memory, memoir, and keeping our stories.

I like to call my aunt on my father’s side the “keeper of our stories.”

Each time I see her, I learn something new about my family, my grandparents, my great-grandparents. She has this endless knowledge of our history that is truly precious. Whether it’s the fact that our last name got changed at Ellis Island, or that “Grandma ‘Re” was really “Grandma Marie,” it’s clear that she paid attention and asked questions when all of them were still alive. I’m fascinated when she starts talking about the past—of the people before me and of the times I can only access through stories.

A few weekends ago, on my nephew’s first birthday, I sat eating potato salad at an outdoor table with Mom and Dad, my aunt and her husband. I joined the conversation late, but it was clear that they were talking about childhood trips that they used to take in the summers to Minnesota.

My aunt and Dad argued back and forth. Dad claimed that he got shipped off on his own over the summer, on the Greyhound for two days with his grandma, while my aunt stood firmly in saying that she spent her summers in Minnesota, too; only, she got to drive with some uncle or family friend with pitstops in Ohio. Based on the details my aunt provided (ages, town names, etc.), I figured she was right, since all Dad could remember was the Greyhound. I sat back and laughed, envisioning me and my sister arguing about similar things from our childhood when we’re their age. The only difference is that out of the two of us, I don’t know that we really have a “keeper of stories” in the way that my aunt is.

My immediate family was much less story-oriented when I was growing up. It was only two years ago that I learned that my father used to be a medicine-delivery boy growing up, something that I couldn’t believe had never come up earlier in all the years that we’ve been watching It’s a Wonderful Life on Christmas. My dad was essentially George Bailey and I didn’t even know it. Despite all the things that do, there are so many more things about each of us and our families that just never get shared, passed down.

The following weekend, my parents and I were trying to figure out where my father’s parents went on their honeymoon. I texted my aunt, figuring she might know. It was one of those strange situations when she didn’t, replying, “I want to say an island. I sent a text to our uncle to ask him.” A few seconds later: “He said he thinks Hawaii, but I think it was Jamaica or something like that.” There are so many details and holes that get lost to history if we don’t take care to remember them. Does it matter that we don’t know where my grandparents honeymooned? Not really. But it’s just a small piece of the puzzle that gets lost in the bigger picture. The more of the pieces lost, the more blurred the image of the Zanosky family gets.

That’s why I think there’s so much to learn from these small shares, these stories. As Susan Orlean wrote,

“An ordinary life examined closely reveals itself to be exquisite and exceptional, somehow managing to be both heroic and plain.”

Our individual lives are the true definition of the extraordinary ordinary. The ways that we create and relate to others; the ways that we adventure and discover. Each family, whether close or not, has a complicated and layered history that has been building layer by layer each and every generation. Our individual lives are so simple, but we’re so interconnected in this human experience and even more so in our family experiences.

It’s heroic and plain in and of itself that we just keep living and sharing and remembering.

And really, that’s why we all need people like my aunt. We need those curious family members, the ones who can listen to people talk for hours. The ones with the good memories and the ability to internalize the details and the stories. The ones who get the difficult task of giving a eulogy because they just knew the person the most intimately; they listened the deepest.

I’ll admit that I am not inherently one of those people, which is why I think I marvel when I’m around my aunt. I tend to forget details and stories as quickly as they’re told to me unless I write them down, and I second guess my ability to recall them. I’m always the one asking, “I forget, can you remind me…” to her. I’ve always wanted to be like her, especially as someone who loves memoir and storytelling. I think families and their histories are endlessly fascinating and I’ve always wanted to tell some version of my story within my family’s.

But memoir is tricky because memory is tricky. That’s why I need “keeper of story” people around me. They’re a resource to help check memory and compare stories. Because stories do matter. Our histories and where we come from and where they come makes a difference on our extraordinary ordinary lives. We all have our strengths in collectively framing those stories and being walking time capsules.

And my strength is getting it into writing. I remember an email that I received from another aunt on my mother’s side many years ago, when I was still in college.

She wrote: “What’s interesting to me is Grandpa Leonard [my Mom’s father] loved to write… as I have watched you and your female cousins in NJ grow and develop, several of you have taken on his skills and desires to put things in writing… Grandpa would be proud to have seen your writing.”

My DNA is no mistake and it is forever a collage of the people in my family before me. I am literally a compilation of the exquisite and exceptional and heroic and plain lives of the people that walked this planet before I did.

Our generational stories and our histories matter because they are us. And the only ways that we can learn and become a better collective is by listening and growing. If each generation did that, if each generation acted as the “keeper of stories,” our lineage and our inherent wisdom knows no bounds.

I think that’s pretty cool.