I recently lost one of the great storytellers of my life. My Dad’s mom passed away after what I think most people would consider a good run. For 104 years the world threw at her a kitchen sink full of good, bad, strange and funny shots that she took with strength and without scramble. It was never easy getting her off her feet (she was 95 before she finally quit working, when her increasingly concerned family and increasingly fragile body insisted upon it).
Often people my age are told about the greatness of her generation, forged by challenging circumstances such as war and poverty. But I heard about those hardening experiences firsthand, looking into the eyes of the grandma I loved and knew loved me and imagining those excruciating days when her life hung in the balance of a border or a bomb. My admiration and respect still causes me tears.
There were also far lighter, silly stories of stupid stuff my dad and his two sisters did when they were young. Every holiday, the dinner theater of tales was accompanied by newspaper clippings and photographs that she’d share with us, telling tales of what life used to be and serving to occupy our otherwise mischievious instincts.
Is there any greater present you can bestow on someone than a story? We remember the things we do for others more easily than what they’ve done for us, and physical gifts are pretty ephemeral. But the good stories we share (whether true or made-up, spoken or written or performed), that lodge deep in our memories and even mutate beyond what we were originally told, are the best things we share with those we love.
Grandma, for the generosity of your wonderful narrations and so much else, thank you.