My father is 75. He's a storyteller. No family dinner ends without a story — the time the truck went into the ditch, the job at the port, the neighbour who played violin at three in the morning. We've heard them all. We ask for them anyway.
One day, those stories will leave with him. Not just the anecdotes: the way he tells them, his voice rising before the punchline, the silence right after. No book keeps that.
Méromie was born from a simple idea: we can keep them. One hour in a living room, a camera you forget, a person who truly listens. And a film you watch at Christmas, show the grandchildren, and bring out on the day you need it.
We're not looking for extraordinary lives. We're looking for lives. The ones that went through the Ice Storm and the referendums, births and losses, dull jobs and summers at the cottage. The small stories inside the big one.
Our first guest will be my father. The next ones might be yours.