A first responder on grandmothers, close calls, and the stories we keep putting off

When I was a teenager, I sat across the lunch table from my grandmother at a religious convention and asked her about our family.

Where did we come from? Who came before us? I wanted the names, the places, and the stories nobody else was going to tell me.

And she told me. In fact, she handed me our history as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Still, I didn’t write down a single word.

That was more than twenty years ago. She’s gone now, and most of what she gave me that day went with her.

I’m not telling you this to make you sad. Instead, I’m telling you because I bet you have your own version of that lunch, too.

I Didn’t Know What I Was Holding

When you’re young, you think there’s always more time. So you figure you’ll ask again later. You tell yourself you’ll remember the important parts, and besides, somebody else in the family is probably keeping track anyway.

That’s the trap.

Truthfully, nobody’s keeping track unless you do.

If I could go back, I’d hand that teenager a notebook. Not because I’d get every detail right, but because I’d have something: a name, a town, or a line she said the way only she could. Instead, I’ve got fragments. And over time, fragments fade.

The Job Taught Me What “Almost” Means

I’ve spent over twenty years as a first responder. If this work teaches you anything, it’s that time waits for no one.

In February 2021, I was inside a house fire and had to call a Mayday. I almost didn’t come home.

When you get that close, something shifts. Suddenly, you start taking inventory, not of your stuff but of your story. What would my kids actually know about me? How much would they have to piece together from other people? And what would simply be gone?

In the fire service, we say, “Train as if your life depends on it.” We say it because it’s true. However, what I didn’t understand until later is that the same rule applies to the stories we carry. If they matter, and they do, you can’t wait until the last minute to take care of them.

After all, tomorrow isn’t promised. Not to me, not to you, and not to anybody at your dinner table.

Memories Aren’t Just for the End

My mother turns 80 next year.

So I want to sit down with her and ask the same questions I asked my grandmother. But I don’t want to do it in a hospital room, and I don’t want it to be a rushed conversation because we both know the clock is running. Instead, I want to do it now, while she’s here, while we can laugh about it, and while she can still correct me when I get something wrong.

Here’s something I think we get backward. Too often, we treat memoir like a deathbed project, something you do at the end while looking back.

It doesn’t have to be.

In fact, some of the stories we go through can teach people right now, in real time. I think about this constantly in the fire service because calls, close calls, and hard lessons happen every single shift. Every one of those that goes unrecorded becomes a lesson the next firefighter has to learn the hard way. Worse, some firefighters never get the chance to learn it at all.

Families work the same way. Your parents made it through things you’ll face someday. Meanwhile, your kids will face things you’ve already made it through. That’s why the story is the bridge.

What the DNA Tests Can’t Give You

For another project, I did 23andMe and Ancestry. Both are great at what they do. They gave me percentages, regions, and names on a tree, which are real and useful pieces of information.

Even so, a percentage isn’t a person.

A family tree won’t tell you how your grandmother talked. Nor will it tell you what your mother was afraid of at nineteen or proud of at forty. And it definitely won’t give your kids a book they can hold, read, and pass on.

In other words, data tells you where you came from. Stories tell you who.

So I Built Something

Over the years, people kept coming to me for help getting their stories out.

For example, one buddy had a finished book and just needed help self-publishing it. Another had started writing but still had a long road ahead. Finally, a third came to me with no idea where to even begin.

Although they were at three different stages, the problem underneath was the same: a story that mattered to them and no clear path to getting it on the page.

That’s why I built Tellyng. It helps you capture your memories, or the memories of someone you love, and turn them into an actual book. Rather than a pile of notes or a recording sitting on your phone, you end up with a book.

Honestly, it’s what I wish I’d had at that lunch table.

Don’t Wait for the Almost

I don’t have a perfect answer for what I want my kids to have from me. What I do know is this: I want them to know they’re loved. Then, when the time is right, I want them to know where they came from.

That’s worth writing down.

So here’s my ask. This week, call somebody. It could be your mom, your grandfather, or the aunt who tells the stories at every cookout. Ask them one question about where your family came from.

After that, write down the answer.

Don’t wait for the almost.