Because that's the bargain, isn't it? When some wrinkly old auntie gets hold of your elbow and tells you for the umpty-umpth time about the day Jimmy stole the rowboat, she's throwing you a rope. And, before you vanish over the horizon in turn, you're supposed pitch it to the next generation. At any point in time, if somebody isn't keeping a tight grip on that rope, the whole Weasel Family Anecdote Repository and Photo Album goes slithering over the edge of human memory and right into the pit. Excuse me - The Pit.

There may be a Sweet By and By, and we may indeed Meet on That Beautiful Shore. There may be infinite universes where infinite Jimmys steal infinite rowboats. Existence may run on linear rails, and we may some day zoom back and forth at will upon it, sliding up and down the Jimmy/rowboat continuum until we've wrung every piquant drop of mortal joy from the rowboat larceny experience.

But I'm not counting on it. And I'm not going to drop the rope.

But I have no kids (hey, gene pool! You owe me one!), all my siblings are mad or dead, the old folks are dropping like junebugs, and I'm starting to forget stuff. Congratulations! After meticulous screening of thousands of applicants, you're hired. Yes, you.