Everyone Has A Story To Tell

Sitting in the little fibro cottage in suburban Brisbane I listened as the elderly woman told me a story.

In her hand was a yellowing photograph of a smiling young man.

Over thirty years before that young man had found himself caught in one of mother nature's cruelest events.

Cyclone Tracy hit Darwin on Christmas Eve 1974, news crews were operating at skeleton staff, people were busy celebrating the holidays, a previous cyclone had passed them by with no damage, nobody was paying attention.

Tracy hit with savage force, wind gusts reached 217 km/h before the anemometer was destroyed. Around 80 per cent of the city was left devastated, with 70 per cent of homes destroyed. Amost half the population were left homeless.

As the wind roared and the rain pelted from the sky 71 people died.

One of those was the smiling young man in the photograph.

All these years later his sister's eyes still filled with tears as she spoke of what a kind and decent man he had been.

She remembered the fear and uncertainity as the family spent Christmas Day on the other side of the country trying to contact him.

That was the moment I knew everybody had a story to tell.

All of us living our ordinary, mundane lives, have tales to tell.

Tales of love. Tales of tragedy. Tales of resilience. Tales of courage. Tales of humour.

What we see as boring is actually a fascinating collection of experiences that craft us into the people, the families that we are.

We need to remember the stories, the little details, the big events, the everyday.

I was there that day to teach that woman how to scrapbook.

Despite my lack of crafting skills I love scrapbooking.

Scrapbooking combines my love of story telling, my regard for history and my adoration of family, it gives me a way to document our ordinary lives.

As I sit surrounded by scissors, pretty paper, colourful stickers I look through the snapshots we've taken and I'm immediately transported back to moments in time, my daughter's grinning faces at picnics in the park, my husband's crazy woodworking projects - the billie cart with wobbly wheels, my mother baking cakes with her granddaughters.

As I cut and arrange and stick and write I am doing more than just remembering.

I'm creating a record of who we are and how we live.

In years to come my children and grandchildren will marvel at how little it cost to go to a movie, take horseriding lessons, buy milk. They will laugh at some of the fashions we wore. They will remember fondly making mud pies in the overgrown garden of our Brisbane home. They will giggle at dodgy haircuts. They will remember the struggle of illnesses overcome. Their hearts will hurt a little as they see the faces of those who have left us.

This is life, captured in all it's heartbreak and humour. Love and laughter.

My hope is it creates a safe place where my family can see they are loved.

That our family in all its quirky, dysfunction of varied personalities is a group with an unbreakable bond, a connection that runs deep no matter what challenges we face.

Writing our stories down, keeping our photographs safe, creating eye-catching decorated books is a hobby for today.

But it's also a legacy for future generations.

As they sit and turn the pages they will read about their lives, their parents lives, their grandparents lives. They will learn where they came from, the people who shaped their lives today.

They will get to know the uncle they never met who died in one of Australia's greatest natural disasters.