She said she needed stories to tell her grandchildren, that’s why she did it. We all sat silenced at the dinner table. Her words held so much more depth than simple stories. Surely her motivation for adventure had to come from elsewhere. No, she pointed out as we asked her and she continued explaining her thoughts. She recalled that one of the greatest childhood memories we all had was listening to our grandparents’ wildly vivid, sometimes unimaginable stories. Whether there’d be truth to each chapter no one ever knew. With innocent eyes we were blissfully carried away to years before our own existence where things were completely different, or so the elderly claimed. We couldn’t question them because we hadn’t been born yet and thus had no legitimacy to do so. The adventures and mischief told of were exciting and unlike our parents’ stories, there wasn’t much of a moral at the end because frankly, grandparents’ anecdotes didn’t require that. Grandparents were allowed to be foolish. Old age justified petty crimes, the cases being dismissed a long time ago.
She continued telling us how she one day came to realize that she to-date had very few stories to tell her future grandchildren. What was she going to tell them? “Oh, children, I remember that one time when I got excellent grades” she mimicked with an old persons voice. We laughed. She was right. We had spent half our life playing it safe, saying no more often than yes, considering the future before acting in the present. But was that really the way it was supposed to work?
I don’t know if it was the excessive amount of wine which had us all nodding in unison. Somehow we all agreed. We needed to collect stories. And so, our adventure began.