A Boomer’s Journal

The Importance of Family History

I used to really enjoy listening to my mom and dad tell of their family history, of growing up, the times they shared. As I write this today, I don’t think I really got enough of that, and I miss the opportunity to ask them about one person or another, one event or another.

It use to be, the only history people had was oral history, stories told around the hearth or campfire, handed down from generation to generation. It seems that today’s family histories are somewhat the same, spun around dinner tables and great rooms, on trips, on ‘gwaama’s’ lap, at gatherings in the yard.

I was reminded of all that when The Lovely Jill and I were driving three of our granddaughters to another set of cousins’ house. We were talking about how TLJ had a boyfriend before me. Ella was listening, and innocently said, “Wait, someone else liked you?” And it got better-as the conversation turned to how we met, and some of my friends. Ella, again.

“Wait, you had friends?”

I submit to you that this underscores the monumental importance of telling the stories of our lives to our grandies. And anyone else in the family who cares to listen, actually. I have to laugh as this same opportunity came the other night with the Webster Groves gang. We were commiserating with one of them at dinner at our house about how tough it can be to find a set of friends sometimes.

I told a story of how some boys in my neighborhood would hide from me, or dart into each other’s houses as they saw me come out to play. The intent was to show empathy with the friend thingie. It turned to laughter when Clara, the oldest, said (kiddingly I hope), “Well, looks like things haven’t changed much, eh, Grandpa.” I proceeded to chew with my mouth full and let food fall from my mouth. I guess to prove the point. It cracked them up. Sorry, daughter and son-in-law.

I regaled them with another tale later that night as we drove to a cousin’s soccer game. The conversation turned to high school soccer and state championships. I mentioned that I played in a couple Final Fours in high school, and a few years in college. The same oldest said, “Wait… you were athletic?” (I love how this generation starts every question with the word “wait.” It is very dramatic.)

The opening to educate these gremlins was as wide as a tanker ship, so I informed them of the time I went to tryouts for the UMSL soccer team. I was working a summer intern job at Stix, Baer and Fuller downtown, and went straight to Forest Park for the workout. I thought I’d put my gear in the trunk, but all I could find were my soccer shoes and a pair of flimsy black nylon shorts. In 1970, the shorts were, well, “short.”

So I took to the practice field sporting a white Fruit of the Loom t-shirt, black dress socks, my black cleats and the aforementioned nylon shorts. Not the best ”dress for soccer success.” However, long story short, I made the team. I found out years later from the guys who have become some of my oldest friends that they took one look at me and thought… well, you can imagine what they thought. But the operative note here is that I made the team. So “athletic?” Maybe a bit, dearie.

Another story of “Grampa Lore” was shared in the presence of our hockey-playing granddaughter. We were watching the Olympics recently and I mentioned that I once ran the 800 in high school. Elise so delicately queried, “Wait (there it is again!)…

“Wait,” she said. “You could run?” The story included me coming in first at a meet at Cleveland High School, only to not really win, since I quit 25 yards before the finish line. I stopped at the same place I started, thinking “this is cool, I just won my first race,” when the rest of the runners tore past me. My teammates were yelling and pointing down the track. I was confused, but by the time I figured out that the real finish line was around the turn, I was dead last. So ended my track career. And yeah, Elise, I could run, although upon her seeing me walk up the steps now, I really can’t blame you for asking.

Therefore, I recommend to all grandparents, and parents for that matter, to tell the stories of your younger lives to those who have come after us. They serve to paint the picture of who and what and when, to fill in the blanks for incredulous little rug-rats, to give them a sense of what has come before them.

Or, if nothing else, to hint at the possibility, remote as it may seem, that Grandpa may not have always been the limping old relic he appears to be today.

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