I saw an interview today with the actress Laura Linney, whose father was playwright Romulus Linney. She talked about her family being from the south, that she was the only one who had moved up north. The interviewer asked her why so many great writers seemed to be from the south and she said it was because in the south we love language and we move slower and therefore take more time to think.
I don’t know if that is true. I know a lot of people who don’t use language very well, it seems we move faster and faster every day, and a lot of people don’t seem to think at all. But that is a discussion for another day.
I think the south produces lots of good writers because southerners like to tell stories. Growing up, I heard a few stories about my father’s family and my mom would tell me stories about growing up in Puerto Rico, but neither were great storytellers and neither stayed close and tied to their families, so the stories dwindled away.
When I married Tim, I immediately began to hear stories from his family about Tim as a child, about his grandparents, about his upbringing. I figured they were trying to bring me up to speed with what I had gotten myself into, but I soon realized that this was just what they did around the holiday table- told stories.
After years of being in the family, I had heard the same stories many times. I knew that they all took great pride in sharing how crazy, funny and interesting their family and they themselves could be.
Now don’t get me wrong, they weren’t telling great tales of adventure or monumental discoveries. They were not claiming fame or any notoriety with these stories. They were sharing the folklore and memories of generations gone by and times that had been special to them. They were remembering days gone by, ordinary days, their grown kids as small children and the people who were no longer with us in the room.
Many times I heard someone tell me, “I wish you could have known” whoever they were talking about. Because of the stories, I felt like I did. These stories were a bridge between me and people I would never see with my own eyes. I knew them though, through the love shared in the stories.
The same stories were told over and over so that someday the next generation might pick a few of them to share with the younger people who would join the family.
I tend to listen to all of this and never give any thought to sharing any of my stories. I wanted to be immersed in this new family I was joining. Anyway, my stories are not of generations gone by, I don’t know a whole lot about my ancestors, and I feel that my life experiences are a little too out there to be relatable. So I listened and learned, hoping that I could tell my child and someday his child, some of these stories.
Recently I have met a new family that is about to join forces with ours. My son is getting married and this new family has gathered with us around the table a couple of times already. I have heard stories about the bride to be and about her family vacations and family exploits. I see how close she is with her parents through their interaction as they tell their stories, laughing and kidding with each other as they talk, interrupting and correcting the stories as they go.
Suddenly the other day I was asked to tell a story about my son Jon and I drew a blank. I was so intent on listening and learning that I couldn’t think of any of the many adventures we have had together. I guess this is why I write. I need time to develop my thoughts into something that makes sense, has a beginning, middle and end and maybe even a punch line or moral to the story.
It reminded me that a few months ago I was a guest on a podcast and was again asked to share a funny story about Jon. I choked. The one funny story I thought of, I remembered all wrong until I got in my car to leave the radio station. I am a failure at storytelling.
I have since gone through my memories and put together a couple of fun stories that I will keep at the ready for when pressed to share again. My luck, I have been labeled unworthy of storytelling and will never be asked, but I am ready just in case.
Telling stories is how we keep the people we love forever young, forever alive. It is how we connect the generations before us with the generations not yet here. It is how we convey to the new people who enter our lives who we are and where we come from. It is how the people, not only in the south but around the world, stay connected.
Writing a book, being in a play, teaching, directing a production, painting a picture are all ways of telling a story. Sitting around the dining room table sharing our families and ourselves is to me, one of the best ways to spend time. Even when I have heard the story a hundred times, it still holds all of the love and wonder I felt when I heard it the first time.
At the end of the day, telling the stories of that day with your family is so important. Staying connected to our son, to each other, is what has made our little family of 3 so close. Adding a new storyteller into the mix brings fresh ideas, fresh ways of telling a tale and new stories to hear. I am so happy to be adding a family that respects and enjoys the sharing of family lore.
I may not be the best, most spontaneous storyteller when called on during these family meals. I do, however, love to listen to what people around me feel like sharing. And I feel fortunate to be filled with the stories of people’s lives.
Someday we will be sorry that we spent so much time on our phones looking at things that don’t really matter or playing games to fill the time, when we could be connecting, sharing our lives together and storytelling. Being willing to listen to each others stories, being willing to share where you come from and what made you who you are will do more for repairing the world we live in than pretty much anything I can think of.
Sharing our lives while we can still remember the past, the stories, the pain, the excitement, the joy, the heartache is everything. I’ve watched people as they lose their memories and it is the hardest thing to see. Our stories are more of who we are than our bodies, our stuff or our bank accounts. Our stories are our souls.
Sharing our stories makes life the best it can be. Maybe that is southern, I think it is human. Maybe in the south we move just slow enough to remember that.
