Do All Parents Tell Stories?

Do all parents tell stories? I am not sure if they do. Most of the kids spend their time with their grandparents, listening to the timeless stories of their youth, twists and turns that their life took. Bad people they walked into, and the good people they found like rolling stones. All the grandparents have their stories to tell. But with me, it was different. I didn't get a chance to meet my grandparents. No grandma rocked on the rocking chair, weaving sweaters and the stories of the bygone times. No grandfather took us to the toffee shop on his shoulders. There was no grandma telling me stories of how she had to manage a living during the tough times of independence, or granddad telling how emotionally torn he was, working under the British regime in a government office. I have seen them in the photographs and I do remember their faces clearly though. A newly married young man, proudly standing by a bicycle, holding its handle firm in his clasp. A lady clad in a heavy banarasi saree, laden with heavy jewellery and pounds of cloth. That life never touched me. I had no chance of asking them all the questions that loom in my mind as I look at more such pictures. Some of them were answered by my parents, but for most of them, even they don't have an answer. 

My parents have told me astounding stories of their childhood, a world so unknown and mysterious that I can't help marvelling at them. I remember waiting for the power cut as a child, to sit under the candlelight and listen to my mom and dad as they traveled into their past to bring us some milestone incidences and hilarious occurrences. With my dad’s huge family of 7 brothers and a set of parents; it was an overbearing emotional surrounding, against the weak emotional environment of my mom’s family, with a set of parents living on different stations, and no sibling to live by. I used to listlessly listen to their journeys. Each has its own flavour very different from the other. But they do belong to the same world that ticked out ages ago. I remember these stories like sweet lullabies, sung to me by the past itself. Just like lullabies, these stories have succulent emotions that lulls me into sleep. Time has strengthened my bond with their memories, and now whenever my dad/mom repeat an incidence, I already know it like it were my very own past. That's almost me telling story of a particular day in my past. I am scared of being severed from these ever. These have meditational value for my soul. Is there something that you live by too?