Storytellers
My childhood was spent in the company of great story tellers.
Both my Grandmother and father were regarded to be among the best.
Proof of this came each time either of them announced that they had a story to tell. Everyone stopped what they were doing, and then proceeded to gather as close as they could, so as not to miss a word. Stimulated by their example, being a good story teller was a skill other family members sought to achieve. The best of the next generation story tellers were envied and looked up to. Simple jokes were repeated, with the best ones drawing hearty laughter. A really good story however, lingered longer. When the story and its punch line stayed with you for several days, those were the good ones. They involved us with the action contained within the story.
Grandma’s story telling style was unique to her.
During most of the week she was serious and business like; controlling her family of ten children, and in later years, the grandchildren. Perhaps it was because of this that when she made up one of her stories of bears, cougars, ghosts or big snakes, we became quiet and serious quickly. Even after sixty years I vividly recall the telling of one tall tale where local rattlesnakes were represented to be so large that they could be stretched over the clothesline with both head and tail touching the ground. These were the snakes that could devour small children with a single bite. The children were never seen again even though they were searched for throughout the farm. Shortly after hearing her story I chanced to walk around the house and nearly stepped on a fairly large milk snake. I raced back into the house where I found my father and uncles engaged in a traditional game of cards. I was later described as chalky white and shaken so badly that I could not speak for five minutes. Finally S-s-s-snake squeaked out and everyone roared. They had heard the story too, but for them it had been repeated many times. After one of my uncles finished his laughter, he went out back, grabbed the milk snake by the tail, and tossed it over the fence. He returned with a smile and informed me that the big ones usually sent out small scouts to look for the tastiest children. When they found a good one, they were to be given the first bite of any leftovers.
Uncle Raymond once heard a pack of dogs barking in the large forest east of the farm.
Thinking the dogs had cornered a deer and would kill it, he grabbed his knife and gun before heading for the commotion. If things went well, he would frighten them off and carry part of their kill home for dinner. Brush became so thick near the barking that he had to lay down his gun and crawl through the thickest of it. About this time, the bear that the dogs had cornered backed over to where my uncle was on his hands and knees. Having just heard one of Grandma’s bear stories a few days earlier, he spun around on all fours, out raced both dogs and bear to a clearing, where he burst into a sprint that lasted all the way home. It took him several days to find his rifle. He never did recover his knife. Such was the power of Grandma’s stories.
Dad’s story telling style was much less serious and usually had a fun ending.
When I was very young, he patiently explained to me why rabbits had short tails. It was a long story and involved long tailed rabbits crossing a creek full of alligators. All those that survived did so at the cost of their tail, and ever since that time they just got to making rabbits that way.
Those old stories had power. It was not just what was said but how the story had to be told just right to become believable. The teller had to be straight faced, and know where he was going with his yarn from beginning to end. I’ll probably never get as good as Dad or Grandma, but I continue to work on my art.
When I finally come up with a good story, I will seek to tell it around a campfire. I hope to see everyone looking out into the shadows when I am finished and being very careful not to walk home alone.
