The audio for this episode is a reading from a collection of childhood memories written by my great-grandmother, Lydia Johnston, when she was 92 years old. Six years later, in 1988, Lydia’s daughter-in-law Florence typed out Lydia’s longhand and mailed copies to my grandparents and other family. Some years later Florence’s pages were digitally scanned. Comedian Tory Ward (@toryleeward) did the reading, which has already drawn rave reviews from family.

I’ve shared Lydia’s stories a few times since my Dad emailed them to me five years ago. They never fail to invite discussion. Partly it’s the novelty of a first-hand account from an era outside one’s own, and partly it’s the hardship of the events themselves. Lydia knew hard-labor, danger, and the feeling of opportunities denied early in life. At an age when I was playing Ninja Turtles, Lydia was sick with Measles asking her father to let her work inside instead of outside. I wonder what it was like for her to watch us kids with our toys and our books, to see the privilege of what we now think of as “a childhood” come too late for her.

Lydia describes these personal events like a reporter giving you just the facts. She doesn’t refer to herself as abused, but tells of one of her father’s beatings being so bad she could still feel it. She doesn’t call herself oppressed, but mentions being denied opportunities to pursue her own interests. Lydia’s style always leads the discussion to the same place: How did Lydia feel about all this?

Lydia wrote these recollections when she knew the end was near. Sitting down to define herself for posterity, these are the memories she chose. At 92 years old witnesses to your childhood are rare if they exist at all. One can see the process of becoming forgotten is already well underway. I think Lydia wanted the record to show that these events happened and that she persevered, that the hardships and injustices that went unacknowledged in her own time did matter. Mostly I think Lydia faced the inevitable and claimed a small concession; proof that she had lived.

Looking at the scanned pages themselves expands the story. I think about Florence answering Lydia’s call, taking care to number every page, typing and re-typing until it’s perfect and ready to be sent to the family. The creases show the pages were folded in thirds, first for mailing, I imagine, and then again for storing in a safe place. The frays along the creases show the pages were taken out to be re-read, probably sometimes with others and other times alone.

I don’t remember Lydia. My Dad tells me I attended her ninety-ninth birthday party that gets described in an addendum attached after her death. Thanks to her writing I do get to have a sense of who she was, and my family’s dedication to preserving her stories tells me she remains loved. Tory told me I’m lucky to have something like this. I couldn’t agree more.

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