A few months ago, I attended the Detroit installment of The Moth: Live — you know, the NPR program that records people telling stories, true stories about their lives. The stories were inspiring, sad, uplifting, at times funny, everything you expect from a well-rounded tale. The Moth is one of the many reasons I love National Public Radio. Anytime I can turn a switch and hear people tell me stories, that’s a good day.
That’s also the reason why I was surprised that the experience left me feeling a little sad. Sad, when listening to stories is one of the best things that can happen? I realized that I was suddenly missing my family, the whole extended lot of them.
My family is full of storytellers. I think everyone of us is one. The accountants, the electricians, the mechanics, the teachers, the writers among us. We love sitting around and telling old yarns, new yarns, especially yarns about people we know. (I recently learned that the Irish have a word for this — Seanchai, pronounced “shawnakee”)
One of my favorite stories about my Grandma has to do with her telling stories. My Grandma Dorothy and her two sisters, Maryanne and Helen, were super close, even though Grandma lived in Michigan and Helen and Maryanne lived in the greater Chicago area. My Dad loves to talk about the times when the three of them would get together in person after months of just phone calls, usually at Aunt Helen’s house on the southside. They would retire to the kitchen to make mostaccioli like good Irish girls from Chicago were known to do and catch up. Some of the men in my family would eventually trail in after them. When my Dad walked in, the sisters, two at the table and one at the stove, would be holding three separate conversations. Dorothy would be talking to Helen, Maryanne would be talking to Dorothy, and Helen would be talking to Dorothy and Maryanne together, all on separate subjects. They could follow each conversation and answer each other in turn. My Uncle Joe, Helen’s husband, could be found in the corner of the kitchen, trying to follow along and shaking his head at the chaos. Always grinning, because these ladies were definitely entertaining.
I also remember sitting around at the family gatherings of my youth — whether it be a first communion party, Fourth of July or a rare family reunion at the Lake Michigan beach. All of the elders would sit and tell stories. Some would play cards and interrupt when a fact needed to be checked. One of the quieter uncles would seem to be staring off at the horizon presumably looking for sailboats, but would pipe in when called.
For me, the old stories brought to life a cast of characters, rich and real. They taught me lessons about how to be courageous (Grandma Dorothy on a motorcycle!), how to stand up for myself (the great aunts didn’t take backtalk!), what honor and loyalty, unconditional love, forgiveness and patience were. They also taught me how to play Cribbage.
I’ve moved away from the center of family life; we’re spread out a bit more than it used to be. And we haven’t had one of those family reunions in a long, long while. I guess that’s why the Moth performance left me a little melancholy. I was feeling a little homesick. The emcee for the night even referred to the audience as her family for the night.
I can’t get everyone back together anytime soon, so starting this blog may be my way to share stories with them and with you. I would like to invite you to be part of my family. Sit down, there is coffee on the counter and a big batch of mostaccioli in the oven. I’ve got a few stories to tell you.
Christina's New Deal 