The date was November 15, 1864. The time was 4 a.m. The place was Atlanta, Georgia. Union General William Sherman gave the signal. His troops abandoned their supply line and began a 285-mile march that wreaked vengeance on the Rebels.

Over 60,000 Yankees were ordered to burn crops, kill livestock, forage civilian meat and vegetables, destroy mills and cotton gins, and burn bridges. My great-grandfather, James Landon, served as a private in Sherman’s March to the Sea.

Family lore suggests sixteen-year-old Private Landon stumbled upon wounded General Sherman. A Confederate bullet had shattered his leg. My great-grandfather—Grandpup—drug his fallen leader under a live oak, and used his body as a blanket to shelter him throughout the rainy, battle-bloody night. As the story goes, Grandpup’s lifelong raspy whisper was the result of what the Yankees, anyway, deemed “heroism.”

But that’s all I know. My family intended to learn Grandpup’s story. We put it on our “Someday List,” and went on about our lives. But before the “Someday” calendar page turned, it was too late. Grandpup was dead. Unlike General Sherman, who penned hundreds of letters that told his story, Grandpup’s story was lost forever.

My family lamented, “IF ONLY we had asked what really happened on that battleground.” We didn’t. Grandpup’s courage, loyalty, and beliefs died with him.

You never know what will happen next year, next month, next week, or even tomorrow. Don’t become a victim of the “Someday List Syndrome.” Don’t force your descendants to lament, “IF ONLY.”

It’s easy. Sit at your keyboard and write . . . One. Word. At. A. Time.

A life without its story told is a life lost.

Will you be remembered?