Share Your Stories – Because They’re All You Have

I love me a good story. My friends know this about me – they’ll call me up and start the conversation with: “Wait till you hear this one . . . “ or “Something happened today that I know you’ll appreciate”.

The weird, the funny, the creepy – it doesn’t matter – I love them all.

Sometimes I really have to tease the full story out of people – but that’s okay – I don’t mind. Oftentimes, the most interesting part of a story is in the details. So I prefer people don’t skimp on those. If you tell me you were out for dinner when something of relevance occurred – I’ll need to know what restaurant and with whom and at what time and what you ordered.

My kids want stories from me and I’m literally drained. I’ve told them everything there is to tell – that’s age appropriate at least. They know about the kids I went to school with, the teachers I had, the friends I hung out with, my childhood experiences, my various part-time jobs.

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I’ve told them all about Robert – who in Grade One got sent to the principal’s office for drawing poop coming out of Santa’s bum in art class. They know about the poor unfortunate in Grade Two who had to lay across our teacher’s lap in front of the whole class while she administered two swift smacks across his rear. They’ve heard vivid details about Zippy – a boy in my Grade Three class who slid across the classroom floor in his stockinged feet and bashed his head on his desk – requiring four stitches.

And while my kids may be partial to tales from the past, they are always up for a good present day anecdote. Like the time I went to the library and a woman accused me of shoving her. For the record, I had not. But because she made the accusation, I figured “Why not?” so I marched on over and gave the biddy a good shove.

But I’m bled dry. It’s gotten to the point where I’m recycling – asking them which stories they’d like to re-hear. At a loss, I’m recounting interesting articles I’ve read in the newspaper that day. I’m detailing the movies and series I’m in the midst of watching. Although this is falling by the wayside because they’re at an age now where they want to see these movies and shows for themselves – not just hear about them second-hand from me. 

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Do you have a funny, creepy, weird or otherwise noteworthy story about the gym? Feel free to message me with your tale – and I’ll use it in an upcoming blog post. It will be strictly anonymous.
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So I’m telling them other peoples’ stories: the time my mother’s dog followed her to the ice rink and climbed a fence to get to her; the time my father almost drowned as a young boy and was rescued by a semi-famous boxer. Just the other day, I told my son about a university friend of mine whose father (as a young boy) climbed to the top of a gigantic sand heap with another friend – and they both sank to the bottom. The friend suffocated and his body and the air pocket it created is what saved my friend’s father from certain death.

Two summers ago during a visit to Australia, my children’s great-grandfather regaled them with stories about his experiences in the war. He talked about his first kill – and when my husband’s aunt stopped him – thinking maybe these anecdotes would be too difficult for my kids to hear – we told her it was okay and we urged Pa Newton to continue. The kids were riveted but more importantly, they were gaining a perspective and hearing about something I hope to God they never have to experience first-hand themselves.

My three have never had the pleasure of walking the earth alongside my own grandparents. But they often talk about Grandpa Geza and Grandma Josefa and Baba and Deda Ilija as if they know them. 

“Tell me the story about Grandpa Geza and Grandma Josefa meeting again. About the time Grandpa Geza put a dead rat in his neighbour’s garbage can. About the time Grandpa Geza’s brother chopped his finger off. When Deda Ilija threw a bucket of water on Deda (my father) to wake him up for school.”

People who were once in my life, my children’s ancestors – may be now long dead but their stories live on. It’s what I hope for myself. That one day, my great-grandchildren will be walking to school asking to be told about the time I doctored the fast food meal I was making for two unruly customers. Or the time I donned a creepy clown mask and hid in the forest in an unsuccessful attempt to scare the bejesus out of their great-grandfather.

Stories are the currency between us and our children. They add value to our lives and to the legacies we leave behind. Our stories are who we are – in the end, they’re all we are.

After we’re gone, our stories are all that’s left.

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