My two favorite storytellers began with with my grandmother, Elva Marie and and my mother, Dotty Marie. Their sweet voices carried the past into the present and held our family’s stories with love and grace.

Some of my earliest memories emerged in the shelter of your arms, with the softest hands wrapped around me, and the tender rise and fall of your voices as narratives unfolded. Those moments proved safe, wrapped in your warmth, as if the world began and ended with you.

As I grew, your stories were woven into the fabric of everyday moments, and they lingered in simple moments: coffee at the kitchen table, the gentle clatter of dishes being washed and dried, and long, lazy afternoons with nothing to do but share stories, memories, and favorite tales. Time slowed in those moments. Those occasions brought the past close, a gift waiting to be remembered.

And I loved those days.

Your voice and your stories were my gift; hours spent with my favorite storytellers, tales told again and again. You gave life to the families, names stitched together like the music and cheer from the past. Through you, I could hear the footsteps of boots on wooden floors, the laughter of families gathered together, music playing, and suppers shared. You offered a heartbeat to generations I never encountered but somehow knew.

You nurtured that rhythm of life built on steady hands and strong hearts, resilience rooted deeply in the land and the hearts of its people. Even as a child, I understood that something cherished stirred in those moments: a deep love, a quiet strength, and a gentle knowledge of belonging that reached far beyond generations.

You answered every question, even when asked dozens of times. You smiled at my wonder and laughed at my questions. You welcomed my curiosity. You made our history real, close enough to carry with me.

And I hope I can gather and tell our stories the way you did, lovingly and carefully, with the same warmth and joy. And more than anything, I hope someone will say, “Tell it again.”