(Re)Living the legacy

“Grammy, tell us a story about when you were little.”

My grand-kids never tire of hearing about the relatively ordinary adventures from my younger years. The fact that I ever was a child is intriguing enough for them, so their curiosity is piqued whenever I share even the most bland of tales from my childhood.

The art of telling stories runs strong and fast in my family. We love to laugh and we rarely let the facts interfere with a great story, especially if there’s potential for a perfectly timed punch line.  My dad was a master storyteller. He could rattle off jokes and one-liners with the best of them, but it was his animated accounts of  colorful life experiences that had us laughing at all the same points in the plot. Even though we’d heard those stories a million times before, (and could have recited them aloud in unison), we deferred the honors to him and willingly obliged by giving him the satisfaction he looked for each time.

There’s something secure about hearing the same story over and over again. It evokes a sense of tradition and shared history among the listeners, replaying the legacy handed down from generations before.

I am the middle of five children, the slightly older of two "in between" daughters flanked by brothers. The older I get, the more I appreciate the wonderful gift of family and heritage. And stories.

Just this week we had an impromptu sleepover with four of the little ones, and they asked for a story  - a request that took me back to a beloved tradition from my youth.  

My sister and I shared a bedroom from our earliest childhood through most of high school. During our younger years it was not uncommon for my dad to treat us to a bedtime serenade. Seated at the foot of our double bed with his Martin guitar in hand and-- if we were lucky-- a harmonica resting in its neck holder, he’d lull us to sleep to the tune of Wildwood Flower. 

It was his go-to song, the one he never missed during any of his routinely impromptu guitar sets. I never knew the lyrics growing up, mostly because it was one song he rarely sang along to, but it still brings tears to my eyes whenever I hear it and I am 10 years old all over again.

Traditions are a wonderful blessing in the life of a family. The passing down of cherished events or interests, the sense of history and belonging. There’s security in knowing that you are part of something much bigger than yourself, and understanding where you come from as valued rites are passed down from one generation to the next.

For me, there have been several traditions that have endured through the years. My dad’s love for storytelling and music are just two that I  hold close to my heart, but another favorite was born out of my family's tradition of holiday gatherings.

Most everyone plans family get-togethers over the holidays, but not all anticipate them with great joy. I was fortunate enough to enjoy such occasions with giddy excitement whenever either side of my parent’s families gathered.

My mother’s family, however, was considerably smaller, with only a handful of cousins, and every holiday was spent in each of our homes. 
Christmas was usually at Uncle Biz and Aunt Mary’s. 

Your senses were fully engaged when walking through their kitchen door at 577 E. Jackson St. The avalanche of hugs and kisses from relatives of all ages created a deep sense of belonging and confirmed that you'd come to the right place. Then there was the enticing smell of the amazing meal that was to come, with the kettle lids popping and hand mixers spinning as sisters in matching aprons feverishly navigated the small kitchen in synchronized harmony.

 Any “taste-testers” bold enough to break into their inner sanctum were quickly discharged to another less desirable duty (like pouring water). The family room was the gathering place, not just because it opened right into the kitchen, but because the tree, with its twinkling multi-colored bulbs, magical ornaments, and strands of silver tinsel absolutely compelled you to peek under its branches for the gift with your name on it. Of course, you had to be discreet in your search, as the seasonal (but completely empty) parental threat of "you touch it, you don't get it" loomed ever present.

The friendly cacophony of huddled, lively conversations, spirited laughter, and Mitch Miller’s sing-along Christmas music all added to the festive atmosphere. The sweet scent of cherry tobacco directed us to the patriarch of the family, seated contentedly amid the flurry of activity,  with his trusty pipe in hand. Once the obligatory Christmas Day family pictures were out of the way, dinner was served. It was a feast to satisfy the most discriminating palate--a culinary delight with Christmas ham, mashed potatoes and gravy, bread and oyster stuffing (I never did learn to like that dish!), jellied cranberry mold, sweet corn, green beans, puddings, cakes and pies.  A seven course meal that was devoured in three. There were presents to open up, after all.

The Christmas gifts were unwrapped with the same enthusiastic fervor as the meal had been consumed. Then came the transition to a less frenetic pace, with the post-meal-take-off-the-shoes-loosening-of-the-belt type attitude. Children were contentedly massed together, comparing notes on their brand new acquisitions or playing games. Aprons now retired, the cooks would enjoy after dinner coffee and conversation with feet propped up and the serene satisfaction of pulling off another holiday success.  Their male counterparts  were often found in various reclining positions as the TV valiantly entertained a soundly sleeping (although not silent) audience.  As a kid, I remember how perfectly contented I felt on the drive home. It had been a very good day.


Although our clan has gotten smaller and we've said tearful good-byes to some, we cherish those too few times when we are able to gather. We don’t see each other as often as we once did, but when we do, the stories are re-told and the laughter brings us together once again. We are family. We share a common history together. We belong.

And so it is this history that drives me to re-create the same kind of
experience for the next generation. I too will spend hours in the kitchen with the womenfolk (sans the matching aprons), shooing the daring dish samplers away and  into the acceptable house zones until dinner time. We will snap family photos, then sit down and break bread together, and give thanks for the gifts of family, tradition and history. 

And together we will tell the same stories, and laugh at all the right places. 


What are your favorite family traditions, past or present?