Firsthand
Every voice tells the story in your person's own words — none of them invents a thing. They differ only in how the words are set on the page. Here is the same little memory, told five ways.
Their words, plain on the page.
Most families. The honest, unadorned default.
Dad built the canoe from cedar strips out behind the barn. We took it on the Platte every summer until I left for the army. Mom packed cold fried chicken and we'd be gone the whole day.
The same true words, with a little music.
Families who want a keepsake that reads like literature — without a word invented.
The cedar strips came off the barn in long curls, and the canoe took shape that spring. Every summer after, the Platte carried it — and us — from morning until the light gave out. Cold fried chicken, and the whole day gone.
Honors a life without eulogizing it.
Memorial and in-honor editions — a tribute that stays in their voice, not the obituary's.
He built the canoe himself, cedar strip by cedar strip, behind the barn. For years it carried the family down the Platte, summer after summer, from morning until the light gave out. Cold fried chicken, packed for the day, and the water the whole way.
Keeps the humor the subject told it with.
People whose stories were funny and who'd hate a solemn retelling.
Dad built the canoe from cedar strips out behind the barn — no small thing, behind that barn. We took it on the Platte every summer until I left for the army. Mom packed cold fried chicken, and we'd be gone the whole day, which suited everyone fine.
Their life, set down like oral history.
Families who want a clear, factual record — names, places, years, in order.
He built a canoe from cedar strips behind the barn. Beginning in 1958, the family took it out on the Platte every summer, until he left for the army. They packed cold fried chicken and spent the whole day on the water.