My grandmother was about 90 years old, when she told me that she was not the woman I always thought she was.
Attention grabbed? Good.
Sitting there in a lawn chair, sporting a straw hat, under the protective shade of a tree near my village's playing fields where my (at the time) very young nephew was playing t-ball, or what passed as soccer.
She was just happy to be outside, and around family, and was chatty.
And told me the tale of growing up with a very ethnic name in southern OH, and how eventually, she just decided a different name was the way to go, Southern OH not being the enlightened place a century ago, that I'm sure it is now.
So the name I knew her under, was, essentially, made up. And moreover, she never legally changed it.
Record keeping was not what it is today, 100 years ago.
weird.
And married my grandfather; raised two children; and had a full and long life...under an alias, apparently.
She did this long before social security was a thing.
Eventually, her "name" was simply everywhere. driver's license, Soc Sec (when it became a thing), marriage license, birth certs.
And everything matched.
learning this did not, of course, change how I felt about her, nor made me question, well... anything, really. Except old school record keeping.
It was simply a story that made the bigger story of her life just a bit more rich. My tiny little grandma (was she even 5' tall?) who cursed when playing cards; and who could crack your ribs with a hug... assumed name.
just seemed a little... badass, in it's way.
Had occasion, last night, to listen to another person talk about their life. And as it happened to be my dad, he was talking about my life as well.
Recently recovered from Covid, he was very happy to be able to share a meal and blow out candles, for his birthday.
So my girlfriend and I took him what I remembered to be a favorite meal from a favorite pub that offers curbside, and a small chocolate cake w/ candles.
Because of how we all distance w/ pandemic, my girlfriend had not had an opportunity to just sit and talk to him and ask him questions. Until last night.
I sat back, and listened to the story of how we came to be in SW MI when I was not quite 4 years old.
I knew the broadstrokes, of course. The w's and the one H.
But last night I learned of him staying in a boarding house in a dicey neighborhood, when he moved here ahead of his family to start the job that brought us to MI. About how his interview with the franchisee owner in Lansing was NOT an interview, but just a chat, really, because they had agreed not to poach any of the managers from any of the stores they had briefly owned in OH, as one of the terms of them getting out of that deal.
And was reminded about how he thought we'd be moving to Muskegon, until the very last minute when a manager at a Kalamazoo store had a heart attack.
And then for the very first time, I listened to him talk about his interview to get a job with the KFD, and having to explain to the folks why he was willing to take a pay cut(!!!) from managing a take out fried fish restaurant to join the department.
Again, all of this served to make the story I KNEW, a richer one.
Who doesn't love a good, rich story?
I've known for a long time, that encouraging people to tell their stories is the quickest way to break ice, to make someone feel like they matter, to keep conversation going....
I learned in a Dale Carnegie class that I was right. People love to hear their names on someone else's lips, and they notice when you make a point to ask them about themselves.
Shit's basic, really.
But at the same time, I learned a long time ago to pay attention. If those same folks don't make any effort to do the same with you... I don't give 'em more than a couple chances. One sided and self involved don't take long to spot.
But, anyhow, in being someone that likes to know the history, the HOW of things, my girlfriend gave my dad a great birthday present, yesterday. And in watching him share tales with her, I got a little something, too.
A richer tale.
