Gone With The Wind.

There we were, on a bustling Saturday night, having dinner together.

She sat across from me, a slight pinch of pink coloring her cheeks, glass of moscato in one hand and fork in the other.

Our food had just arrived, and my grandma, being far more adventurous than me with her sweet white wine and bacon wrapped steak, giggled like a little school girl as she prepared to dive deep.

As I ate the far less exciting meal (a salad), I smiled to myself, cherishing this meal with my grandma that I don’t see nearly as often as I’d like.

See, I was in South Dakota just last week, and though I was there just a few short days, its impact on me was everlasting.

Whatever did I do whilst in the Black Hills?

Well. I witnessed the epic of the buffalo roundup, which only happens but once a year. I rode on the 1880 Train, regaling in the company of those who were also a wee bit intoxicated by beer and German fare. I hiked to the top of Crazy Horse during their bi-annual Volksmarch. I ate, a lot. Drank equal amounts too. And of course I frequented and supported as many small businesses as I could; after all, we are weathering turbulent times.

This was all done with family that I love and adore, with grandparents that I used to see every year but now see but once in a blue moon.

And it was this meal in particular that I realized the value of simple conversation. Because as I sat there with my grandma on this seemingly insignificant Saturday night, I was hit with this profound realization that if we don’t have these conversations, if we don’t share these stories, these parts of the past that shape who we are, they get lost.

Over time, they’re gone with the wind.

*speaking of Gone With The Wind, I learned that my great grandparents used to own the only movie theatre in Custer, South Dakota during the 30’s and 40’s. When this iconic film came out in 1939, my grandma says she was forbidden to watch it due to its scandalous content (remember it’s the first film that used profanity “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Gasp!). She then told me the next day in school, all her classmates had seen it and discussed it and she was “quite livid with Mother.”

I don’t know if I’m noticing these things because I’m getting older, but I’m finding value in conversing, and I’m really appreciating the benefit of storytelling. I learned a lot about Grandma and her life that night, of my family history, and she learned a lot about me. I was told stories I had never heard before in my 20+ years, tales that connected parts of my family heritage to the Black Hills and beyond.

As I reflect on the importance of storytelling, I’m realizing that I’m doing the very same thing, here on my blog. I’m sharing stories too. And maybe someday, those stories will be passed along to the next generation.

Never to be forgotten, or gone with the wind…