Anyone who has been to a high school reunion has probably been on one side or the other of a conversation like this, described in Frank's column.

"Remember," he said, "that night when you had me over for dinner -- me and that food-writer friend of yours from the newspaper?" "I had you over for dinner?" I asked. I seldom had anyone over for dinner. I was a timid host and an impatient, heedless, grudging cook. "Yes," he said, "it was the first time I had hummus. And you made pasta, too. And you told me about the traveling you did right after college, when you retraced the route of some adventurer through Europe." His point was that my account had motivated him to take more frequent, grander trips of his own. But as he explained this, I was focused on something else: the curious and unsettling fact that I had no memory -- zero -- of ever having him and the other friend over for dinner. In fact I had no memory of him ever even being in my apartment. And as our conversation progressed, it became clear that few of my and his memories of the old days overlapped. They were distinct, independent sets, not so much clashing as diverging. From whatever past we'd shared, he'd carried away one reel of scenes and me another.

What Frank took from this exchange and many more like it, is that his memories are at best incomplete, a patchwork with pieces missing. And that key, possibly very interesting, parts of his life were unavailable to him as a memoirist, simply because he couldn't remember them. Why we retain certain memories and not others is a mystery, at least to me and Frank. But what's clear is that if you want to compile a richer and more accurate memory of your own life, whether you are writing a memoir or not, you must talk to others who have shared your life. Then give at least as much credence to their memories as to your own.

The other thing that strikes me from this anecdote is something that we find again and again as we help people create tributes to those they love. A story Frank didn't remember telling at a dinner he didn't remember hosting had changed somebody's life. How often this must happen. A small gesture or a few kind words, an off-the-cuff story that might be quickly forgotten by the storyteller - each of these things may be remembered years later by the recipient. Like George Bailey, none of us can see the world for what it might have been without us, and we just never know what impact we have made on the world. Unless someone tells us. Which is why we get such joy from helping our clients create group tribute books that tell others what they mean to them. So consider this a shameless plug, not necessarily for our Tribute Books, although they do mean the world to their recipients. But more importantly consider this a shameless plug for each of us to tell someone today how they have changed your life.

~ Kristi