Every Family has a story. Some family stories are almost impossible to believe, and yet they are true. What a wealth of heritage we all have, and yet, in such a mobile society, there are so many of us who hardly know our grandparents when we are small, and don't get the chance to spend long stretches of time with them before they are gone.
It's in the long stretches of time, the twilight on the porch in the rocking chairs, the winter nights before bed with a fire in the fireplace, when the stories at last get told. It isn't at Thanksgiving, not really. They may tell that time when Grampa shot the neighbor's prize rooster thinking it was a turkey, but not the real stories.
Not the stories about loss and grief and triumph over grief. Those stories only come out when the other, light-hearted ones are put to bed. It's when everything's quiet and it's dark enough that Grandma doesn't mind shedding a few tears when no one will notice.
We need to tell stories to our grandbabies. We need to tell them to our children. They probably won't ask to hear, although that's one of the first things my own grandbabies ask: "Grammy, tell us a story about when you were little." Back in the dark ages. Stone age. But, even if they don't ask, tell. Or write them down. Just like they happened.
We as adults need to ask the oldest person in the Family about what it was like back then. Who was Uncle So-n-so? Why don't we have pictures of him? Who were your great-grandparents? What did you do in the War? Which War?
There are crazy stories in your past. Crazier than any I've written about in these silly books of mine. "Sons of Anarchy" won't hold a candle to them.
Find them out.
And then, pass them on.