My mother was quite the story teller. The stories weren’t all that great (except to me because I’m her son), but she told them with such great enthusiasm. Again and again. Every time I’d see her.
In her later years, as her short-term memory dimmed a bit, she would tell me a story in the afternoon that she had told me that morning. But I’d listen attentively and rarely told her I knew the plot already because I heard the same story four hours earlier and twice each on my previous three visits back home to see her.
Sometimes, however, she would tell an entirely new story I had never heard before. I knew that she and Dad met at work, for example, but had never heard the story of how she got that job to begin with. Out of the blue one day, she launched into the narrative of a chance meeting with an old friend that led to the interview and ultimately the job.
I’ll tell you that whole story some time, hoping you don’t remember that I told it at least once on my previous blog.
Now I realize I’m doing it too. I told three different stories to co-workers today. The reaction in each case was something like, “oh yeah, I remember you told me that.”
Like mother, like son, I guess.