Maybe it's about the story...

I started writing something completely different this week but then this weekend happened and I feel compelled to share something else. I've alluded to these concepts before so most of this won't sound like original thought and yet I still feel like I need to write it down. I feel like so much has happened in just a few days. Nothing earth-shattering for me, but has had so much impact on me. Let me explain further...

I find it very amusing that my blog is so serious all the time when in life I'm usually quite the opposite. Few people love to laugh as much as I do or love making other people laugh. If you know me in life, you know that it is quite dangerous to laugh at my jokes because it only encourages me. I truly blame my father and his whole family for this. I come from a long line of people with great senses of humour and amazing story-tellers. The stories, even when serious in nature, would always end up in laughter for some reason. Being able to tell a story well is a talent I believe. I don't have half of their ability to own a room with their stories but it sure doesn't stop me from trying. I can still the glazed over look on my friends faces as they hear for the hundredth time about me getting stuck on a fence...

The last three days have been filled with stories. Some of them hilarious and fun and some are the most heart-breaking you can imagine. It hadn't immediately occurred to me that it was a weekend of stories, more a weekend of music really. I got to kick off the weekend with the incomparable Tara Holloway who is as incredible a person as she is a singer and musician. One day later I was listening to possibly the saddest, heart-wrenching love song I may ever hear. Fast-forward to Sunday where I spent the afternoon in the tiny Micksburg listening to a tribute of Mac Beattie, an Ottawa Valley legend. Although there was a definite soundtrack to the weekend, more importantly I realized that there were a lot of stories being shared.

In one evening I got to hear a beautiful singer-songwriter share her music with me. She shared her story through her music and it was wonderful. Meanwhile I got to spend time with some amazing friends, creating a story of our own with laughter and seriousness. We traded stories, jokes, slid down bar-stools and took a walk down one crazy, memory lane. We remembered great times, laughed about epic fails and plotted future shenanigans. It was a night of stories, both old stories being told and new stories being created.

The next day was characterized by a story of a different sort. Now while it is not my story to tell, I was honoured to be a part of remembering a great man, a love story that fairy-tales should be based on, and friendships that developed a hundred years ago and still live on. It was a day of stories of remembrance all while creating stories for the future. It was a day to realize that stories allow people to live on forever and some friendships will always be alive and well.

I got to head up the highway and I can't visit my “old stomping grounds” without getting nostalgic and remember stories. I'll spare you the “stuck on the fence story” although it happened there... I remember guitar playing, beer drinking, hearts breaking, belly laughter, Knorr noodles and frozen fish, -50 windchills and potholes you can lose your car in. I remember bands, dirty boys and nice boys. I remember hanging out until the sun was about to come up, and dirty breakfasts. I remember the lives we were planning and the fears of the future. The stories are countless and I hold all of them dear and close to my heart: the good, the bad and the ugly. As I visited some old haunts I counted myself lucky to have those stories built into “my” story.

Sunday I spent in Micksburg right across the road from where my father was raised. I went with my father's brother and we spent some time visiting the cemetery, each plot complete with a story, of course. That's how my clan works. Whether it's a story of my several-great-grandfather drowning in a vat of beer or my shady great-great-grandfather who married in the same year as his first wife died (but it was clearly to take care of great-grandfather so it must be OK ;) I walked up a hill to look at my great aunt's old farmhouse and the house where my 75-year old uncle used to run to when he was running away from home. I also heard stories of relatives that I'm related to – twice. Sometimes three times. It is why instead of family trees we tend to have family wreaths out there...

The music filled afternoon just fueled that fire of stories past and present. There were songs and stories about the old dance-hall days. Days I have been hearing about my whole life. The times that were had at Sunnydale Acres in Lake Dore, the place my grandfather called square dances for Mac Beattie. Dance-halls are where my relatives fell in love, where my father fell in love with the drums, where the important stories happened. As I sat alone during intermission, intentionally listening to people, (slightly creepy, I realize!) I heard all kinds of stories of “back in the day.” Who used to live where, who was related to whom, who had the best eggs and who was the best fiddler. I sat in that community hall and just imagined if those walls could talk what stories they would tell. It occurred to me how lucky I am to live somewhere where the art of storytelling is still alive and well. Where we tell stories through word and through song and keep traditions going as a result. I was sitting in a sea of grey-haired people and just wanted to run around capturing stories from every, single one of them.

If you hang out with me then you're already very aware that I like having a good story. I don't embarrass easily or get disappointed by events because “at least it's going to be a good story!” “Let's do whatever is going to make the better story!” I'll declare. Silly, spontaneous stories are great but they aren't what's on my brain right now. Presently, I'm thinking about the stories we tell about ourselves or the stories other people tell about us. Not everyone is as bold (or crazy!) as to tell their stories in the form of a public blog. Songwriters tell part of their stories in songs they write, writers tell their stories in what they write, comedians tell their stories on a stage somewhere... I don't think the best stories are told that way though. I think the best stories are told quietly, demonstrated by how we live our lives and how we invest our time and our hearts. I'm thinking a lot about what sort of story I'm telling the world about me in how I live my life. I'm not hung in up in what other people think but I do want my story to be a good one. As I walked today through that cemetery, we never discussed what people's professions were, how much money they had, how skinny there were or what property they owned. I heard about their life story. Who they were. Who they helped. How kind they were. How unpleasant they were. I heard about how kind they were or how difficult they were. It's the stuff that lives on I suppose.

I'm realizing that everything we do, the people we spend time with and the things we invest our time in actually tell our stories. We can focus on jobs, money and stuff but it's irrelevant at the end of the day. We read a hundred memes a week about how money doesn't matter and we pretend to be inspired by that quote but it doesn't change anything. Am I a good daughter? Sister? Friend? Companion? Am I kind? Giving? The ridiculousness of my life I suspect will always make a good story and I'm actually thankful for that. But I want my story to be more than falling down stairs and getting pooped on by a bird... My Mom, for example, no matter what else happens will always be the strongest woman I know. That's the story her life tells. I hope my life tells a story that I would be proud of 2 generations

from now, or that I would be proud of tomorrow.

We tell a story with our actions, our reactions, our inaction. I wonder what story I'm telling...