The Family Storykeeper

And the magic we can find when we choose to listen...

Hi there! I’m Hunter. I’m a mother of a two-year-old daughter, married to my British husband, and we live in Northwest Florida along the beautiful white, sandy beaches. I share about sacred & slow living as well as my own personal journey in being a mother and a creative. Make sure to subscribe to have my posts delivered directly to your inbox. Thank you for being here.

My Abuelo, sister Hannah, and me after dressing him up one day. He was always up for my silly childhood antics.

TW: I’ll be talking about grief & death.

Up over the hill off the highway in the country town of Moulton, Alabama sits a little house. It’s U-shaped, and from above you can see the pool sat smack dab in the middle. We pull up this familiar cul-de-sac when my mom says excitedly, "Tell Grammy the golf carts are gone. She’ll be so happy.” She’s referring to the neighbor who decided to sell golf carts along the whole front of the street and my grandmother was mortified. How tactless, she would say. It makes our beautiful street look awful.

We pass Joyce’s house, my Grammy’s closest friend, and I realize she’s the only one who is still around. As we pop up over the hill we see lights covering Justin’s old house and an older man standing out front decorating away. “They have at least 8 cats in there now,” my mother tells me. But all I can see are those big oak trees my childhood friend, Justin, and I used to climb in the hot afternoons of summer. His dad died last summer and his mom moved out to be closer to her only son.

The car comes to a stop in the driveway, and my mom, sister, and I hop out. I smile at the home my grandmother built during my mom’s junior year of high school. It’s the only home I’ve ever known my grandparents in, and one I spent many summers visiting. Further up the driveway sits my Abuelo’s two cars; an old white Mercedes SUV and an even older low-rider navy-colored Chevy truck. Right before he went to live in the nursing home, he and my mom sat out on the front porch and watched as the SUV got delivered after getting a fresh paint job. He had said, “I’ll drive it down the street and back when I get to feeling better, and I’ll pick Joyce up along the way so she can ride with me.” Unfortunately, he never got the chance.

We carry our bags up the stairs and set them down in the kitchen. I look around, and it’s all the same.

The plates from every country imaginable are hung on the walls, and the frog statues are endless. In the living room, we turn the fireplace on and sit down on the floral-patterned couch that Grammy was so proud to have re-upholstered just a few years ago. I glance over at the two recliners my grandparents practically lived in. It’s been at least eight weeks since anyone has been here.

There’s a loud sound outside, and I realize that someone is blowing leaves out of the yard. My mom grimaces, annoyed at herself that she forgot to cancel that work. She’s taken on every aspect of my grandparent’s life in these past few months and is doing it diligently and beautifully.

I look around at all the photos until my eyes focus in on the one I’m searching for. A black and white shot of our family with my Abuelo (Spanish for Grandpa) front and center. We got the call only five days ago that he died peacefully in his sleep, in the nursing home, at 5 am. The night before, he’d enjoyed a bowl of ice cream and time chatting with the nurse and his roommate, Frank. It was the most fitting last food I could have imagined for him; his favorite.

My mother, sister and I came up for the service and to bury him. My Grammy is now living with my parents, so my dad stayed in Florida with her. It’s fascinating that this woman I’ve known all my life to cherish her belongings and be meticulous with every piece inside her home told me as I was leaving, “I have no more use for it. It’s all yours.”

I always imagined she’d be kicking and screaming at us, holding on to every last ounce of independence she could muster up. But no, when she got sick and we realized she couldn’t live alone anymore, she came to be with us and hasn’t once looked back.

We spend the next few hours wandering the house, sharing our stories and talking about the memories in the picture frames. And that’s the thing; every single piece of their home has a story. I look around and see my great grandfather’s dining room table he made by hand where I’ve eaten many meals growing up. I walk back through the living room and see my great-grandmother’s piano that she was able to buy from saving up money by milking her cows for an entire year.

There’s the armoire my great-great grandparents had their clothes in, and the rocking chair my mother got as a gift from my great-grandfather when she was little. Every nook and cranny tells a piece of our family history. In my grandparent’s bedroom, there are pictures of my great-grandparents in Puerto Rico on my Abuelo’s side. And endless paintings throughout the home that they brought back from there.

I used to joke as a kid about how much stuff my Grammy and Abuelo owned, and how many things they couldn’t let go of. But now, I’m seeing it differently; as if for the first time. There’s a sense of magic in being surrounded by the story of your life, if you allow it. There’s a sacredness I feel when I flip through the crinkled old sepia-toned images of my ancestors as I sit at the tiny vanity where my own grandmother would watch her grandmother put makeup on each morning.

I walk back into the living room where my sister and mother sit and I see them in the faces of those ancient photos, I see our history woven within these walls. My grandmother was the keeper of our family stories, and for that I am grateful.

“Will you look at this?” My mother asks. It’s three different versions of an obituary that Grammy wrote out for Abuelo. I go through and edit it, piecing all three together into one succinct story of his life. And while I do this, I realize there were so many things I didn’t know about my own grandfather. “He had another brother who died at birth?” I’d ask, then further down, “He went to the University of Miami before becoming a doctor?” then further down, “He taught math for a few years at a high school?”

You hear these stories and for me, I don’t think I ever truly listened. I’d heard them so many times that I just assumed they were ingrained in me, part of my internal dialogue. But I realized that somewhere along the way I stopped processing what was being said, and instead just nodded along as if I was there, but I was really somewhere else.

The next day, we said our goodbyes to my Abuelo and honored him as best we could. It was emotional and filled with grief. Then, I packed up my things and as I began to walk out the door, I looked around and realized that I wanted to bring something with me. I’m not quite sure when I’ll be back here, and it felt like as good as any time to take something for myself.

My sister laughed at me as I ran around the house looking for pieces that spoke to me. “You’re so sentimental,” she’d say. And she was right. I probably looked ridiculous as I took stock of my surroundings and felt the energy pull me to what I needed at that moment. I grabbed a little floral ceramic box in the front room, a tiny pitcher figurine from next to my mom’s childhood bed for my altar, and a handmade mug in the kitchen I’d always loved. I could hear them jingling around in my backpack the whole drive back.

When I arrived home, I pulled them out for Grammy to see and to make sure they were okay for me to keep. She beamed as she saw that I valued what she had coveted all these years. She couldn’t quite remember the stories of those specific pieces anymore but told me what she could and when I asked if they were okay for me to have she said, “Of course, it’s all yours now.” Later on, we sat together as I showed her all the pictures and videos I captured from the funeral; hoping she felt as if she was there. We chatted about Abuelo some more before it was time for bed.

As I sat there recounting the day with my grandmother and looking through the things I brought back with me, I realized that there is a lost art found in old objects. There is a connection to those who came before us and laid the foundation for the life we have now, and if I can honor them in the everyday by holding on to just a few of their pieces, then I feel I’m doing the right thing. Grammy’s always been the storykeeper of our family, but I’m beginning to realize that I might be the one to continue carrying the torch.

They are my stories too, after all, written within my blood.

And someone has to keep stoking the flames.