Listen While You Still Can: Stories from the Mountains Project

I didn’t grow up thinking about family history. Most of us don’t. You assume the people who raised you will always be right there — sitting in their chairs, answering the phone, telling the same stories you’ve heard a hundred times. You assume there will always be another holiday, another Sunday visit, another chance to ask the questions you never got around to.

But life has a way of proving you wrong before you’re ready.

In 2023, I lost my mom. In 2024, I lost my dad. And in the last six years, I’ve buried four aunts and uncles - every one of them from my dad’s side. That entire branch of my family tree is gone now. Just… gone.

And with them went stories I thought I’d always be able to reach for. The details I assumed someone else would remember. The answers to questions I didn’t even know I’d want to ask until it was too late.

Their stories died with them - which means pieces of my story did too.

We don’t think about that when we’re young. We assume the people who loved us, scolded us, fed us, and shaped us will always be there. We assume someone else will remember the things we didn’t bother to write down. We assume we can call tomorrow.

But one day you wake up, and the people who held the history are no longer here to tell it.

And suddenly you’re left wondering:

Why are we the way we are? What shaped them? What shaped us? What parts of their lives are woven into ours without us even knowing?

I’m 43 years old, with no parents left and one whole side of my family gone. And let me tell you - you’re going to want to know these things. Even if it doesn’t feel urgent now. Even if life is loud and busy and you think you’ll get to it later.

Because in a hundred years, you’ll want to be remembered. Your wins, your losses, your lessons - you’ll want someone to know them. And the people who came before you wanted the same thing.

Their stories matter. Yours will too.

These days, I’m listening harder to my Mom’s parents --my Mamaw and Pappaw. I lean in closer. I ask more questions. I write things down. I pay attention to the small details, the ones that seem ordinary but end up being the threads that hold a whole family together.

Because time is fragile. Because memory is slippery. Because once a story is gone, it’s gone for good.

So listen while you still can. Ask the questions. Write it down. Honor the people who made you, even if you didn’t understand the importance of it until now.

If you still have your grandparents, take the time to sit with them, listen, and hold onto those moments. And if they’re no longer here, their stories still deserve to be remembered. That’s what Stories from the Mountains is all about. If you’d like to share your grandparents’ stories with us, we’d be honored to help preserve them. Visit our Family Questionnaire as a guideline to collect and submit your stories online.

Laura Lea Cupp is a Kentucky writer rooted in faith, family, and the stories that raised her. She grew up in southeastern Kentucky and now lives in London, Kentucky with her husband, Berry. After losing her mother in 2023 and her father in 2024, she felt a renewed calling to preserve the voices of her family and region.

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