Why Do People Tell Stories?
Day 68
“Grandpa, why do people tell stories?”
In the silence that followed my granddaughter’s question, the easy tick tick of the clock in the hall lulled me into a stupor. I gazed distantly into the fire, which — after a time — hissed and popped, as though clearing its throat.
I looked at Zoey, whose patience always inspired within me that confidence so few grown-ups seemed to have in young children. Where most others her age would have repeated their question in ever more plaintive tones, she chose to join me in staring into the fire, trusting her answer would come.
“My dear Zoey, you ask such delightful questions.”
She looked at me expectantly. Her answer evaded me. I felt a mounting pressure to pluck from the atmosphere the ethereal puzzle piece she sought, and place it into that hole in her mind where her dark question lingered, waiting.
“Well, I suppose people tell stories because — ”
No. I cannot toss a handful of words at the child. She will understand that I do not know, and persist — or worse — become disappointed.
It was not a dread of unknowing that plucked at the cords of my aging nerves, but a dread of disappointing this young flower of ceaseless curiosity. To her, I was a vast treasure chest full of answers to every question she could ever ask. No, I could not disappoint her of this belief, so firmly held that to tear at it would be to tear at the fabric of her entire world.
It came to me then, right at the moment I stopped looking. The answer was there all along, because it was why I told her stories.
“You see, Zoey, people tell stories because they must.”
“Why must they?” she asked, as though she anticipated that answer and demanded a better one.
“Because a story is like a little gift, wrapped in words. And you know what you must do with a gift, don’t you, Zoey?”
She looked up for a moment, and then replied, “Yes, you must give it away.”
I smiled. “Yes, you must give it away. And so too with stories. You see, a story without someone to tell it to is not a story at all; it’s merely a bunch of words scattered into the wind.”
“That would make it very hard to understand,” she said earnestly.
“Yes,” I chuckled, “very hard indeed.”
“So, people tell stories because they want to give them away?”
I listened to the methodical crackling of the fire, and the wind against the windowpanes. It was dark outside, the snow flying thick against the glass, each flake illuminated for an instant before it died and melted away.
“Yes, Zoey, they do. And I think that’s the only true way to tell a story.”
She looked at me, puzzled. I had found the piece, but hadn’t quite fit it into her puzzle. Her question still lingered, waiting.
“What is it your parents tell you around Christmas time, about giving and receiving gifts?” I asked.
She stared at the ceiling, tapping her little finger against her lips, which parted into a little “O” as she replied, “It’s better to give than to receive.”
“Yes, exactly. And if giving away a gift — like a story — is better than receiving a gift, why do you suppose people give away — or tell — their stories?”
“Oh grandpa, you’ve lost me!” she said, clapping her hands against the soft rug. “Is telling a story like being Santa Claus?”
I stifled a surprised laugh. “Why, yes it is! It’s exactly like being Santa Claus. Except, instead of delivering toys, he tells stories.”
“I think I’d like that,” Zoey said. She had always enjoyed reading, so of course I believed her.
“So…” she faltered. “So, people tell stories because they want to be like Santa Claus?” She looked at me hopefully.
“Yes, in a way. Zoey, I think you’ll understand more as you grow older — no, no, I think you understand better now than you ever will,” I said, shifting forward in my chair. “The more you give, the more you have. It truly is better to give than to receive, and so it is with telling stories. People tell stories because they have to, because it is a gift they have to give, and because they would die if they couldn’t give it away.”
“They’d die?” Zoey gasped.
“Not in the way you think. They wouldn’t stop breathing, or crumble up like a flower in winter. But they wouldn’t quite feel right. They’d wonder what was wrong. They’d think…”
I was losing her again, going too far into a subject that seemed foreign enough to most grown-ups.
“They’d think they had a giant stomach ache, and had to belch!” Zoey burst out.
My surprise must have been written all over my face, because Zoey pointed at me and cried, “Grandpa! Your face! Your mouth is like a perfect circle!”
I roared with laughter, and she — realizing she had understood — joined me. We sat there laughing loudly and heartily, and became one and the same age for a few precious moments.
The door behind me creaked open, and I heard the pleasant voice of Zoey’s mother ask, in mock reproval, “And what’s so funny in here, you two?”
Zoey caught her breath before answering: “Grandpa just told me why people tell stories.”
A pause; and then, “Oh, and why is that, Zo?”
Zoey looked behind me at her mother and replied, quite earnestly, “Because if they don’t, they won’t get to be like Santa Claus. They’ll get a big tummyache and have to belch, and then they’ll crumple up and die like the flowers in winter.”
It had been years since I’d heard a guffaw from my well-composed daughter, and it made me laugh all the harder. And I saw, in that moment, that I’d helped Zoey find the missing piece to her puzzle. The answer wasn’t tidy and clean, as my grown-up mind had tried to make it. Zoey had pulled the jewels of wisdom from my own stumbling attempt, brushed away the chaff, and made it her own.
I knew, not despite but because of her allusion to Santa Claus and flowers in winter, that she understood.
She knew, now, why people tell stories.
This is but a small piece of my lifelong daily writing practice. If you enjoyed this, you may also like some of my other writing, which includes short fiction, novel excerpts, and other essays.
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