Today three of my first cousins and I will travel to Philly for an evening of storytelling. The event is called the Moth, as a nod to the tendency of such nocturnal creatures to circle in towards a light. People will lean in if the stories are good, lean back if they are not. Two of us will toss our names in the hat for the chance to spin a yarn. Two are there to smile. 

Our common grandfather wrote stories every day for thirty five years, and published them in a newspaper. That is the precursor to a slew of apps that bring up to the minute information to your palm, although apps do not do double duty wrapping breakables and housebreaking puppies. We are traveling by train, as did our grandfather, and will be joined by my daughter who also has aspirations of being picked to tell a tale. 

The vignette I have memorized brushes up against the five minute limit, and I plan to speak quickly. The cousin who has also been practicing a monologue in the shower has won before, in New York City no less. He gave me a pep talk including the words DO NOT BLOW THIS, which was comforting in an oblique way. Sort of like the person training acrobats who reminds them that there is no net. 

In the introduction to a collection of those stories by Pop pop, the moth winning cousin described the experience of rereading thousands of columns. He was by necessity selective. Many, he reports were misses. But a surprising number were hits, and it is from those that he offers a good read. 

Marriage too is a collection of misses and hits. It seems unreasonable to expect more. But if we let it, memories can be selective, as we sit around the Thanksgiving table next week, telling stories.