The Story of Our Lives

My Dad recently asked me the question, “How much do you know about your grandparents?”  I thought for a few minutes and answered honestly, “Some.”  My Dad sighed and responded, “There are some stories that I am the only one that knows them.”  This exchange made me think – how much do my children know about their grandparents?  How about my grandparents?  Oddly enough…about their own parents’ stories from before they were born?

I had the unique opportunity to know my four grandparents.  That ended at the age of fifteen, when I lost both of my grandmothers within a year.  I do have memories of them and remember some of the stories from their lives.  I remember a few more stories as told by my maternal grandmother, as it seemed she was also still finding family members.  My maternal grandfather had a bad stroke shortly after she died and remained homebound and needed help the remainder of his life.  He was a good storyteller and came from a large colorful family.  But once he was sick, his speech also suffered.  My paternal grandfather, the only grandparent Debbie met, died just after Rebecca was born, which meant that I had the opportunity to have an adult relationship with him.  Naturally, as of today, I know most about his growing up poor in Europe, moving to America in 1920, his many jobs and his life in general (he lived the American dream). 

Most of what my children know of my grandparents comes from me.  As with most oral histories, the actual stories begin to get diluted, some of the holes in the stories get replaced (sometime consciously, sometimes not) and stories transform into legendary tales or family folklore.  All of us grow up hearing them and we all try to pass our favorite stories on.  In my house, some of the legendary tales my brothers and I always laughed at are greeted with blank stares from my girls followed by the question, “Why would you know that?”  And generally speaking, the stories about myself, while told in all seriousness, cause them to laugh at me, and keep getting recycled (always at my expense).  For example, I shared that my parents taught us how to dance for my Bar Mitzvah, specifically the Waltz.  That has given them hours of endless laughter, wondering who else in the world Waltzes in the basement and why is it that the only goofball that did so was their father (my brothers conveniently do not remember this).

I realized that the stories, however they remember them, are the stories that they will carry with them and become the tales that they will tell.  I remember my grandfather relating a scary story from the mid-1920’s.  He and a few friends were out driving in a car when the car got slammed into on the side by another car.  At that point in time, the cars were not made heavy duty like today and split in half, the front going in one direction and the back going in another.  As they got out of the car, the drivers of the other car were gangsters of some sort and the threat they gave buried any further action.  To this day, I only have the image of the car breaking in half and going in two different directions like a cartoon and I am laughing while typing.  I asked my dad to fill in the blanks.  He remembered the friend’s name (Sam Katz), he laughed and was fuzzy on the rest of the story.

These are the stories of my life; I am sure my girls will pass on the stories that made them laugh, taught them a lesson or inspired them.