Every week the album asks one of us a question. The answers land here, in our own words and, whenever we can get them to press the red button, our own voices.
That photograph was taken on the courthouse steps because the church ran long and the photographer had another wedding at four. It rained the whole morning and stopped for exactly the ten minutes we needed. My mother called it a blessing. The photographer called it a miracle. My husband called it lucky, which is what he called everything good for sixty years.
Three hundred dollars and a summer of Saturdays. It was older than I was and the floor had a hole you could watch the road through. I drove it for six years and sold it for three hundred dollars, which I still consider the best deal I ever made in either direction.
Garlic and basil, always. My mother kept basil on the windowsill in a coffee can. On Sundays the whole building knew what we were having, because the sauce went on at nine in the morning and the smell went down the stairwell floor by floor. When I make it now, the first thing that hits me is that stairwell.
We said walk around the puddle. He heard measure the puddle. It came up past his boots, which he reported to everyone at dinner with enormous pride, twice.
She picked her own outfit, packed her own bag, and told us at the door that she did not need a walk to the bus stop this year. We walked her anyway. She allowed it, on the condition that we stop waving before the bus actually arrived.
Third night of the campout, the old tent finally quit on us. Poles snapped at two in the morning and the whole thing came down like a parachute. The kids still call it the night the house fell. We bought a new tent the next day, but honestly, the collapsed one made the better story.
Our photos were everywhere: three phones, two group chats, a drawer of prints at Grandma’s house. I wanted one place that was ours. Not an app that shows us ads, not a feed that buries last year. A real website with our name on it, where the kids can scroll back through their whole childhood and Grandma can add her side of every story.
The question library
Hundreds of questions, organized by the parts of a life. Pick one for anyone in the family, any time.