I have a tagline at the bottom of my email that goes like this: "When my grandfather wanted to tell me about his earlier life, I was too young to care. When I was old enough to listen, he couldn't remember."
I heard that rather sad confession on a recent National Public Radio program about the importance of life legacies. Happily, the woman behind the voice talked about her commitment to tell her own kids all about her earlier life … whether they wanted to hear it or not. Which leads to a question: when was the last time you had so much access to your family as the present?
Along with so many others, I also wonder what the positive side of this Covid thing will be. Will the workplace shift more to the home? Will secondary and higher education be online instead of in expensive brick and mortar locales? Will we be more creative with our time instead of filling it with nonessential stuff? Will the art of conversation enjoy resurgence? You may ask, “What does this have to do with saving someone’s life?”
In a Manner of Speaking ….
Take my Grandpa Dorman for example. Grandpa was a true Alaskan pioneer … a real sourdough in the best sense of the term. In the mid-thirties, during the depths of the Depression, he got fed-up with the poverty in Southern California and swore that if he had to, he would row a boat to Alaska where the salmon and wild game were in abundance and land was real cheap. Well, he didn’t have to row, but he made the arduous trip with his wife and settled in the tiny Southeast Alaskan town of Elfin Cove (pop. 35 in the winter), where he staked a claim and built a cabin.
In the following 37 years, Grandpa not only succeeded as a salmon fisherman; he became a bit of a legend as well. The stories of his struggle against the elements, of nearly starving in a bitter winter, of the 1,500-pound Kodiak bear slamming its massive paws on his roof, of the characters that drifted through in search of gold, and of the guy who died trying. With no way in or out during the winter, they kept his body in the general store’s freezer until the mail barge arrived in the spring.
There were lots of fascinating stories about that man, but truth be told, in my entire life I was in his physical presence for only one week. On one of those days, I stretched out on the floor by his feet listening to his scratchy radio when Neil Armstrong took that one giant step for mankind. Although I saw him in person for one week, what my mother told me about him could fill a book.
Say it. Better Yet, Write it.
You get the point. My mother saved my grandfather’s life for me. Which leads to a question: Will you take time to tell your story, or that of your parents, to your sons and daughters while you have the chance? Will they know what life was like before they came along? Do your grandkids have a mental image of milk delivered to your front door? What it’s like to lick the cream from the top of the bottle? Do they know what you were doing when JFK was shot, and how you felt about it? When you tell them, they might not look like they’re paying attention. But trust me, they will. I hear all too often how many young people wish they knew more about the life of their parents or grandparents.
Times have changed, and the practice of biography is coming back. People want to know about their roots because it tells them more about who they are themselves.
So what if you weren’t an Alaskan settler. Future generations will love hearing about that soupcan-shaped thing named Alexa, or a young company named Space-X that wanted to take people to Mars just for fun. Your past is a treasure trove of experiences that must be shared. As the saying goes, “There is no such thing as an ordinary life.” Take the time to tell them. This bizarre period of sequestration might be the best chance you have.
