Memory and Imagination in the Human ExperienceTony Earley delves into his memories in his book, Somehow It Makes a Family. In the introduction, he educates the reader about the purpose of the narrative form, defines a personal essay, and reveals the true nature of creative nonfiction. In the ten essays that follow, he provides sketches of the events and people that shaped his life. Earley focuses on a different common point in each story, giving his readers everything they need to know in a relatively short span of pages. The use of recognizable facts, such as real places, names, past events, and past conversations, adds elements of authenticity to Earley's writings. From the Blue Ridge Mountains to the name Bill Ledbetter, to the numerous shows he watched during his adolescence, Earley presents these facts to the reader to tie the woven script to a tangible source. He repeats these facts over and over within each story, reflecting on personal memories again and again. Memory and imagination, Earley says, “seem to me to be the same human property, known by different names.” Earley makes this important point as he reflects on the individual's ability to perceive an event uniquely through imagination. Miracles are not uncommon in Earley's vivid memories. The imagery prevalent in his work reflects his willingness to accept the supernatural into his reality. Earley savors his memories, now imbued with the essence of his imagination: The first time I attended the Episcopal church in my hometown with a girlfriend, I was shocked by the complexity of the melodies played by the organist, by the sheer melodious expertise of the singing. Until then I don't think I knew that it was possible to worship God with cadences and keys actually indicated in a hymn. In the years since I left, Rock Springs has added air conditioning, a sound system, and a fellowship hall, but it has changed little in one important way: The congregation still sings on green, eared copies. of the Broadman Hymnal of 1940. Although I have heard the Broadman songs sung well only once a year, at Homecoming, the third Sunday in May, when the church was overflowing with visitors and our musical shortcomings were hidden in a joyful noise, they have always been the songs I love most. . I would be hard-pressed to remember even one sentence of the hundreds of sermons I heard growing up