My Real Life

When I was a kid, my parents and grandparents used to tell me the same stories, over and over again.

Being a typical kid, I likely rolled my eyes and said “Yes, I know. You’ve already told me this one.”

I know every detail of the time that my Dad DIDN’T win the John Phillip Sousa award, his senior year in high school. More to the point, I know that the band director, that year, said that they weren’t going to give the award that year because no one in the senior class was good enough for it. Um, really? Thanks, jerk.

I also can tell you, word for word, the time my Dad got hit in the face with a baseball and ran home to my Grandma, who was working in her beauty shop.

I could tell you the story of my Grandpa Lawrence, who was pitching for a Cleveland farm team and as he threw a pitch, everyone thought a gun had been shot, but it had been his bone breaking from the force of his throw.

Or, perhaps I could regale you with the time my Mom was dating a young man and went to the opera with he and his family. When they got to the restaurant after the show, the wandering musicians were packing up, but when the father said they should open up their cases and play, they opened up their cases, picked up those instruments, and began to play. Because, friends, when (insert mob boss name here) says play, you play.

I assured myself that I would never become an adult who told the same stories, repeatedly, convinced of their innate captivating nature.

No, I would be an adult who told stories once. Fabulous stories that had everyone on the edge of their seat. Including my children.

Guess what, friends.

The other day, Monkey Girl and I were driving as she was delivering an Instacart order, and we passed a residential complex.

“Didn’t you know someone who lived there?” I innocently asked

My eyes were on the road, but I heard the eye roll and she responded “No, Mom, but I know you did. Her name was Sena and you two almost burned down the complex when you were making funnel cake once.”

Oh. I guess she knew that one.

More evidence to my failure to be the “one-time storyteller” I dreamed of being is the fact that, if I start a sentence with “Did I ever tell you about the time…” any of my four children will finish the sentence with “…you and Grandma were driving to Lara Allen’s birthday party and a car was coming down the road and slipped on ice and flipped over and you had to run to a nearby house and have them call 911? Yes, you’ve told us that one.”

Or, on a recent college visit with Monkey Boy to my alma mater, I began “It was on this street…” and the story was finished by one of my children “…that you and Sandy were walking home from the store in the middle of a rainstorm and cars just kept splashing you until you were soaked and you laughed so hard that you peed in your pants. We know.”

There are so many other examples I could give you to demonstrate my repetitive storytelling, but now that I’ve lived a little more, I have a new perspective.

Here’s my take:

While I used to see this, in my parents, as evidence of a faulty memory, of a longing for a different time, or of a boring life where there were only a few stories that were interesting enough to share, I’m starting to see it differently.

Any time anyone wants to tell you some story from their life, they are trying to connect with you. Trying to give you a glimpse of who they are, or maybe even, who they once were. It’s a reminder that our lives are so much bigger and broader than the day to day that most people see. The sharing of life stories is an invitation to share an experience and an opportunity to appreciate someone just a little more.

So, even if you’ve heard it before, the next time someone offers you a story about themselves that you know by heart…just listen. And appreciate the fact that they care enough about you to share that bit of their life with you.