Word Of Mouth

Once upon a time, as the women toiled over cooking the meals or sewing the clothes, they told lengthy tales of how their family came to be and the eventful history of trials and triumphs that was their heritage. The births, the marriages, the deaths. As men sat in fellowship at meals they regaled tales of victories of their own lives and the lives before them, and the lives before them. Each day was full not only of work and preparation, but of passing down stories. Endless stories.

We've come along way. Information. Equality. Medical advancements. But I can't help but wonder what it would be like to have the only method of passing knowledge to be verbal communication. Not watching television together. Not staring at phones together. Not shunning together in the first place to concentrate solely on selfish, or time wasting, activities. But pouring out our hearts knowing that it was the only way to keep history. To keep honor. To keep vitality. To keep talents. The beautiful path of mouth to ear to memory to mouth.

Sure, some stories won't have the same flare. I didn't have to valiantly fight anyone for this meat on the table. I just sat on my bottom and relaxed the last time I travelled 500 kilometers. Many days just blend together in a monotonous cycle of cook and clean and sleep. But there are stories. There are lessoned learned. There are little ears, curious sponges, who are waiting to be told.

I know some people who still communicate ardently like the printing press wasn't developed. Like they share the path of royalty and hold secrets sought by the tabloids. Like their dinner hour is a limitless affair and no one has to retreat to anywhere anytime soon. A friend's father who could tell the tales of his childhood and immigration over and over.

That's the way they would have had to do it way back when. Over and over. By the time you left home there would be no need to ever ask to clarify a piece of your family history. Because you heard it again and again, until you could faithfully recite the narration as you repeatedly listened.

How much of your history do you know? Do you really know?

There are things I keep forgetting. Because my brain knows I could always ask and it therefore only files the information irresolutely, with no commitment to its possible importance. Like, is it Scottish or Irish on my grandfather's side? And why can I not remember birthdays? Our brains have become inefficient storage vessels.

We check maps for places we've been before. We forget names like they are unimportant (Oh, this fills me with such frustration!). We love a joke but can't retell it. We have no idea what occupation takes the time of our blood line of cousins and aunts and uncles.

I would love to sit around and talk about the things overcome. The revelations encountered. The people that enriched my life. But who would listen? Who has time for unnecessary history?

We go to the museum but we briefly glance at the antique artifacts that don't apply to our current activities. We don't take the time to admire the determination, the perseverance, the heartache of those who went before us. Those who made our lives possible. Our freedom.

The elderly person in your life--what do you know about them? What was their talent? How did they venture out on their own? What changes did they have to adapt to? What strengths were they known for? What pain have they experienced? I always find it intriguing to discover a frail frame who used to be a ballerina. A quiet soul who used to order a large home. A fragile woman who used to tend an amazing garden. A powerful elder who has had heart surgery. I can't imagine what they feel to let go of their lives. To come to the realization that they can't do it anymore. But I bet they would love to reminisce about it.

Or would they? We don't have to tell. So, as a result, many wont. They figure no one is interested. They suppose they don't matter. They see how busy everyone is around them. They see the blatant selfishness and the obtuse disinterest. And so, their memoir sadly dies. As technology advances and stories are easier to tell, easier to share, they are also easier to ignore, easier to forget.

Our words are few in a vast ocean of opinions and declarations and instructions, crashing around us and drowning out our water logged voice.

But every unpretentious moment together is an opportunity to pull from each other the words of life. The anecdotes and tragedies of experience. The chronicles of true communion.