I was visiting family last week with my eldest, since she and I both had breaks from our usual daily responsibilities and neither of us had seen visited this family in awhile. Overall it was a peaceful, relaxing visit, but as I waited for our plane to get to the gate, I realized that there was another theme throughout the visit – the sharing of stories.

Revisiting memories has always been an activity that this branch of family enjoys. Some of the stories are smooth as well-polished stones, favorites that have been told so often, we know most of the words and the punch lines, but we enjoy hearing them anyway. Some stories this visit recounted times of tension, when catharsis came through a ridiculous moment, or the final straw that seemed insignificant but really was the final insult that could be borne, and all the preceding difficulties were alleviated. The comic strip Awkward Yeti was apropos this week:

If you don’t think this strip is relatable, file it somewhere for the next time you cry at something that seems silly and not usually worth a cry. We’re human, it happens to all of us sometimes. The cry (or sometimes laughter!) releases the pressure valve, and then we can resume our loads.

I’ve always enjoyed the stories for the most part because they are glimpses into what life was like before I was a participant. In particular, this family’s history is interesting because they were often overseas, so their circumstances were very different from mine; I’m sure my imaginings aren’t accurate because I haven’t experienced their exact context. One story in particular was of my husband falling asleep on the public bus in third grade, then waking at the end of the line. He didn’t speak the language, but knew he wasn’t in the right place by the orientation of the mountain range. Definitely not something I ever had to navigate at the age of ten! I hope that by hearing these memories, I have a better understanding of what molded my spouse into the person he is today; translation: I can never hear these stories too many times.

This visit, however, I appreciated the stories in a new way. I’ve seen my in laws in recent months, but hearing how they, and my own parents, speak of their health has my senses pricked for coming changes. Both sets have begun saying that they’re getting older, their bodies aren’t functioning the way they used to, and seeing this for myself gave a new dimension to the stories. They are not only told for life lessons or because years later, the telling is still cathartic, they help orient the tellers. The body may be hiccuping, but the mind still remembers.

There’s a difference between an odd test result or a new health condition to be managed and the body really slowing down. The latter brings a new dynamic, one in which I hope I’m more patient and respectful in my interactions. The stories themselves change too, because they soon may not be as readily told. For awhile, I may have been in denial about my elders aging, expecting that once this round of medical tests is done, they’d bounce back. This time, though, I wanted to record the stories so they’re available to revisit when they can’t be told again, or for future generations.

I’ve always thought that individual lives are fascinating – the choices they made, how the paths may have branched and where the choices have led them. I enjoy hearing about interactions, surprise moments, what a person remembers about how they felt or what they thought in the moment, or when they were inspired to say something, take an action that just struck them then and there. What are those impulses actually made of, and how do they come about? I find the older a person is, the more absorbing their life story. There are so many ways a life can end, so the accumulation of times when it didn’t is remarkable. By this thinking, basically everyone should have their life story written down!

I proposed to begin recording the stories, but the response was, “I’m too tired.” This is something I’ve heard often recently – tired. As if the battery is literally running down, so energy needs to be conserved, and not everything is worth expending energy upon. Rather than worry about the stories not being preserved for my kids, I wonder, what is the purpose of recording the stories? Are there inherent lessons that will improve the quality of life for future generations? That used to be the case ages ago, like, before civilization and cities, because oral histories reminded wandering groups of people where the food was plentiful the previous year, and increased the chances of survival. But in the age of screens, what place do these stories have?

It’s possible that all of the stories from this past week were anecdotes – amusing, but not delivering vital information. There is still value in these though, as they could communicate the quintessence of a person. When my paternal grandmother passed away, my father asked my siblings and I to share some memories of her with him, in preparation for her eulogy. I wrote about my impressions of her character, but the pieces included were how she told me once that she still put mayo on her sandwiches because, “everything in moderation,” and “everyone dies of something,” two grains of salt I heard often growing up that represented my grandmother’s essential attitudes towards life choices.

It makes me smile to imagine maybe grandkids or neighbor’s kids looking at photographs of loved ones, who they maybe did or didn’t know, and me telling them an anecdote about them. “One time while I was away, [my husband] wanted to show me he was taking care of the kids, so he sent this photo of our youngest holding a tiny dot of a pancake.” If told the right way, that little anecdote could draw a laugh, maybe an incredulous question – why would he do that – in turn opening up the possibility of sharing more, explaining what he was like as a person, and in turn maybe revealing some of who I am as a person, and why.

This is maybe the purpose of stories, if we were to pick one: stories help us understand ourselves. Our reaction to a story tells us about ourselves: Whether they are imparting practical information or just good for a laugh, they are important because they help us make sense of the world, navigate it and our places in it. Stories as family memories are important because, while they may be anecdotal, it’s the accumulation of these small moments that leads us through life. The butterfly effect, applied in a retrospective to how we are in the present moment. Which is pretty darned remarkable, when considered.

I tend to be unable to answer questions without backtracking to include what preceded. I find that it enriches the telling to go farther back, and hopefully illuminates why I made the choices I did. By way of telling someone yesterday what I was doing in that moment we were speaking, (painting my nails,) I had to go to the start of the day, and feeling off-kilter most of the day, fielding sick kids and feeling generally ineffective. She intuited – “So you’re telling me this is why you’re painting your nails now, or you’re telling me that you need some self-care?” Yes, both. A microcosm of an example that can be expanded and applied to a life lived. I live in this house with these kids and the work I do, because twenty years ago I saw a man in a bunny suit. How seemingly random, how marvelous. Stories are life.