The shape of an archive

An archive isn't a form to fill out; it's a set of rooms. You never need all of them, and nothing complains if a room stays empty. But knowing what each is for helps you put things where the family will find them.

Memories — the heart of it

A memory is one story, in any form: a written story, a funny story, an ordinary day, a lesson they taught, a quote in their exact words, a recipe, a place, the story behind a photo, a voice recording, a video, or a legacy note. Example: "Dad's Saturday pancakes — he flipped one to the ceiling in 1989 and Mom left the stain there for fifteen years" is a perfect memory. Twelve kinds exist so that nothing feels like it doesn't belong; if in doubt, 'story' fits everything.

Chapters — the eras

Chapters group memories into the shape of a life: The Farm Years. The Navy. Raising Five Kids on Maple Street. You create them yourself (or let the Archivist suggest some, if you've turned it on), and each chapter can have its own privacy — the hard chapter can stay family-only while the rest is shared wider.

Timeline — the spine

Events with dates — born, married, moved, retired — at whatever precision is honest: an exact day, a month, a year, or just a decade. The timeline gives visitors their bearings; the memories give them the person.

Detail cards — the texture

The small true things biographies forget: what everyone called her, the song she hummed, the phrase he said constantly, the seat that was his at the table. Detail cards take thirty seconds each and do more to make a person feel present than almost anything else. Example: "Known as: 'Sarge' — nobody remembers why, and she refused to say."

Letters, and things they loved

Letters are written to someone — the person themselves, or the grandchildren who'll read them at eighteen. Things-they-loved is the little museum: the blue coffee mug, Patsy Cline, tomatoes off the vine, the 4:30 crossword. Together they hold what stories can't.