Discussions and debates were a weekly if not nightly occurrence at our house. I liked the discussions and learned from them. The debates made me uncomfortable because, while rules were followed, tempers sometimes flared. My siblings would debate anything from the arrival of chicken or egg to whose shoe laces lasted the longest. They would debate the weather using signs of nature to support their theory or the proper way to mix paint. The topic didn’t matter as long as it could be argued from four or six points of view (as sometimes Dad and Mom got pulled in whether they wanted to or not). During the discussions, I would sit in my rocking chair rocking a doll or two and listen. Sometimes, oh wonder of wonders, Ev would smile at me and ask my opinion. Those who know me won’t be surprised to know I had one! The debates would drive me to my bed, to use dolls, and books, and imagination so I wouldn’t hear.
I remember one time being in bed listening to my siblings and their friends debate. Someone said something humorous and I started to laugh. Milo who was a particular friend of Betty’s at the time said, “She’s awake and she understands what we’re talking about!” My siblings, not surprised, thought less of him because he was surprised. Other times, I remember crying because they all sounded so angry. Floods of words with angry tones washed over me and frightened me. Dot or Dad would come in and rub my back and assure me it was something they enjoyed and everything was all right. Dot would sing to me and Dad would draw pictures in the air with his cigarette. Smoking wasn’t so taboo then.
I’ve told you about Mom and her crossword puzzles and her amazing understanding of words she couldn’t pronounce. Another source of words was Dad. He never talked down to me. For that matter, no one in my family did. I’ve mentioned Dad’s ancestors died young and he feared dying young as well. I entered his life when he was 44 years of age. He loved me a lot, but depression made him fearful of dying young and fear made him more depressed. He made sure there was distance between us so his loss would not be so hard on me. I liked him and loved him but I didn’t understand him and somewhat feared him.There was something he did that would endear him to me no matter what. He told wonderful stories. The rest of my family read stories to me and Mom preferred the German fairy tales in their original writing which scared me to sleep just to get her to stop reading! Disney never bothered to show the birds coming to pluck out the eyes of Cinderella’s step sisters at the wedding. The Red Shoes was another story that made me wish there were no fairy tale books.
Dad would tell stories that helped with a situation, taught a lesson, or comforted with a point. One in particular I remember was around Christmas time. It was actually after Christmas because the tree was without decoration and he was soon to carry it out to the trash heap. I was so sad! He patted his knee and I curled up on his lap.Once upon a time, there was a little girl who loved her Christmas tree. Christmas was over and the decorations were gone. The little girl did not want to see her Christmas tree thrown away. So, when her father took the tree out of the house, he showed her how dry it was getting and how many needles were falling off. He pointed out to her that made the tree dangerous and easily able to catch fire. He told her to put on her cap and mittens, her warmest coat and ask Mom for some bread.
When they carried the tree out, the little girl was following behind her father watching the trail of needles from the tree. She clutched the bread tightly in her mittened hands. She noticed that there was string hanging from her father’s coat pocket. To her surprise, he didn’t carry the tree to the trash heap. He stuck it upright in a snow bank. Taking the string from his pocket, he showed her how to tie the string to bits of bread and hang the bread all over the tree. When they were out of bread they went back into the house.While they drank the cocoa the little girl’s mother made for them, they sat by the window and watched the tree. A chickadee landed on a branch to peck at the bread. After a taste or two he began calling and was joined by more chickadees. Soon nuthatches, blue jays, cardinals, and a woodpecker came to feast on the bread. The little girl’s eyes shown as she watched from the window. The father said to her “See, your tree is all decorated once again!”
After a time the needles were almost all on the snow bank; more bread and the many birds could not make the tree lovely. The father told the little girl he was going to take the tree to the mill. He told her to dress warm, be ready for a walk and to get her sled. The poor tree was tied to the sled and they set off together. The little girl thought the tree might be turned into lumber but even she could see the trunk wasn’t very straight. Instead, they walked past the lumber mill to the paper mill. There her father talked with the manager who untied the tree and stood it inside the wide doors of the mill. He asked them to follow him.The manager showed the father and his child how the trees were run through machines that stripped the bark and unusable limbs. Then the trees went to a grinder and the resulting saw dust was added to chemicals and stirred. A thick slop called pulp was spread thin and rolled to squeeze out the moisture. Then it was dried and rolled some more until it was paper. The little girl knew she liked to have lots of paper for drawing and writing and folding and, and, so much more. Then the manager said the tour was over but the little girl should look for something special from her tree in the morning.
The next morning the little girl chattered at her father all through breakfast. She wanted him to show her what her tree was doing now. He asked her to help mother clear up after breakfast and then come join him in the living room. She did as she was told but she could hardly wait to see her tree. She ran to her father and jumped into his lap. Then he pulled out from behind him the Sunday Comics! “This is what was printed on the paper from your tree,” her father said. Then he read the comics to her once, twice and three times.At this point, Dad told me to go ask Mom for some bread, he would get the string and we would bundle up and take the tree out to a snow bank. I bet I broke a world’s record getting the bread from Mom who had been listening and already tied strings to all the chunks of bread. Dad and I made the bird tree and then he took one of his long solitary walks that lasted for hours, and I came in. Several weeks later, the tree disappeared. I imagine Dad either put it on a neighbor’s trash heap or cut it up and burned it when I wasn’t around to watch. One Sunday morning, Dad suggested we sit down and read the comics together. I, of course, was sure they came from my tree.
When Helen was small, her Jack-O-Lanterns always had to leave a note that they were going back to the pumpkin patch to visit family and would be back next year. Marc was not ever so much attached to a particular holiday as he was to life keeping a rut (like his mom, he is). We have pictures of him in the front yard, looking very Grinch like, sucking his thumb, and firmly entrenched in Dave’s old recliner. The chair was broken, the new one was purchased and expected that day, but Marc refused to let us throw the old one away. I had to be quick on my toes to come up with a story that would make him satisfied that the old chair would be re-used, loved, and the new chair would be better for Dad’s back.When putting our kids to bed, they were each allowed a story. Books were sorted and chosen and we would settle in to cuddle and read. Often, though, the request would be for a story “out of my mouth”. Usually the stories were about them and their pets having rich adventures, but always winding up safe and sound at home. No Grimm or Anderson Fairy Tales for our kids! We would laugh at the antics of our pets in the stories and maybe that was not a good way to settle children for sleep, but we enjoyed it. When Marc was blogging about his experiences training for 100 mile bike rides or triathlon to fight cancer, he showed his ability to bring someone else into his experiences by telling a story. Helen is studying to write for children. She has one that her instructor says is nearly ready for submission for publication.
Grandchildren at their very mature ages of pre-teen still once in awhile ask for a story. It’s a little trickier to pull teens along in a story because they interrupt or fall asleep! Imagine! I told our little ones about the time we visited my cousin’s farm. I told them my Cousin Aleen cornered their daddy and auntie to shell peas she had picked that morning. She told Helen and Marc they could only help if they ate some while they were shelling. The three of them had enormous fun! While shelling peas and getting to know Aleen, they felt comfortable telling her they only like raw peas never cooked ones. She agreed raw was best but she had a special pea casserole she insisted they taste at dinner. Reluctantly they gave their word. At the table, Aleen brought in a bowl of creamed peas and pearl onions (which I knew in my heart would bring rude gags and coughing from my two), and a covered dish she said was the one they had to try. Grace was said, food was passed, and Aleen reached for the covered dish to serve our two who were looking less than enthused. She whipped off the cover and there was a whole bowl of raw, shelled peas she had set aside for them. What a hero she was.One afternoon Bett and Belle and I were playing outside in the snow and in their window was a pretty little wreath that looked homemade. I asked Bett if Mommy made the wreath. Bett smiled a little far-a-way smile and said, No. A dear woman who lives up the street made that wreath for us. She called one day and said she had something very special and Mommy and Belle and I should come up to see. We put on our coats and walked to her house and she said she had made us a gift. She presented the wreath and then asked us to stay for a treat. Belle and I didn’t know what she would serve; we don’t like to eat when we are not sure about the cooking. She brought in a bowl and set it down and it was raw peas! There was more to the story, but I missed some of it. I realized she was making it up as she went along and she had caught me at my own game!
Later, as I related what happened to Dave, he asked me if I knew what a legacy I had given. I shook my head; what legacy? He said, “Do you know what a gift it is to tell a story and then have others learn to tell them?” I didn’t see it that way. Everybody tells stories to their kids! Dave assured me that was not so. I still very much took it for granted for a long time after that. I continued just being a Grammy who loved to entertain her granddaughters.Dave also can tell stories. He used to hold our little Miniature Schnauzer, Liebchen, on his lap and tell him “Bavarian Hunter Dog Stories”. Of course what Dave was doing was relaying to the kids what Liebchen used to do as a Barbarian Hunter Dog. He saved lives, found treasure, and buried things he never could find again. The kids would laugh. He would pooh-pooh this as real story telling, but he charmed the kids and made them ask for more! I should also relate that he has another talent. He used to read stories to the kids with a Swedish accent. One time just after Marc was born, Helen asked Dave to read “like Ole Olson”. He agreed. Our then four-year-old cherub brought him the King James Bible and settled herself comfortably in his lap. I’ll never forget the look on his face nor the fact he opened the Bible and worked diligently to get all the “these, thous, and thines” in the proper accent. What a Dad!
When Bett had reached the very mature age of a Third Grader, she was finding spelling difficult. I took a copy of her spelling words and created a story using that week’s entire spelling list. I printed the story leaving blanks where the words fit and she had to complete the story by filling in the correct spelling word. She showed it to her teacher who called and asked permission to print it for the class. That started a series of stories, written each week using the current spelling list. At the end of the year, we had a complete set. The teacher asked if she could use the stories following years as Belle was coming along soon and would like to have Grammy’s stories too. I agreed. In two years Belle had grown and was entering the Third Grade. I received a call from the teacher just prior to school starting. The district had decided to change curriculum and the old stories no longer matched the spelling lists. Hmmmmm. I wrote a whole new series. I later learned that both girls disliked the stories as they really had to work to fill in the words. I still have them and will present each of them with their year of stories on their wedding days.While Dave considers storytelling an art and a legacy, I am here to tell you it can also get you into trouble. For a time when I was little, and the same could be said of our kids and grandkids, there proved to be a fine line between story-telling and lying. I was very good at telling convincing stories to my teachers so I could escape their elementary school classrooms and run down the hall to Pat’s room or better yet all the way home! I also found that boring days were made much more exciting by encouraging the neighbor boy, Tommy, to go along with the story that the fractious neighbor no one trusted had been shooting at us with a gun. Everyone knew he had guns, was a recluse, refused to get along with others, and disliked children. I’m sure the latter became truer after the two sets of parents called the police and he was thoroughly questioned.
When our children were small, I developed a phrase to let them know I was running out of ideas for a story after having told three or four stories in a row. I would say, “They don’t just pop up like tissues, you know!” This has carried over to our grandchildren. Some days, the supply seems inexhaustible like a roll of bath tissue. Other days, the tissue box is empty and searching mental fingers will not pull up a story no matter how earnest the effort.Everyone has had teachers they loved and teachers they disliked but learned from and teachers who should not carry the title. I had several, but one that comes to mind would not let me write stories or pretend to be using cursive because “you have not yet been taught to do that”. Another that comes to mind is the one who informed Helen’s Seventh Grade class that A Tale of Two Cities was to be presented on TV and while they wouldn’t understand it they should try watching it. He called me that afternoon to inform me Helen had raised her hand and said, “Mr. Teacher, you are doing Dickens and Shakespeare an injustice. Neither is difficult to understand and you are scaring kids away from really good stories when you say they are difficult.” He was surprised and pleased she had done it. Marc had a similar brush with an English Literature Teacher, which I will tell in another blog. Bett also was caught writing a story the teacher interpreted as “not fit for school”. She took Bett’s story away from her, made her feel embarrassed, and called her parents. The story was not being written at a time in school when Bett should have been doing something else. She wrote about a kiss. Perhaps this should have been addressed, but immediately and without the censure creating shame and embarrassment. The little spiral notebook was not returned for weeks and Bett stopped writing - anything. This to a child who before she could truly write many words at all put her hands over her heart and exclaimed, “The dear man! He knows how I like to journal!” when Dave gave her a tiny little notebook. It was a long time before we could convince her to keep journaling, learn to be attentive to her readership, when she was creating, and to not be devastated by a teacher without sensitivity.
Thankfully there have been good teachers in all of our lives as well. My Ninth Grade teacher said she read one of my poems and cried. “So like Byron” she told me. Helen and Marc had their share of teachers who did more than present curriculum; they put their whole person into reaching out to their classes. Bett and Belle are not yet finished with their educations, but they have had some truly wonderful teachers whether they appreciated them or not.Now, think about this just a bit. Helen could stand up for Dickens and Shakespeare because when she and Marc were infants, I would read to them almost every afternoon or evening. If I was going to read something for a long time, I wanted to enjoy it as well. You guessed it! A Tale of Two Cities, A Christmas Carole, Great Expectations, The Taming of the Shrew, Hamlet, MacBeth, were all standard fare. There was also Winnie the Pooh, Wind in the Willows, Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. There were times when reading was a trial; the trial was not mine but our children’s. I am an emotional reader! If the book was funny, Winnie the Pooh meeting the Heffalump, I laughed so hard I couldn’t continue and they would have to wait for me to settle down in order to finish the story. When we reached the end of Willie Wonka, I sobbed. It has a happy ending you say. Yes, but I was so touched by it. Marc in high dudgeon and great disdain, took the book from my hands, walked over to Dave and said, “Dad, could you please finish the last chapter? Mom is crying so hard we can’t understand her!”
It was many years before I learned to read the “truth” of history from several viewpoints. The Civil War of the United States had two sides. Family members north and south of the Mason Dixon Line could not agree. Brothers and Fathers crossed that line to fight each other over what they believed to be right or true. How then can anyone read only one viewpoint of the war and know what people were doing and saying and thinking. Lincoln was often criticized for being able to empathize with the South even though he believed the country should remain a single country of separate and self-governing states no matter the cost for both North and South. He was a man who never lost sight of the fact that there is more than one opinion and truth lies in the mosaic of all.The Bible is God’s story. He gave the first five books to Moses. Much of it was given to others in oral tradition. Paper and books and scribes later faithfully set down the oral information. As manuscripts have been found in the original, it proves to be a library very little changed in spite of all these centuries, all the people who have attempted to make it clearer, all the many languages into to which it has been translated. Dialects and paraphrasing don’t alter the meaning. Our grandgirls like the music from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat but when we watch the DVD, we refer back to the Bible story to complete the picture and correct the poetic license. Hollywood has produced a number of Bible stories for viewing – not to be sneered at, but to be checked against the original manuscript! Some of those stories would never have been given a second glance if God hadn’t permitted a Sunday School Teacher or a grandparent or parent, or Hollywood to make them come alive. Never read from one perspective. Learned men, scholars of the Bible, have written tomes on single verses but they do not all agree. Each person must prayerfully ask the Holy Spirit of God to help the find the personal meaning. Don’t sell God short; He is still the best teacher the world has ever had.
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