starting to resemble a historical society. Just as I felt about my kids when my house was full of toddlers and milestones, I now feel about my parents, wanting to hold tight to everyday. 

Every visit is too short. Every conversation not deep enough. Each interaction carries extra weight,  knowing we are closer to the end than the beginning of our times together. Always wishing I had taken more pictures. Oh, we might still have another ten years if they continue on as they are. They both have moved into their 80s now, so I am just thankful for every chance I have with them.

Because I have started to recognize the preciousness of my time with them with increased awareness, I am wanting to capture every memory with them, both present and past. I want to hear all the stories again. Even if they already told me a million times, I want to hear again about growing up in post WWII, about falling in love in chemistry class at IIT, about having four babies in four years, about all the trips and family craziness, about the fun and the heartache, about the dreams both realized and unfulfilled, about life over eight decades. 

Capturing these memories isn't essential to life. It doesn't even necessarily carry eternal significance, but I want my kids and grand-kids to know my parents and the influence they have had, the challenges they have overcome, and the hope they have for their future family. Not just letting their lives slip away without recording them. It is never too late to begin capturing the memories that are passing us by each day.

Pictures. Many people are far better at this than I, but I try to take at least one picture every time I am with my parents. I think I missed that this last time. A picture to remember the event, the people there, and maybe even a fun moment together. Not nearly as monumental as the project a photographer took on of snapping a picture of his parents waving good-bye at the end of each visit (see the emotional tribute in The New Yorker).  Pictures freeze time in a way little else can, and when words fail us, pictures can even tell a story. 

Scrapbooks. I'm just gonna leave this here, because I am not a scrapbooker, but theoretically this is a great way to capture memories. 

Visits. As often as I can get out there, spending time together on their schedule and within their limitations. After each time together (in person or virtual) I will take a few minutes and jot down a memory. Something they said, something they are going through, something about them, to lock away in writing. 

Photo books. This is more my style. Pull all the pictures together. Don't wait for a funeral to do this. Put it together now. Pictures of their life, their family over the years, significant events, memorable trips, certificates of accomplishments, anything meaningful to them can be easily assembled into a photo book and printed off at any photo lab. 

Write a book. That's a little ambitious, but I'm going to try to tackle it this year. Each week, I am going to make the time to call my dad and just chat for a while and ask him some hopefully thought provoking questions. (I kinda borrowed this idea from the StoryWorth ads I saw floating around). He is not a writer or much of a reader (more the engineer type), so their format would be torturous for him. Instead, I'll do the writing, he just needs to do the talking. We'll follow his memory wherever it will take us, and I look forward to the journey of learning more about him and recreating his life on the printed page. 
 

What better place to capture these memories than here on my blog. You might have zero interest in my family history, so feel free to skip over these occasional posts. But, right here is the natural place for me to try to contain their lives. My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's not long ago, and the urgency kicked up a notch, to capture his memories as they become more fleeting. At least to start with, the emphasis will be with him. 

So, let's begin.

David Alan Tregay was born at Oak Park Hospital in Oak Park, Illinois, on March 29, 1939. He was the seventh of seven children born to Lloyd Tregay and his wife Myrtle. Altogether there were five boys and two girls -- John (went by Jack), George, Bill, Jim, and Dave, along with Jeannette and Ruth. All packed into a house in Oak Park, along with extended family here and there, they grew up the old-fashioned way -- together. 

 

His brother Jack, twenty years older than Dave, was an engineer and part of the Manhattan project which developed the atomic bomb. At one time, his responsibility was maintenance engineer of the Calutron in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. This giant machine was used to separate the isotopes of Uranium. Another brother George was a marine and served as a fighter pilot in Asia. He was with other planes trying to prevent the Japanese from leaving Japan and was lost in battle and never recovered. Bill was in the navy and also fought in the Pacific. Jim was just two years older than Dave. And, despite his merciless teasing, Jim was Dave's hero. Jeannette was close to George’s age and married John Musengo who was also a fighter pilot in the pacific.

 

Dave went to Longfellow Grammar School and Oak Park High School, graduating in 1957. He admired Jack who went to Armour Institute in Chicago so that was his choice for college as well. Armour Institute was then Illinois Institute of Technology or IIT. Dave enjoyed physics and chemistry in high school so chose chemical engineering as his major, but after failing organic chemistry he changed his major to physics. In freshman chemistry class he met the girl who became the love of his life, Connie Struska, who was majoring in Biology.

 

Having written that, I want to rewrite it. I want to really make it come to life. All these conversations pop into my head surrounding these happenings, and I feel the need to circle back around and write these stories in a real story. From the beginning. Life in the Tregay home in the 1940s. 

 

Maybe next time.