We Need Stories, and We Need Storytellers

My childhood is sprinkled with stories. Some are my own, noteworthy for the way they made me feel. Some are stories that’ve been shared time and again, molding their way into my memory as if they were my own, even if they aren’t. Still others are stories I’ve inherited, namely from my parents.

Many evenings, after brushing my teeth and changing into my pajamas, I slid between the 101 Dalmatians-themed sheets of my twin-size bed. My dad — changed out of his work clothes and often in jeans and a flannel shirt, slippers on his feet, not yet in his pajamas — tucked the edge of the mint-green comforter up near my head. Then, he sank into the soft, velvety rocking chair next to the window overlooking our backyard and, swaying the chair into a rhythm, he recounted bedtime stories to me.

Dad was likely tired himself, but he still sat and shared stories with me. Both of my parents read bedtime stories from books, but my dad had a special knack for spinning stories from his own childhood. Mom shared stories, too, about her childhood and her family. But, and I think Mom will agree with this, Dad’s stories — and even stories about Dad — were the best, the most entertaining.

Though the purpose was to get me to fall asleep, I don’t recall it playing out this way. As Dad finished one story, I asked him to share another.

He shared stories about summer vacations his family used to take in Caseville, Michigan. One story was from a fishing trip, where they caught one fish after another. Then, when they went to row into shore — everyone excited to show my grandma just how many fish they’d caught — my grandpa picked up the oars and bumped the entire stringer of fish into the water. They lost all of them. The boat was silent. My poor grandpa was defeated.

Dad shared stories about ice fishing trips in the winter. In one, if my memory serves me, they carried all their gear out onto the ice and cut through the ice … only to see a sandy bottom. Perhaps not the best for ice fishing.

He shared stories with his dad, his brother, and his dad’s brother, Uncle Leonard.

He shared a story about the time he “washed the walls” in his childhood home for my grandma. My dad was young, and his mom asked him to wash the walls, so the story goes, in their living room. So my dad brought the hose and sprinkler in from outside and proceeded to turn the water on … and wash the walls. A real “Amelia Bedelia” moment, if you ask me. I think it was the neighbors who caught on to what was happening before my grandma. She was not pleased, but I think she left my dad’s punishment to my grandpa.

My dad shared stories about his dad building an ice rink in the driveway at their house on Dresden Street in Detroit every winter. They’d ice skate and play hockey — as a family and with their neighbors.

My dad’s stories were warm-hearted and simple, and while I didn’t realize it then, I appreciated them because they told me more about who my dad was when he was my age. They told me more about who he was as my dad and the storyteller. They entertained me. They provided an escape to another world, the world of my father’s childhood. They told me where I came from — what family I was a part of and what stories were a part of my past. His stories weren’t overcomplicated — which is not to be confused with exaggerated, something the Hopcians are known for. They were simple. They were human. He painted a vivid picture with his words, and on some level, I felt what he was saying.

My dad wasn’t a storyteller by profession, but throughout his entire life, he was a passionate storyteller with family, friends, and just about anyone who would let him entertain them and bring a smile to their face. He lit up any room he was in — a twinkle in his eye and an unrestrained laugh. He was all in.

I love the simplicity in my dad’s stories. The everyday stories. The human stories.

As I look around me — within my direct communities and within the world as a whole — I firmly believe we need stories and we need storytellers.

The stories we share matter.

Books, essays, films, musicals, photography, plays, songs, TV shows, etc. We need all of it. We need art. We need creativity. We need the stories that are communicated through all of it. And also, we need the simple, very human stories of everyday life.

Especially during this moment in time, as the world changes at a seemingly fast pace.

We’re living through an important moment in history, and we need to document the world — and people — as it is in the day-to-day.

At the end of March, after nearly four years, I left my full-time job in marketing & communications to move forward in full-time contracting and freelancing as a writer and storyteller, as a narrative and communications strategist, as an author and artist.

The little girl who listened to her dad’s stories at night grew up with a curiosity to know and learn about people, places, and their unique purposes and a desire to co-create and share the everyday stories of [extra]ordinary people.

A minor note: Of course, not every night of my childhood was like this in our house. I was not the best sleeper, and while I don’t remember it, I know I was a handful for my parents at a young age.