It was near Christmas, and most of the family was preparing for an evening out on the town. Two men were resting in the long arms of the chairs angled towards the fireplace. His voice held the strong conviction that comes with knowledge and experience—that comes with wisdom. The younger man sat listening, his eyes never wavering from the blues that told the story almost better than the words. He could see in those eyes the emotions of the past—the triumphs, the failures, the loves and the losses.

The wiser man spoke of his mother, who’d lived so many years ago, and he spoke of the trouble he’d found in his boyhood. He laughed when he remembered the ice, the sleigh and the shellacking he’d received from his mother. His eyes expressed a multitude of emotions when he laughed. The young man saw love, he saw joy, he saw respect, he saw a wince, he saw pain and he saw loss.

The young man continued to listen, and the wiser man continued to speak. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for that moment, the moment when he could tell this story. He spoke of his first wife—a woman the younger man had only met in his prayers, in his dreams. He told him of when they first met, and of his determination in wooing her. Before he spoke of this, he looked away; he was leaving the room for that moment, searching for the window that led him into that memory, and when he found it, the emotions filled him, and the story formed for the younger man to hear.

The young man realized then that the people we love survive in moments like these. They survive by the telling of stories. The wiser man was passing the memory to the younger man for safe keeping. Memories of women he had loved, of the women who’d been taken into heaven too quickly. A responsibility of great importance, the younger man realized; the responsibility of remembering the lives of those who came before him.

By now the family was ready, and a nice meal was to follow. The wiser man was met by his current wife, and when they came together she took his arm, just as they did in the old films, and she gave him a smile. The younger man witnessed a moment that was not yet a part of the story, a moment that would be his duty to pass on. Other memories filled the young man’s mind, but one in particular took hold of him. He remembered dancing; dancing with the woman whose arm was wrapped around the wiser man’s. This woman was the only grandmother he’d ever known. He smiled at the memory, and he locked it away until the time was right for him to pass it on.

The younger man envisioned a similar day in his head, a day that would come in his future, and a day when he could no longer call himself the younger man. He envisioned a fire roaring in the background, a younger man sitting across from him, and a story that needed to be told, the stories that his Grandfather had told him.

It is sometimes difficult to remember how important our elders are, but I shall never forget the time when my grandfather told me these stories. Use the upcoming holidays to reconnect with your elders and I promise that you will cherish those moments until it’s your turn to be the storyteller.

Happy Birthday Grandpa.

Patrick St. Pierre is a senior English and psychology major and columnist for the Daily Kent Stater. Contact him at [email protected].