I was five years old when my dad was recalled into the Air Force at the height of the Korean War. Moving from one assignment to another defined my childhood. I lived in major cities like Sacramento, Detroit, Dallas, Baltimore, Albuquerque, and I went to at least nine different public schools that I can recall. When it was time for college, my dad gave me two options: University of New Mexico in Albuquerque where he was currently assigned or Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. Viet Nam war protests were rampant on college campuses, and he figured if I lived at home, he could keep me safe; BYU was a religious institution that frowned on student protests, so there I was unlikely to be caught up in any kind of violence. Staying home seemed frighteningly predictable, so I chose BYU.

I was lucky. I got an outstanding education, married a good man, and began an astonishingly large family—by today’s standards. During the first 20 years of our marriage, we produced eight children—6 boys, 2 girls. When the youngest one went to kindergarten, I was offered a job as an English teacher at the local school district—they had three teachers quit the week before school started, and they were desperate. I loved teaching middle and high school. Everyday students reminded me that the rising generation was smarter, more engaged, far more curious, and possessed of a seriously more sophisticated sense of humor than their parents. (Of course, I regularly reinforced the idea that “wit” was a strong sign of intelligence—so they’d laugh at my jokes.)

Teaching was a great job. When I came home at the end of an exhausting day of convincing teenagers that effective written and spoken communication was essential to no matter what job they intended to pursue, it was satisfying to remember that what I did for a living mattered to families, communities, and society. No many professions can make that claim.

After retiring, I ran for and was elected to the district Board of Education where I learned how democracy works at the grassroots level. And how powerful the voices of parents who care about their kids can be. Once again, I was reminded that at the core of our society is the millions of families doing the best they can for their children. By then, it was pretty clear to me that society works if families work. The story of families is the story of history. So here are some of the stories of my family. I hope they help you to recognize the value of your own family stories. Those stories shape who we are and what we value; they demonstrate what it means to be human.