This book is about a boarding house owned by Ms. Gracie who had healing powers to heal everybody who rented a room in her twelve-bedroom estate. Each tenant left behind their memories for others to see how their life became a healing process. Ms. Gracie taught her tenants to be intuitive, to help others, and to always know they had power to make their life a happy one instead of holding on to their past of misery.

In this fourth and final episode of the Creighton Family Saga, Philip Creighton, now a prominent banker and newspaper publisher in 1890 San Francisco resists becoming involved in a questionable business transaction. By doing so, he sets off a chain reaction of blackmail, threats, and revenge. This event also re-opens the wounds of the past when Philip's 24-year old son Chandler learns of his father's dark secret from an unexpected source. After an emotional confrontation with Philip, Chandler expresses his sense of betrayal by his father and leaves San Francisco, vowing never to return. While seeking his own identity, his odyssey ultimately leads him into Philip's shadowy past. Along the way, Chandler encounters some of the people who had a profound effect on his father's life during the war years. In the end, he decides that he must visit Creighton's Crossroads where it all began. What Chandler discovers from the people he meets casts his father in a new and unexpected light. Then, through a life-altering decision, Chandler thrusts himself and Philip forward in a new direction for their futures. But will Philip ever find a way to heal the memories that continue to haunt him?

This powerful last work by pioneering oral historian Fran Leeper Buss examines how painful memories of traumatic experiences can be transformed into positive action for social good. In her more than 40 years gathering the life stories of working-class women, Buss found commonalities in the ways in which her subjects faced structural inequalities of race, class, and gender, as well as sufferings caused by poverty, child abuse, gun violence and war. Some of these women subsequently went on to become participants and leaders in a variety of movements for social change. In this wide-ranging book, Buss shows how her subjects employed storytelling, art, spirituality and other methods to create sense and meaning from traumatic memories and then make positive contributions to movements for labor rights, sanctuary for Central American refugees, gun violence prevention, peace, and other causes. Buss also relates her own story of medical malpractice and disability and discusses the work of historical and contemporary thinkers on the concepts underlying her ideas. She provides unique and original insights into how women who have endured great trauma are able to redeem their memories through communal action for a better world.

In this volume collaborators from different universities all over the world explore a wide variety of methods for the study of literature as cultural memory. In literature, the past may be (re)constructed in various ways and in very diverse forms. This immediately raises the question as to how one can describe and inventory the various discourses and metadiscourses of historical representation. In what sense can the rhetoric of literary historiography itself contribute to literature's function as cultural memory? Which methods of analysis are most appropriate for describing specific text types or genres as cultural memory? What have been the pragmatic uses and the ethical merits of the stability and continuity that literature has often provided for European, American, Asian and African cultures? What are the dilemmas they create for our teaching at the end of the twentieth century? To all these questions, a wide range of scholars here tries to find answers. In thorough and highly original contributions, they not only address theoretical problems, but also engage themselves in practical analyses of specific works.

The Diné, or Navajo, have their own ways of knowing and being in the world, a cultural identity linked to their homelands through ancestral memory. The Earth Memory Compass traces this tradition as it is imparted from generation to generation, and as it has been transformed, and often obscured, by modern modes of education. An autoethnography of sorts, the book follows Farina King’s search for her own Diné identity as she investigates the interconnections among Navajo students, their people, and Diné Bikéyah—or Navajo lands—across the twentieth century. In her exploration of how historical changes in education have reshaped Diné identity and community, King draws on the insights of ethnohistory, cultural history, and Navajo language. At the center of her study is the Diné idea of the Four Directions, in which each of the cardinal directions takes its meaning from a sacred mountain and its accompanying element: East, for instance, is Sis Naajiní (Blanca Peak) and white shell; West, Dook’o’oosłííd (San Francisco Peaks) and abalone; North, Dibé Nitsaa (Hesperus Peak) and black jet; South, Tsoodził (Mount Taylor) and turquoise. King elaborates on the meanings and teachings of the mountains and directions throughout her book to illuminate how Navajos have embedded memories in landmarks to serve as a compass for their people—a compass threatened by the dislocation and disconnection of Diné students from their land, communities, and Navajo ways of learning. Critical to this story is how inextricably Indigenous education and experience is intertwined with American dynamics of power and history. As environmental catastrophes and struggles over resources sever the connections among peoplehood, land, and water, King’s book holds out hope that the teachings, guidance, and knowledge of an earth memory compass still have the power to bring the people and the earth together.

In a rural Kentucky river town, "Old Jack" Beechum, a retired farmer, sees his life again through the shades of one burnished day in September 1952. Bringing the earthiness of America's past to mind, The Memory of Old Jack conveys the truth and integrity of the land and the people who live from it. Through the eyes of one man can be seen the values Americans strive to recapture as we arrive at the next century.

On September 11, 2001, Shanksville, Pennsylvania, became a center of national attention when United Airlines Flight 93 crashed into a former strip mine in sleepy Somerset County, killing all forty passengers and crew aboard. This is the story of the memorialization that followed, from immediate, unofficial personal memorials to the ten-year effort to plan and build a permanent national monument to honor those who died. It is also the story of the unlikely community that developed through those efforts. As the country struggled to process the events of September 11, temporary memorials—from wreaths of flowers to personalized T-shirts and flags—appeared along the chain-link fences that lined the perimeter of the crash site. They served as evidence of the residents’ need to pay tribute to the tragedy and of the demand for an official monument. Weaving oral accounts from Shanksville residents and family members of those who died with contemporaneous news reports and records, J. William Thompson traces the creation of the monument and explores the larger narrative of memorialization in America. He recounts the crash and its sobering immediate impact on area residents and the nation, discusses the history of and controversies surrounding efforts to permanently commemorate the event, and relates how locals and grief-stricken family members ultimately bonded with movers and shakers at the federal level to build the Flight 93 National Memorial. A heartfelt examination of memory, place, and the effects of tragedy on small-town America, this fact-driven account of how the Flight 93 National Memorial came to be is a captivating look at the many ways we strive as communities to forever remember the events that change us.