“Who are we but the stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves, and believe?”

“Who are we but the stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves, and believe?” Scott Turow.

I went back to Ellsworth last weekend. Yes, it is that town Rascal Flats sings about, sort of, in the song "Ellsworth, Kansas." The town was hosting its annual fireworks celebration, and, more importantly, much of my family was in town and convened out at Grandma's farm on Sunday for lunch and to sort through many decades' worth, actually over a century's worth, of treasures that Grandma Kohls had gathered, saved, hidden, and preserved for us. Actually, the treasures had been pretty well sorted by the time we got there, and for that, we all should say, "Thank you!"

As I thought about the weekend, the line "We are the stories we tell" came to mind. I know I have heard it somewhere, but I could not remember the source, so, of course, I Googled it, and the quote by Scott Turow was the closest I could come up with.  This weekend, I was reminded that my family is one incredible collection of storytellers. Some are short and quick, recalling a moment that flashed sometime in the near or distant history, and then we move on. "That was the gun that Darrel almost killed me with," my brother-in-law said as we examined a shotgun from the hall. "Dad only let us take that one if you were hunting alone. Too dangerous," my Dad added. And that was that. Near death experiences apparently lack the storytelling punch one might expect. "Was that the BB gun you shot Ralph with?" one of my relatives asked my Dad as Matthew picked up a toy from the table. "No, that was one of the ones you pumped up. You could do some damage with that one."  Some stories began in one place, triggered by an item, and led to other tales. My Dad showed me an old pipe that he had brought home. He started telling me about how Grandpa Schmoekel always smoked a pipe, and that he blended his own tobacco. From there, Dad's story weaved from putting pipes in back pockets to his Grandma Schmoekel's frustration with her husband and her sewing his pockets shut to a trip they made out to watch harvest after they had moved to town. Eventually, Dad was telling me about the older couple driving to town sitting on two buckets as a front carseat sat smoldering in a wheat field. Likewise, as we watched some TV talking head lament the whole Pala Deen situation, Dad told me a story of one day when he got in trouble on the back porch of his Grandma Schmoekel's house in town, which led to a visit by Grandma Kohls to Baker during my freshman year, and then to how politicians have changed in their focus over our lifetimes.  The stories meandered a bit. 

Some of the stories were not even told aloud, but they unroll themselves in your mind nonetheless. When it came to my absentee brother's turn to select a keepsake, I ran upstairs and found the Payday game. As kids we spent countless Sundays and holidays at the farm, and on those afternoons when the Kansas weather was too cold, too wet, or too hot, we might break out the game of Payday, and the cousins would roll the dice, count the spaces, hand out the chits, and, hours later, argue about who actually won. Darrel had to have the game. My sister snagged a stack of green and white dishes that had been in Grandma's cupboard, pulled out for everyday meals or special occasions. Actually, even everyday meals at Grandma's were special occasions, even if we did not know it at the time.  So, without discussion, my sister, my brother, and I all settled on dinner plates of some sort as mementos we might want to hold on to and take to our own homes. All of us have stories of those meals, with Grandma either working feverishly in the kitchen, moving around the house, refusing to sit until everyone was through the line, or arguing with Linda that she did not need to sit down. Some of the stories go much further back than any of us, including our aunts and uncles. Andrew, the youngest of "the cousins", can tell stories about the earliest of our clan, the Kohlses, the Schmoekels, and Brunings and such. And why wouldn't he; he comes by it naturally. So many items pulled from the China cabinet or front room drawers contained handwritten notes, penned in the familiar script of our Grandma, revealing such details as the date that one of our ancestors, at the age of 16, received a particular ring from her grandfather, who just so happens to be the first individual buried in the St. Paul's Lutheran Church cemetery. 

I could roll on and on about the stories that echo in that house, and those that are told in Mom and Dad's house about Nana and Grampie.  However, our stories are not limited to ancient familial tales and ghostly voices. We tell stories everywhere. Saturday night I went to my cousin Cindy's birthday party, where someone asked her about the story about the time she was kicked out of my basement. I was away coaching at a BU football camp, so I was not there, but the story involves three claps and an "OUT!" Apparently, according to Cindy's amazing portrayal of my Mom, her aunt Jane, "Girls' voices are just too loud." My son Dylan regaled us Saturday afternoon with his adventurous tale of walking to the Otta-Shop (I know that it is now Kwik Shop, but it will always be Otta-Shop to me), a story that included such gems as "I was hot, and I had gone the wrong way, so I sat down and ate some string cheese." One incredible aspect of our storytelling prowess is that it truly is a family affair. Somehow, Dylan has developed a meandering style that seamlessly melds my own, my dad's and my Uncle Ralph's.  Uncle Ralph had his own unique way of unfolding a story, at his own pace, and he would reach the end when he needed to, whenever that might be. 

“Who are we but the stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves, and believe?” So true. I would add one phrase to the quote, however: “Who are we but the stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves, about each other, and believe?”  We will continue to tell our stories. We have no choice; it is who we are, and who we always will be.