No doubt all family historians wish that every one of their ancestors had kept a diary, a scrapbook or written their memoirs. Imagine what it would be like to learn of your ancestor’s experiences first hand, to know what they were thinking and how they felt about the events in their lives. I’m truly blessed to have my maternal grandfather’s memoirs that span the years from when he met my grandmother in Sheffield, England to their homesteading adventures in Temiskaming, Ontario that he titled ‘Boring but True’. But beyond that, all I have is a few snippets from the past. I’m fascinated by a small collection of family letters that my mother saved from the 1950s and 1960s. I’m even fascinated by an old calendar that belonged to my grandparents that lists their coal deliveries on the back. And oh how I wish there was more. A recent blog meme about childhood memories got me thinking about my own life. Like my grandfather, I think my life story is boring. Who on earth would ever want to read it? But then I realised that while it might be boring to me, my grandchildren and their children might just find it as fascinating as I find the story written by my grandfather. And while I’m not quite ready to sit down and write my memoirs, I am going to begin a series of blog posts about my childhood memories with the thought that one day, when there is enough of them, I might turn them into a book for my grandchildren.