“If I’m still alive then,” my 95-year-old grandmother says at the end of our phone calls, whenever I say, “talk soon.” It’s her new sign-off, making me value our conversations even more.
Our calls have become longer and more frequent in recent years. I’m her oldest grandchild, but I was never the favorite. We got along fine, but I always felt closer to my other grandparents, and it seemed like she preferred my cousins.
Writing gave us something new to talk about
Two things sparked the change in our relationship: I decided to become a full-time writer, and her memory began to fade. Both somehow brought us closer together.
When I sold my business to become a full-time writer, my grandmother began paying attention to me in a way she had never done before. She began asking about my articles, genuinely curious about my writing process and how I came up with topics. Without much context, she even once told me that a publisher had once offered her a book deal.
At 95, my grandmother still lives alone and adamantly refuses to consider assisted living. My dad gets multiple calls daily from her, answering the same questions: what time he is picking her up, what day it is, and so on. Yet as her day-to-day memory fails, her recall of decades past has gotten sharper. And that’s when the stories began to flow.
During a family dinner last year, she interrupted our meal — “You know, your great-grandfather was an illegal bootlegger. He even invented a popular cocktail.” She launched into stories about secret liquor production behind a clothing store, an unheard-of relative on the lam called “South American Joe,” and narrow escapes from the law. My father occasionally interrupted by saying, “That didn’t happen,” but my wife, kids, and I were completely captivated.
Now, every conversation is a story I don’t want to forget
A few weeks after the bootlegger revelation, she called with something even more surprising: “I know where MH370 is. I think you should write about it.” She was referring to the Malaysia Airlines flight that disappeared in 2014, one of aviation’s greatest mysteries.
She said she’d been on a cruise near Western Australia in 2014 and saw a plane spiraling into the ocean. She’d called news stations and even 60 Minutes Australia, but nobody took her seriously. When 60 Minutes ran a special featuring an expert pointing to a location not far from where my grandmother claimed, I started wondering if her stories might actually be true.
Last month, she called to wish me a happy birthday. It wasn’t my birthday, but I let her believe it was. “Are you still writing that book with my stories?” she asked. “I’ve remembered another one that needs to be included.”
Despite explaining many times that no such book exists, I sat down and listened as she described a treasure smuggled from Europe during WWII, passed through generations to the firstborn son, hidden in secret locations, and now supposedly mine.
These calls have become our new normal, each delivering a new tale. Sometimes she’ll stop mid-story: “You can’t write that one.” Other times, she’ll tell me a story I’ve heard before, but with new details, as if she’s editing her past. All of them are fascinating, and it feels like I have my own private podcast.
She forgets today’s date, but recalls 1950 like it was yesterday
My grandmother can’t remember what happened this week, but can vividly describe what happened 70 years ago. These contradictions of memory have created an unexpected opportunity for us to connect. Each story reveals a different side of her and our family history.
I don’t know if my great-grandfather really was a bootlegger or if she actually saw MH370 crash into the sea. The truth no longer matters, as the stories have created a chance to talk and connect. I’ve thought about writing the book she keeps mentioning. But I’ve decided to keep the stories just between us. These conversations feel like something just for the two of us after all these years.
When she ends our calls with “If I’m still alive then,” I don’t find it depressing anymore. It’s just her way of acknowledging reality while ensuring her stories continue as long as possible.
Maybe she did live a Forrest Gump-like life of incredible coincidences, or maybe her stories result from a rich imagination shaped over a lifetime. Whether her stories are true or not doesn’t matter anymore. They’ve become our way of connecting, something we never managed to do before. And now I see it, I got my storytelling instinct from her. I’m glad she passed that on.
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