After my Grandpa’s funeral in 1996, my dad and his siblings sat in our living room, together for the first time in decades. They were in their early 80s, making fun of each other and laughing about youthful escapades and chores. Normally they weren’t big talkers, but this time they were rambunctious.
But I didn’t write anything down; I didn’t record a single moment. I told myself I’d ask them later to tell me again, but I never did. And now, it’s too late. They're gone, along with those memories.
We talk to the people we love all the time—but how often do we really ask them about their lives?
Not the daily details, but the stories that shaped them. The ones we don’t hear unless we slow down and invite them to remember.
It is through stories that we capture meaning and connect to ourselves and the past.
Elders carry more than just memory—they carry meaning. When I came back full time to Sheridan, every Sunday was reserved for having lunch somewhere with Uncle Byron, who was a character. He had been a pilot stationed in England during World War II. In spring of 1945, his buddy “accidently” saw a classified radio message that all bases were to be shut down prior to announcing the German surrender. The two quickly filed for a three-day pass. When Victory in Europe Day (VE Day) occurred, they were sitting in a pub in Scotland, toasting peace. We learn the history of war in school as battles and campaigns; but Uncle Byron spoke of the human side of those who served.
Sometimes those stories help us understand the events that shaped our parents. I had known that Mom was a widow with three small children when she married Dad. It was only when she commented how much more confident I was than she at the same age that I discovered how tough it was to be a young widow in the early 1950s. She worked at the local newspaper and sold advertising. One night a customer showed up at her basement apartment and she naively let him in, thinking this was legitimate business and not the monkey business he had in mind. After he chased her around and would not leave, she left to sit with her neighbor until it was safe to return.
To me, she had always had strength and confidence; I had not considered what trials shaped that.
Such stories explain why our families settled where they did, why certain values took root, why we carry ourselves the way we do. As Liam Callanan once wrote, “We all carry inside us people who came before us.”
And often, the impact of a story reaches further than we realize. When the Anheuser-Busch Clydesdales came through town in the 1980s, my mom took my grandfather and my brother’s children to visit. As they stood near these giants, Grandpa talked about farming with draft horses. When she looked up, they were surrounded by other people. The handlers had quietly gathered to listen, hanging on his every word. His memories tied those horses to daily life in a way no polished trailer or show harness ever could.
There is power in asking someone to remember. It gives them dignity, connection, and even healing. Psychologists have found that older adults who share life stories often experience improved mood and memory. It helps them feel seen, valued, and remembered. Even those with dementia can oftentimes recall old memories clearly, while struggling with the present.
And we—the ones doing the listening—gain something too. We get to understand where we come from and how we got here. We inherit wisdom, humor, grit, and sometimes hard truths. We get a glimpse of the real person, not just the role they hold in our lives.
This week, pick up the phone. Or better yet, sit down at the kitchen table. Ask your parent or grandparent to tell you about the time they got into trouble as a kid—or what they remember about their own grandparents. You will be surprised at what you learn as one memory leads to another. And write it down before you forget.
Don’t wait for the perfect moment. Make this the moment.
