"The Sidewalk Inspector: What My Grandfather Taught Me About Healing Organizations Through Story"
Grandpa Cecil grew up in Koolyookowka Village in Grand Forks, BC. He made it to grade three a few times. Gramps was always singing, and as he did, he embodied the song, pumping his arms, furrowing his brow, and rocking his head side to side. He formed a band with a wash tub, a guitar, his twin brother Eddie and some friends as a teenager. He sang in the Men's choir and caused eruptions of song at family gatherings. He won the ribbon for the biggest cabbage at the fall fair, and called himself the sidewalk inspector of Grand Forks, treating his downtown stroll to chat with people like a job. He played accordion and guitar poorly, but it didn't matter, because he had heart.
Each morning, he would meet the boys at the A&W for a coffee, then hit the streets for a morning of small talk. He told stories of days falling trees; and the man in camp who could set bones, or the prank they would play on the camp cook. He made every waitress laugh. What Grandpa understood intuitively was something science confirms - that when we share stories, our brains sync up. Neuroscientists call it 'neural coupling.' When he told those logging stories at the A&W, those old boys' brains were literally mirroring his own brain activity. Their heartbeats would slow down together, and their breathing would match. He was creating moments of deep human connection, one tall tale at a time.
When we engage in genuine conversation and storytelling, our vagus nerve - the longest nerve in our body - gets activated. This triggers our 'rest and digest' response, lowering stress hormones and releasing oxytocin. Grandpa's morning coffee talks weren't just social - they were medicine. For him and everyone he encountered.
And today we say we bash small talk, but really, I think we are tired of “formulaic talk”. We don’t want to be asked how are your first few bites, or any plans for the rest of the evening as we are served a bill. But I think we need a small talk resurgence. This could be the antidote for the loneliness epidemic. One of my favourite facilitators and teachers, and Author of Emergent Strategy, Adrienne Maree says we move at the speed of trust. And if we are to do that, shouldn’t we start with small talk and build up to the deep conversations we long for?
When my Grandpa was dying of cancer, he told me not to be sick with grief. He had a long, good life, loved his family, and travelled the world. He said:
“Honika, it's my time.”
I am pretty sure the whole town of Grand Forks showed up to his funeral. Doukhobors believe that a person's soul stays close for a few days, so funerals last several days.
My Grandfather's friends built his casket and dug his grave. I wonder what they talked about. They made the borscht in the hall and baked the bread, and set the tables. They had time to tell stories as they made the food. As his friends worked together - building, digging, cooking, sharing memories - they were doing what humans have done for millennia.
Creating meaning through connection, processing grief through story, and building community one conversation at a time.
In our organizations, we reserve the word “storytelling” for our marketing departments. As I reflect on the organization as a modern village, I wonder if we could revive storytelling as a way to co-regulate, face challenging differences of opinion, or share calm with an anxious client. Suddenly, you aren’t irritated with so-and-so from accounting, you have a deep connection to a person’s origin, and what forms their views and behaviours.
Listen to our family anthem here.
