This past week has been a ping-pong of weather, with our swim last Sunday feeling warm and comfortable in the sun, and then a Wednesday dip that felt really difficult. I think I expected that after nearly six months (six months!) of going in cold water 1-2 times a week it wouldn’t feel so hard. But that is not the case. Even still, I go, and even if it feels difficult in the moment, I am always grateful after that I went in.
I have been thinking a lot about storytelling lately. The stories we tell ourselves, the stories we read our children, the stories we repeat again and again. Perhaps being a mom of young children uniquely immerses me in story-telling. We are constantly reading stories, telling our children stories, listening to their tales from school.
Specifically, it is family mythology that I am considering lately, and the potential it has to connect us across generations. Today’s essay is an exploration of some of the stories my family tells, and the meaning derived from that telling.
The Stories We Tell
My dad is somewhat notorious for telling the same stories over and over again. By now, most of the family can recount his tales of high school mishaps and early family lore as if we were all there. I have heard him tell the story of getting a speeding ticket while driving all over Lapeer County on a mission to see a girl countless times. He was on an errand for his pharmacist father and thought he could secretly pick his girlfriend up to go along for the ride. He drove fifteen miles out of his way before making the intended house call, then drove her back home before speeding back to my Grandpa's pharmacy. On the drive back, he was pulled over by the local police, and before my dad returned to work, my Grandfather already knew what had happened; he was the mayor, it was a small town, and the police officer had already called him with the news.
There are other legendary tales where the mere mention of a road (M-57), a place (Watervale), or a person (R.R.) prompts teasing from the whole family, who know exactly what story is about to follow. As a child and young adult, I often rolled my eyes at the repeated personal mythology my dad held onto, especially when the tales involved me. As an adult, however, I have begun to understand.
We tell our stories as a means to connect with each other, as a way to enshrine legacy. We work out our purpose and place in the world through the telling of stories and the way they are received. Sometimes, the stories simply need to be told, again and again.
I am currently reading Joy Harjo’s memoir, Poet Warrior, and in it she writes,
A family is essentially a field of stories, each intricately connected. Death does not sever the connection; rather, the story expands as it continues unwinding inter-dimensionally.
The other night, my son asked me to tell him stories about when I was a kid. We had had a difficult evening together; he struggled to listen, and I was having a hard time finding empathy for his lack of impulse control. I asked him if we could just cuddle on the couch, maybe read a book, and he asked if I would instead tell him stories from when I was a child.
I tried to imagine the stories that would be helpful for him to hear. I thought of the moments that stick out in my head from my childhood, when maybe I felt misunderstood or out of control. One of those stories was when I was five or so and took my young cousins, all around the age of three, down the steps at my Grandparents' Lake Michigan home to swim unchaperoned. The adults were inside, and we all wanted to swim. Since I was the oldest, I reasoned, I put a lifejacket on myself, told the young ones to hold hands, and we waded into the water together.
Thankfully, our parents arrived on the deck above before long, calling us out and up the steps with fear-fueled anger in their voices. I immediately realized I had done something wrong, and I can still remember the shame I felt while hiding in a sleeping bag on the floor of the room I shared with my cousins. I can also still remember how comforted I was when my mom came to sit next to me, how it felt to know that I didn't have to be alone, even in my shame.
My son could not get enough of my stories; I told him tale after tale for an hour. Retelling those stories linked me to the child I once was, the people who populated those stories, and to the child I am now raising. I imagine they might become some of the stories my son is one day able to repeat back to me at the mention of a single word. Perhaps he'll even roll an eye at their repetition.
I realize now that, like my dad, I often revisit the same memories, the same stories becoming further etched in my personal canon each year. There are the childhood stories of building forts with my brothers and cousins. Memories of swimming in a neighbor's pond, Sunday School in musty church basements, and family reunions that taste like peanut butter fudge. Adolescent stories of playing in the mud at low tide on the Bay of Fundy and a family road trip to the Grand Canyon when I was in high school contain threads that are stitched into my very being.
As I age, the stories become more complex. The memory of flying home to be with my Grandma as she died, watching the sunset from the plane above South Dakota, and knowing at that moment, she was gone. Holding her hand for the last time at the funeral home the next day. There is the story I tell over again of a breakup that led to me moving to northern Michigan, but I often leave out the messy end where I was comforted by a handsome stranger for a few weeks before I finally called my relationship quits.
The older I get, the more these stories, especially those that include family members who are no longer alive, feel as essential to remember as remembering to drink water. The stories feel more like fiction every year, and I sometimes question the blurry details. But even with their possible inaccuracies, I am learning the importance of remembering these stories as I cuddle with my son and let them spill out.
We speak worlds into existence. We give meaning to what is forgotten, what is gone, with our words. There is so much that goes unsaid in a day, in a life, and when we tell stories, we sometimes find the path to saying what is buried. We have been doing this for centuries: sitting together around a meal, around a fire, under the stars, telling the tales of our lives. There is something elemental to it. Something necessary.
This is why I write. I try to detach myself from any ego that might tell me I am not good enough to share my words, and I trust that story-telling is something innately human. Writing is just one means of communicating the stories that I use to make sense of the world. It is one means of connecting with other humans—with you. I write this newsletter because I hope it helps you feel connected. And perhaps it encourages you to keep telling your own stories, even if they are the same ones repeatedly.
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Swim Club
We are swimming at 2pm tomorrow (Sunday). Location will be announced this evening via this thread.
I hope you have a wonderful weekend!
Cheers,
Mae