Some of my earliest memories are of my dad regaling us with outlandish tales from his glory days in the 1940’s. Crazy pranks that would get kids thrown in jail today. Epic battles on the football field or basketball court. That hot summer he spent as a flagman on a highway construction project (I never quite bought that one.) Each time he started with “in my day” we would laugh, nod in mock appreciation, or in later years hold up the number of fingers that corresponded to the number of times he had told that particular story. But not once did we write any of them down.

 

It seems like I should know them by heart, but once my dad was gone I discovered that I had only been half-listening all those years, and that other than the few I had clandestinely captured on home video, those stories were gone along with my beloved dad. Only later did we uncover tantalizing fragments of his memories written in a fill-in-the-blank book. But these tiny glimpses of his story just made me feel worse about not capturing more of it.

 

Think about it – everyone has some version of this tale – memories lost forever because we always thought we’d have more time. But of course, we don’t know that. We can’t know. So this week, this month, do me, and yourself, this one simple favor. Take this book to a loved one and ask these ten simple questions. Don’t just hand it to them. Sit with them, give the gift of respect and dignity, the gift of your attention, the gift of really listening this time. It’s not a life story, but it’s a start.

 

One day, I promise, you’ll be so glad you did.

Happy story-telling!

Kristi