I remember sitting in my Grandparent’s living room on warm summer days. My Grandfather would be holding court in his recliner as my brother and I and a token cousin would be simmering in mischievous contemplation of the day ahead. As if he sensed our impending assault on the neighborhood, my Grandfather would suddenly burst into an ancient Italian song. We would giggle hysterically and then as if he knew he had us, he would begin to tell the tales of old. The tree that threw lightning bolts, the haunted outhouse in Italy, the day he turned down his cousin the gangster. So many stories that I wish I had held onto.
There was a day when our family’s stories helped define us. As the generations have shifted and changed so it seemed had the need to tell the tales. As our families spread out across the country it seems the gatherings that initiate the telling of these memories grew few and far between. They have been replaced by television, movies and a pace so fast that time got lost.
The need for story is more important than ever. Who were we? Who are we? Who are we to become? The answers lies within the stories and the stories are being resurrected. So many today are rediscovering and celebrating their roots through the joy of discovering and telling their stories. Each story is a piece of a larger puzzle that defines a heritage.
We are a nation of immigrants. We are the joining of many cultures. Sometimes we get lost. I am an Irish, German, Italian “mutt”. I grew up in Arizona in the 60’s and 70’s and I never thought about it. When I moved back to my roots in New York I was suddenly jealous of all the strongholds and neighborhoods that had hung on to their strong cultural roots. And through the rediscovery of story I realize I can resurrect the roots I thought I had lost!
So fair warning to all my relatives, when I show up on your doorstep with recorder in hand, I expect you to sit back in your easy chair and tell me your tales of old.
Pieces of the puzzle for me to share with those who follow.
Leave a Reply