Many years ago I read a wonderful novel Downhill Chance by Donna Morrissey, a story about the out ports of Newfoundland during and immediately after World War II. The author wrote of a rural and isolated life free of any influence from the outside world, although all evidence suggested this was about to change. It was also a world where history was passed from one generation to another through the spoken word, the art of storytelling and song. Without these stories, one generation would have known little of their family history.
In her book, Morrissey writes, “a life lived only once is a life unlived”, that recognition that when we hold all our stories inside of us, they go to the grave with us. The bad memories can imprison and torment us; the good memories are simply locked away untold.
Storytelling is a significant ingredient in a life well lived, key to both your learning and your healing. When you do not speak of our past, you steal from others the opportunity to share your experience. But when you do speak, you inhabit your days differently; you re-live, revisit and see things differently; you remember; you release, forgive and heal as others listen to you; you find your own “voice”.
The local library, which I now live across the street from, reminds us that you have stories inside you. These are the stories describing your family history ~ where you came from, your ancestry, and your family traditions. They are the stories of a life lived ~ your childhood, your experiences, raising a family, having a career, the span of decades and your accumulated wisdom. They are the stories that teach a lesson ~ something your grandmother taught you, a favourite book that made a difference, a parable or simply a fond memory. Whatever the stories are, I believe you need to create opportunities to tell them in writing or, more importantly, in storytelling circles. Your stories are your legacy, the life you created and the many ways in which you have served others; they provide your children and grandchildren with the roots to their past and the wings to their future.
An Example:
I am the grandchild of a seafaring man, a captain of a tall ship which sailed from the Upper Lehave River, in Lunenburg County, Nova Scotia. His name was Aden Conrod, born of German heritage, the name changed over the years from Koonrod. He was a descendent of what the locals referred to as the Lunenburg Deutsch, a cohort of immigrants who landed in the new world sometime in the 1th century, who, like so many before them, were escaping religious persecution in their homeland.
He sailed each winter for the West Indies, trading molasses and brown sugar in exchange for lumber, ice and Nova Scotia Christmas trees. Some say he also imported rum, although the customs agents and RCMP awaited him each spring expecting to find an illegal cargo of some foreign spirits.
My mother said that the brown sugar danced when you opened up the barrels and the molasses was the best black strap to be found, thick and rich and laden with iron. It was the magic elixir that cured all ailments; it was the ingredient that found its way into the baking of bread or a pot of homemade beans; it was served over porridge or a simple slice of white bread. A molasses jar always sat in the center of the dining room table, along with a cup of teaspoons for dipping.
Years later, when I was a child, molasses was still the sweetener of choice; warm milk laced with this dark brown syrup our favourite bedtime drink.
I never met my grandfather; he died long before I was born, cancer stealing the breath from his lungs. I bless my mother for she drew pictures with her words, telling me the tales of this old salty dog; her brother Felix, a fur trader in Baffin Island who died mysteriously in this cold, dark place; her mother Ida who lived to see her first grandson, my brother, born; and her deceased siblings Ismay and Waldo. Without these stories I would have no knowledge of this family, who exists now only in my memory of my mother’s words; a few birth records, the only written evidence of these people who lived so long ago. Betty Healey, My Memories
Everything I know about my family was told to me by my mother and I thank her now for the gift of these stories. She died too young but she left me a sense of history and legacy which I shall always be grateful for. While I have no children to whom to pass on these stories, I plan to bend my nephews’ ears on a few occasions, so they too know of their past. Ans speaking of my nephews, One of them later discovered through his research that my Uncle Felix Conrad was a well-known explorer whose journals and explorations of Northern Canads are archived in Ottawa. We also learned that he had children, cousins whom I had no knowledge of. We are now sharing our stories with them and they with us.
Life has changed from the “good old days”. As the twilight turns to night, we no longer sit around the dining room table recalling the day’s events, sharing what’s important to us or our recollections of the past. Television and numerous other devices have claimed our evenings and stolen our words from us. We rarely write letters to friends or family any more, e-mail replacing snail mail. While no one can deny that these technological conveniences have improved some aspects of our life, we need reminding that they do not replace folklore or family tale, the colour of ink traced across a few pages in a familiar hand or the warm feeling we have in our belly as we sit with friends and listen to the tales unfold.
Telling your stories is a spiritual massage, freeing yourself of painful memories and filling up with the abundance and wonder of your life. They create a vibrant multi-dimensional tapestry of who you are and where you have been. In her book, “By Me, About Me”, Victoria Ryce writes, “Most of us would be secretly thrilled to have our life stories written, (or spoken of) yet we shy away from the attention. We see men and women being interviewed on television or in magazines, but somehow, we don’t think that we, too, have interesting stories to tell and valuable ideas to share. On the contrary. Each of us have unique stories to tell.” Your stories reflect and portray your authentic being.
Final Word
My dream is that you begin to rekindle the tradition of oral storytelling, to encourage, model and practice it within your families or your work communities. We need these traditions both in our families and in our place of work. I encourage each of you to find your own voice, to tell your stories and to encourage others to do the same. I invite each of you back to the Storytelling Circle.
Until Next Time
Betty Healey
About the Author
