I really wish I had listened more to the stories the old folks told, Let’s share some

Sitting here, drinkin’, thinkin, with the kids put to bed,
About all those old stories, that still play in my head.

I can remember listening to the tall tales my grandpas and grandmas, great aunts and uncles would tell me about their coming up.

About the depression. About how my grandpa, the oldest of 6, kept everything that was his in a cigar box because sometimes they’d have to move in the middle of the night because they couldn’t pay the rent if the work ran out.

How they lived hardscrabble lives on farms trying to eke a living out of the land, in the houses built from logs hewn by hand. Tales of high cotton and long hungry nights. And so many more I’ve forgotten and I’d pay a pretty penny to hear again.

I remember my old neighbor, Mr. Ray. He had a glass eye and a ragged scar on his stomach from where he parachuted into a tree in France during WWII. His wife was Evelyn and she made awesome banana pudding with nilla wafers.

He had an old black and white TV and would play solitaire with a worn deck of cards and watch westerns. He called me Tater and I loved that old man. I remember how much it hurt when he got to the end and didn’t remember me.

Wish I remembered more of those old stories the old people would tell. You can’t get ‘em back. Can’t get anything back.

Cherish your old folks and their stories. You’ll hear them a hundred times when you are young and you’ll groan but as you get older and they are gone you’d give anything to hear them again.

So, if you have some you can remember, maybe share them here. Be a break from the miserable modern nonsense we digest here on a daily basis.