I come from a family of passionate storytellers and fastidious record keepers.
My dad in particular has a talent for telling stories, weaving tales about his time as a lineman on the B.C. railway in his youth. He tells stories of boulders blocking tracks, Portuguese dynamite specialists and dark train tunnels.
My mom has a bookcase stuffed with photo albums we've spent hours leafing through. Her jewelry box once held our baby teeth, our birth certificates and our immunization records. She held onto her notes from her university classes and I often inspected her round, tidy writing.
I kept lengthy, detailed diaries as a teenager, although I can't read any of the moody missives today without cringing or laughing.