While at a motel in North Dakota, I went to breakfast and sat by a gentleman who was on the phone. I overheard him say that he had “lost time yesterday” because his “passengers got cranky” so he “stopped at a truck stop and hosed them down with cold water.” Then I noticed a school bus in front of the motel that hadn’t been there the day before. When the gentleman ended his call, I asked him if that was his bus. “No,” he replied. “I’m in the back with a semi load of pigs.” —Submitted by David Flemming, Hermantown, Minnesota

When I was in my twenties, my mother handed me a copy of our family tree that dated back to 1648 when my ancestors came from France to settle in an area known as “Acadie,” now Nova Scotia. “That’s nice,” I replied and put the papers away in a drawer.

In a move some twenty years later, I came across the yellowed sheets held together by a rusty staple. Looking at the names and tracing the path down to my own name, I now longed to know more about the people whose births, marriages and deaths were listed before me. Unfortunately, by that time, all those who held pieces of our family story were long gone. I missed my opportunity. My ancestors’ stories died with them.

Since then I’ve devoted much time and effort to helping others avoid the mistake I made, assisting them in preserving their stories for themselves and their families.