"This is..."

I used to get so embarrassed as we stood in front of any cashier. It would not take long. "This is my daughter, Sheela," I would hear him say, knowing what was to follow. "She is my elder daughter. I have four children: two boys and two girls." And off he'd go, relaying to the cashier his beginning, first joining the Air Force at 17, and then finding his wife in Salt Lake, and then the four children. Sometimes he got stuck in the AF history until I felt faint, nudging him to let the clerk do his or her job.

And then came his smile. And on he went.

He wanted to tell his story. He needed to. My father walked with wounds, but ever, and always, healed them slowly, ever so slowly by telling the world, "I have a history. I have a family. I have accomplishments." And so I inherited much of this zeal for life, and when he died, I promised him I would continue our story.

And complete it.

And that's why I feel strongly about any older generation telling its story to the next and further younger ones because as we get to seven or more decades, even less, the thoughts start gelling, the connections begin to meld, and suddenly voices come alive with epiphanies and surging whirlpools of energetic discoveries.

So the next time an older person starts talking to you, randomly or purposefully, stop for a minute. Take your eyes away from your smartphone. Turn off the ipod. Hush your inner dialogue and listen.

Would an elder daughter lie to you?