Serving up stories with a side of pumpkin pie

Growing up in a family full of storytellers

Thanksgiving is one of the few times that I’m fortunate enough to go home during the year. As I’ve gotten older, life gets in the way of making the trip home for birthdays, anniversaries, and weddings, and I’m left looking through the photos days later, 100 km away on Facebook. Thanksgiving is one of the few weekends in the year where my regular life is able to be put on hold for a few days, and I can jump on an early morning train ride northward to head back home. While the truly astonishing amount of food consumed during the weekend is a welcome change from my typically budget-conscious choices, it’s the time spent sitting around with my relatives, whether it’s pre-meal or post-meal, entertaining each other with familiar stories and anecdotes that I associate most with the holiday season.

Even though both my mum and my uncle have both valiantly tried hosting the holiday celebrations at their homes, it’s just not the same as the gatherings that take place at my grandparents’ house. My grandparents, still going strong after 60 some-odd years, continue to bring the family together and educate the younger generation—myself, my brother, and my cousins—on our family history. Now, for the most part, the stories that are told each Thanksgiving aren’t limited to recent events, though my grandmother does make sure to fill her grandkids in on what’s new in the lives of “the girls” in her card group. The majority of the stories have been retold since I can remember, or for some of the lewder anecdotes from my grandfather, since I was old enough to hear them. These stories have become as comfortable as a well-worn coat and I find myself mentally recounting them with my grandparents, anticipating the punchline, and smiling as each story finishes with its familiar conclusion.

“The majority of the stories have been retold since I can remember, or for some of the lewder anecdotes from my grandfather, since I was old enough to hear them.”

It was through stories from my grandfather that I learned that not every tale that is told needs to have a lesson or moral nestled inside the plot. Sometimes stories are just fun and entertaining. Though it’s been over a decade since I first heard of my grandmother and mum going to the wrong funeral, or my own equally embarrassing moment of becoming stuck in a toilet, these stories are still pulled out each time my relatives get together. The novelty of hearing how their youngest hot-headed grandson tantrumed his way into becoming trapped in a toilet may have worn out for my grandparents, but they still laugh uproariously every time my mum talks about her second son’s brattier days. Part of the fun of these stories is that everyone is in on the joke from the beginning. After the initial telling, where the story begins to take shape before its fine tuned over the course of additional recountings, everyone knows the framework of the story, even if they don’t know all of the small colourful details.

“The novelty of hearing how their youngest hot-headed grandson tantrumed his way into becoming trapped in a toilet may have worn out for my grandparents, but they still laugh uproariously…”

During Thanksgiving, and most holiday gatherings for that matter, everyone in my family transforms into a storyteller. Everyone has their own specific style, from my grandmother’s laundry list of superfluous details, to my mum’s habit of laughing halfway through her own anecdote, followed by a quick, “I guess you had to be there,” each speaker has their own way of sharing their story with the rest of the family. Many of these become a form of shorthand, little callbacks that will be made at every Thanksgiving, or Christmas until the sun burns out. There’s been plenty of little one liners, passed around the table like mashed potatoes, that originated from a story that occurred before I was even born, but I can still recite each one beat for beat. It’s this sense of continuity, that 30-year-old events are still retold with the same amusement as if they had just happened yesterday. Even though this whole situation is completely anecdotal, I haven’t sat around a turkey with a complete stranger’s family, I imagine similar traditions exist within other families. Learning the canon of stories from my family is one of the strongest ties that I have to them, other than an uncanny physical resemblance, and has become one of the defining qualities that I associate with family dinners—other than arguing about politics.

“…the family stories and history that I hear each year are the real comfort food for the holidays.”

Growing up, the act of storytelling was never commented on, but always integral to the concept of family time, whether it was a book read before bed, or a piece of family history told over after-dinner coffee. It’s only been in the last few months, after I walked across the convocation stage with my B.A. in English, that I realized how important these seemingly random, funny little stories told by my relatives have affected my life. For my family, your audience’s enjoyment is the most important part of telling a good story, and the message has always been secondary. If the story you’re telling isn’t entertaining, then it may not pop up again come Christmas. While an emphasis on fun over fact is not what most readers want to find in a news story, this early lesson has shaped how I frame and structure the stories I write about. As I’ve gotten older, the duty of entertaining the family with anecdotes has very slowly shifted to the younger generation, and we find ourselves retelling the same stories that were told by our parents and grandparents. While the Thanksgiving meal is always welcome, the family stories and history that I hear each year are the real comfort food for the holidays.

Photo courtesy of Dennis Wilkinson (cc-by-nc-sa-2-0).