My daughters say everything reminds me of a story, and all the stories are about me. I got the story telling part from my mother, who, while only half Irish, was so Irish that her grandfather drank himself to death. My mother kissed the Blarney Stone (figuratively), as did I (literally). She told so many stories I can only remember a few. Her stories were NOT all about her; she told stories of relatives and friends and… yes… a few about herself.
I know all cultures have a storytelling tradition (left over from pre-literacy times) but I think the Irish are the best. I deeply regret that I can only remember and retell a few of her stories. She started writing a memoir, but never finished.
I have written a memoir (quelle surprise). In it there is a chapter about my stories―the ones I tell and retell incessantly. My family and close friends have been driven to near distraction, but most of you haven’t heard most of the stories. Now, when I start a story, either daughter says, “I know that one,” and then offers a precise and accurate précis. I know I should not dwell in the past, but mine was interesting (as is my future) and well-written.