Memories

This morning I got up fairly early and walked down our one-lane road to see my grandmother Betty. She was pleasantly surprised to peak through the curtains on the door to see me yelling at my mutts to "Get down!!!!" and she let me in for an hour-long chat.
There's no telling how we got on the subject now, but she started telling me how she used to live in the small house on the corner and that was where her 3 year old sister contracted measles, later got pneumonia and then died. She continued by describing her only memory of the funeral; viewing the small casket through two large windows at the front of her grandfather's house.
While on the topic of funerals, she exclaimed that this year will mark the 18th anniversary of my grandfather's death. She asked me how old I am to be able to calculate, and we concurred that I was too young to remember too much about Royce Daddy. Enblazoned in my mind is a photo of me, my brother and my younger cousin Alex sitting in our best clothes on the porch swing, not understanding the gravity of the ceremony we had just witnessed and why everyone we depended on was crying. She asked me if I recalled much about her husband, and I related that my one real memory is of getting bit on the nose by his dog Buck. Actually, I remember from stories that I was on the front patio playing alone, and that for some reason the hound dog bit me, and that my screaming prompted both my Dad and my grandfather to rush out to my aid. My Dad carried me in and everyone inside looked after me, and when I had calmed down I asked where my grandfather was, and then fretted because my parents told me he was outside beating the dog. Pretty graphic I know... it is interesting to me that I am still concerned about the dog, and impressed with my grandfather's rencor with an animal that would dare to hurt one of his grandchildren, and unaffected by whatever wound I suffered.
My Mom and Dad also shared shoe-shining memories; my Mom was polishing her shoes and then polished the shoe-shine box, and my Dad shed light on the origin of said box. He received it for Christmas from his father when he was seven so he could earn a dime per pair shined and my Mom countered that he got the short end of the stick, since she was given a quarter for every pair she shined (including the pair of her father's shoes to which she applied shining liquid to the leather soles as well, making a slick surface on which to walk).
I wonder a lot about the stories I will tell future generations, if they will seem as foreign and ancient as the ones I have heard today, if our way of life will be fairly incomprehensible due to all of the changes that are constantly occurring. I want to be able to convey more than a couple of images or motifs; I want to be able to recreate a little of my world so it is not lost like these stories that haphazardly come up in mundane conversations. I wish there were some way to preserve all of the memories that my grandmothers and parents and aunts and uncles have stored inside, especially including the senses of deja-vu, the sights, sounds and smells that trigger the past and cause it well up inside them, when they can only hope for someone to listen to the legends of their youth, lives, loves and losses.