How I Became a Storyteller

So, instead of 3rd grade, still another tangent, this time based on a conversation this morning with my wife. I mentioned my penchant for story-telling and she laughed and said, “You’ve always been a storyteller.” I think anybody who has spent ten minutes around me would agree.

So it occurred to me, where did I pick up that custom? Well I need look no farther than my parents and my grandparents for that matter. I remember on weekends, friends of my parents would show up. They would play dominoes, drink beer, and tell their stories, oftentimes well into the morning hours. I would sometimes sit nearby and listen. Now I confess a certain sadness in my heart. It doesn’t seem like people do this much anymore, but once upon a time, that was what people did. I can still see my Dad sitting back in his chair, working a toothpick in his mouth, then a little tssst sound he made with his teeth, as he began a story. After a time, mom would relate one of her own, sometimes related, sometimes not, then others would chime in as well. Not just a statement of fact, mind you. They would map out the characters, fill in as many details as possible, create moments of conflict and weave in resolution, sometimes with laughter, other times with serious resolution. Both came from big families, and their brothers and sisters were just the same. At reunions, it was a non-stop din of voices, gathered in clusters or together around the table, each outdoing the next.

I thought, on this occasion, I’d share a story my Dad told us years ago. At the time, he was a child living on a farm in NE Texas where they were all workers in the field as sharecroppers. Their school would go until harvest season when they would all turn out to pick cotton from sunrise to sunset. Well there was a fellow who owned a farm next door to where they stayed. One day after coming in from the fields on a hot summer day just at sunset, he goes into his barn, where he sees an enormous rattle snake. Quickly he takes a hoe and chops its head right off, less it bite one of the milk cows. Then he puts up his equipment to go in for supper.

Sitting at the supper table, he shares the story with his wife. She suggests, why not go out and chop its rattles off. She could do something with it. Out to the barn he returns, knife in hand. Well you know how snakes tend to still move around for a while after they die. He found the snake’s moving body, grabbed it, and sliced off the rattles, handing them over to his wife when he got back inside.

After a hard day at work, he slept like a baby. Next morning, he arises. He heads out to the barn to feed and milk the cows. Walking inside he looks down, when a look of surprise and horror crosses his face! There was the beheaded snake he had killed. One thing though… Its rattles were still on the lifeless body. Apparently, he had found the mate the night before, slicing the rattles off a life snake. I can remember shuddering with delight hearing that story.

My dad and I had lots of issues growing up. But I credit him with my love for a good story, especially the true ones! Just a biographical note here. His school only went to the tenth grade. After that he was packing up to move to Alaska. But at the last minute, his Aunt Johnnye and Uncle Luther who lived in Amarillo offered him an opportunity to come stay with them and finish high school as long as he worked and payed his way. He did that, finished high school, got some college before the war and met my Mom there, who had her own story for arriving in that Panhandle city. Dad became a surveyor and worked with the Army Air Corp building airports during WWII in the Pacific. Mom built bombs for a time after working for an insurance company, and later after the war, my dad had a lifelong job as a surveyor, mom working in his office in our home. Where I could grow up and hear their amazing tales.

Some Thoughts on Growing Old

On July 9th, I celebrated my 72nd birthday. Now despite the increased pain I was feeling that day, in a way it was a sigh of relief. Mom had died at the age of 71, and the haunting specter of DNA was always in the back of my mind. Yeah, I know that it sounds silly, but… well it is what it is.

Today, in many respects I’m much happier now than I’ve ever been. I’ve love, community, friends, and well, it is possible to live with pain and still find happiness though. Plus it all beats the alternative, at least for now.

So wait a minute. This is a memoir blog, and we were about to start with the third grade back in Tyler. What’s this all about? Well, one of the things old people have to reckon with is their own mortality, and no amount of assurance about how I’ve still got years ahead of me changes that uncertainty. This past week I had a conversation with another woman around my age. I was laughing about living as the old Hebrew blessing says, to the age of 120. She looked me square in the eye, and said, “you know, I don’t think I want to live that long.”

So I never allow a chance for a serious conversation to slip by. I thought for a moment and responded, “I think you may well be right.” No, this is no dark death wish, and I am truly happy. But there are realities to face. The body and mind over time deteriorates. Already, I’m alternately using a walker or a wheelchair, and pain is mostly constant. Most recently, I got a diagnosis of Mild Cognitive Impairment, which can get better, may stay the same, or more likely will lead to dementia. Today I choose life, and I am by nature a stubborn sort. But I can imagine a day when it will be the right time to let go and leave this earthly body. That’s keeping it real.

There are things one has to do at this age. I’ve got a medical directive written, including my wishes if I do move into dementia. I’ve a will that I am going to revisit soon to be sure I’s are dotted and t’s are crossed. I’ve shared my funeral wishes. And quietly I’m pushing my wife to do the same. I’ve put off but need to get on with an ethical will to leave for family, some estranged. This memoir is another step, wishing again how I wish the stories of my elders had been written down, for memory fails over time.

Too much of a downer? That’s because our culture too often runs away from the realities of our own mortality. I remember a time when death was seen differently. I can recall as small children my grandfather on Mom’s side laid out on the kitchen table with coins to keep his eyes shut, for all to see as we had pallets on the floor and slept nearby in the living room. Then some years later, my Grandpa on Dad’s side was dying of cancer and he had us come in, one person at a time, to pass on whatever wisdom he wished to share, young and old alike. Then after he died, we all took our turn sitting watch over the body until he was buried.

I share these stories because I feel death is the one thing every one of us will experience, and it makes no sense to run from it. Mind you, I prefer our Jewish custom of burial within 24 hours, but there is also a complete system for mourning and comforting those who survive after we are gone. Today, I choose life. But this memoir would not be complete without these realities set in the here and the now. I have had to attend a lot of funerals in my 72 years. But I have so many blessed memories of each one of those lives for which I sat and mourned. I’d have it no other way. Even as I write this, I feel my beloved Skip standing over my shoulder, nodding with approval. Skip z”l of blessed memory passed away in August of 1997. But he is still with me. As are so many others. There is much more to say about growing old, and over time I will do just that. However.....

Next time: Back to Third Grade stories

Move to Wiley St in Tyler

Caldwell Zoo, Tyler, Texas

I recall well the move to Wiley St in Tyler. It was a new home and no grass had been planted yet. It had a large front and back yard, with a steep terrace that descended to the street. The road itself was covered in tar pitch and would not be asphalted for some years later. That tar would be so hot in the summers, and we would pick up speed on the drive to run across to avoid burning our feet. Each summer the bottoms of our feet would take on the black color of that tar. Over time our feet would toughen, enough to survive the sticker burs in the weeds across the way.

We had pecan trees in front, back, and on one side of our house. We never suffered from a shortage of pecans. Towards the back was a persimmon tree, and some years later, we put in a pear tree as well. Behind the garage was my domain, which will be talked about in a future post. We also had a garden plot towards the rear of the back yard.

Around the time we moved, I began kindergarten at Caldwell School. What was really cool was it was also the site of Caldwell Zoo. How many kids get to go see monkeys, tigers, and a llama who loved to spit at us while attending kindergarten? On my first day, we were instructed to observe playground rules. So of course, immediately I headed up the slide the wrong way. ::chuckling:: I got to spend my first afternoon at school in the corner with my nose in a circle as punishment. It wasn’t the last.

One vivid memory was when Dad hired someone to plant the grass in our yard. He was an old African American man who went by the name of Grasshopper. A word of explanation here. This was East Texas and the year was 1953. We were in the midst of the infamous Jim Crow laws and he was the first black person I had ever met. While he worked, I wandered out to watch, and he quietly encouraged me, showing me how to plant the grass and weaving the most wonderful stories. After all these years, I don’t remember the story lines at all, but I feel a gentle warmth recalling his telling of them.

Not long after this came my next encountered with Jim Crow. Mom had taken me to downtown to shop. The store had a soda fountain there and we sat down to get a bite to eat, but I was thirsty and didn’t want to wait on the waitress. So off I wander to the water fountain. I climb onto the steps and start to drink when this huge hand clamps onto my shoulder. This guy is yelling at me about how I could get some sort of horrible disease. I’m frightened out of my wits not knowing what’s going on as he pulls me over to my mom. He then begins to lecture her on not letting her son drink out of the “colored” fountain. Lecturing my mother was a huge mistake. She never tolerated fools easily and I truly think he would never try that stunt again. But then she showed me the difference between “white” and “colored” water fountains and explained that right or wrong, the law insisted that we use the “white” fountain. The same was true of restrooms I learned. Okay, I’m around 6 years old. None of this made any sense. Hadn’t I personally taken our glasses of water to Grasshopper? Didn’t he use our restroom during the time he was there. I didn’t have a word for cognitive dissidence but it was sure there.

I began school at Bell Elementary. At this point I still enjoyed school. I started learning to read and write. In the midst of all this, I managed to fall out of our pecan tree and broke my right arm. Okay, back story here. I was born naturally left handed, but my parents as was common in those days, trained me to be right handed. My cast covered my lower right arm and part of my right hand, exposing only parts of my fingers with which I had to write. My teacher actually suggested based on my poor handwriting that I be held back a year, believing I was a slow child. My Dad was furious and would have none of it. So I went on to the second grade. Later on, over the next few years, achievement tests and IQ testing showed I was not slow at all. I have to smile, recalling my parents wouldn’t let the schools share with me my IQ scores. They didn’t want me to get the big head. Life was still pretty good, up until the third grade. What happened then will be covered in another post. One hint. It began a prolonged ugly part of my childhood that took years to overcome.