Thanks again to Red Rocker for this post and the last one on World Storytelling Day
As promised, here is a chance to celebrate World Storytelling Day by recounting stories you’ve heard.
Think of a story you’ve heard. It might have been as a child – the stories we hear as children can leave the most lasting impression. It might be a fable or a fairy tale. Or a folk tale. It might have been a story you heard when you were older. It might be something that actually happened to someone. Or an urban myth. It might even be a tall-tale: just make sure it’s a convincing one.
It might also be something that happened to you, or to someone you know, that you think would make a good tale. That wouldn’t strictly meet the definition of being part of an oral tradition, but we’re not purists here. We just want to hear some good stories.
Here are some rules:
You can start “telling” your story anytime after the clock hits midnight (12 am) on March 20th in your time zone. For those who get confused, as I do: 12 am on March 20th is the minute that follows 11:59 pm on March 19th. You can “tell” as many stories as you would like – and the more the merrier – until the clock hits midnight the next day in your time zone.
Ideally, the stories you tell should be stories you’ve heard. Or stories of something that happened to you or someone you know. But if you’ve got a really good story that you read somewhere, you can tell us in your own words. That, I think, is the most important part of this: the story has to be in your own words.
A story which you’ve previously written to be read does not qualify. As much as others might be interested in reading it, the art of writing a story is different from the art of telling it. Yes, I know that we’re actually writing here, but a blog has some of the same spontaneity and directness as oral communication, and that’s what we’re going for: we would like to hear you tell us a story in your own authentic voice.
Charlie on 
Tom on 
Moe W on 
Steve Morrison on 
Moe W on 
Arabella on 
Red Rocker on 
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My father gave me advice about what he’d learned about scrapping.
Don’t make the mistake of letting the other bloke have the first swing. If in a pub and someone went about annoying him he’d say “Right, that’s once..” If the continued he’d say “That’s twice…” and if it went on further he’d hit them then tell them “That was three times…” He also said that, if you can manage it, throw the other bloke as high as you can into the air and let the ground do the work. But he was a prodigiously strong man so that technique many not work for everyone.
I was walking through the middle of Sydney it was fairly busy and a man coming in the opposite direction stopped and asked me if I could give him a hand changing his car tyre. Sure, I said, where’s your car. He led me down into a parking station nearby. It was a situation that I quickly didn’t feel comfortable with so I mentally prepared myself for what might possibly happen if there was another purpose to his request. Was I going to be mugged, attacked or something? I studied the man. …Maybe fifty, grey pony tail, wiry build, Spanish or South American…
He kept walking deeper into the complex. I became even less happy as it got darker.
” So, where’s your car?”
“Just down here…”
I started to feel a warning. Something in my spirit… caution. He turned around the corner of a filthy, urine-smelling stairwell, out of my sight for a moment. But, maybe he did legitimately need assistance. He looked like he might struggle with a tyre. I turned the corner and he was standing facing me, a very odd look on his fluorescent-lit face. This is it, I thought. Its going to happen now.
OK, OK, you’ve got our attention.
Now keep going!
He looked at me. I looked at him.
With a slow step and his hands stretched out in front of him like claws, he advanced towards me. What was this? It didn’t seem to be how I expected an attack to be
Then the penny dropped.
He was trying to embrace me and puckering up to kiss me.
I don’t roll that way and even if I did it wouldn’t be in a filthy excrement encrusted stairwell.
I quickly dis-engaged myself and fled. A wiser man.
Ha – hahahahah! I love it Korg! Can’t wait for more suspense at midnight.
At 2.00am Matthew and I were roused out of bed. We were going on holidays! It felt like I had only just closed my eyes. I had no idea where we were going; Dad always said ‘We’ll see where we end up.’ We were wrapped in our tartan dressing gowns and bundled out into the car. Dad had packed the back of the HR Holden station wagon the evening before and we were the last to be packed in under blankets and among pillows. The adrenaline burst of being woken up and going on holidays lasted until Heathcote Road and I was asleep by Liverpool.
My eyes opened enough to see blurry yellow street lights in Mittagong and we were swallowed up in night again. I pulled the blanket up around my chin, adjusted my pillow and drifted off in the warmth and hum of the car.
I woke up properly somewhere near Marulan, the full moon shining in through Matthew’s window. It raced along beside us, its reflection leaping and dancing across the frosty fields, now flashing morse through trees. Listening to the quiet conversation of Mum and Dad, Matthew still asleep on his pillow, we were a family, wrapped in a warm metal cocoon speeding through the night. Oncoming headlights told of other people, other families perhaps, on their journeys. But this was our journey. And we were together.
As we approached Goulburn Dad turned on the radio. The dial slid through static and found the local AM station. Cliff Richard was singing Dreamin’ through pops and hisses and distance sounding like he was singing from space. Five o’clock he was still walking around, the same time we were driving down the last hills towards Goulburn with the grey growing lighter in the east. The moon was setting, having safely escorted us all the way.
From Goulburn we could go anywhere: to our Auntie’s farm at Crookwell for breakfast, or Canberra, or Tumut, or Victoria. The road was open and it didn’t matter where we went because we were together, a family. Let’s keep driving.
That brings back so many memories, Black Angus, of my own childhood, and of recreating that feeling now with our little one, covered up in the back seat with his camo blankie as we drive through the night.
I’m counting the minutes, here, in Eastern Standard Time.
What a great feeling that is. Its something I want to recreate for my kids too.
I grew up with two great storytellers.
My father received a Classical education, with French as his second language. He knew the fables of Aesop and the stories of Lafontaine, and those are the stories we grew up with. He also had a keen sense of historical figures as people rather than names and abstractions, so we heard stories about generals and diplomats and politicians.
This is one of his stories which I remember:
When Napoleon was a general of the army, he would walk amongst the common soldiers to make sure that every man was following his orders. One night, before a battle, Napoleon was walking along the perimeter of his camp, checking on the guard posts. All the guards were accounted for until he came to a break in the line. He looked around and saw a soldier crouched behind a tree, doing his business. Angrily, he called the man to order. He asked him:
“Why aren’t you at your post, soldier?”
The man didn’t recognize Napoloeon, but realized it was a superior officer. He stammered:
“I was just having a s— , sir.”
“You abandoned your post, soldier. You should be executed. But I’ll give you a choice: you can face the firing squad at dawn. Or you can eat what you left behind the tree in order to teach you a lesson.”
Not wanting to die, but with great reluctance, the soldier followed Napoleon’s order. But when he was half-way done, he was so angry, that he grabbed his musket and not caring anymore about the consequences, pointed it at Napoleon. He barked:
“I’d love to shoot you dead now, and I don’t need a firing squad. But instead, why don’t you finish eating what I left behind.”
Seeing that the soldier meant to shoot him, Napoleon complied.
Time passed. Napoleon became the Emperor of France. One day, while giving medals to men who had shown great courage in battle, he saw someone whom he thought he recognized. He stopped beside the man – now a Colonel – and said:
“Where do I know you from?”
The Colonel said, with a slight smile:
“Your Excellency, you and I dined together one night, before the battle.”
I’m going to pretend I’m in Santa Fe, New Mexico right now. I’m sleepy and can’t stay up much longer – but I want to tell a story now. I’m going to tell it. Not write it.
This is a story I would beg my Babcia (grandmother in Polish) to tell every single time we went to visit her. There are many happy parts of this story – and many sad parts, but Babcia was never reluctant to to tell it. For storytelling purposes – I will call my Babcia by her real first name – Jadwiga.
I should warn you – this is probably not a good story for young children or people with delicate constitutions. I won’t be as graphic as Babcia was in what she saw, but I won’t sugar-coat it either. Apparently my mother thought it was ok for a child to hear though. I think she thought it was important to know.
Jadwiga was born just outside of Kalisz, the oldest city in Poland, on a farm – that had 25 chickens, 2 cows, 20 ducks, 4 horses, 10 geese and 2 cats and 13 goats (I don’t know why 13 goats it was always the odd number in the story). Jadwiga was born in 1898 with a veil over her face. (I don’t know what that means to this day). This was a good omen. Jadwiga’s father would trade and sell goods made and grown on the farm once a year in Krakow and occasionally go up to Gdansk to sell some of his cheeses. One day – her father returned with a puppy and gave it to Jadwiga. It was a smallish black and brown terrier that was part of a trade to a seafaring gentleman from Great Britain. Jadwiga fell in love with this dog and named him Chi Chi. (I don’t know how to spell this in Polish – it’s pronounced chee-chee). Jadwiga and Chi Chi were inseparable. Every Sunday after church – Jadwiga would walk Chi Chi throughout the country side and by the other farms that were nearby. One time, an elderly neighbor named Zofia asked Jadwiga if she would sell her Chi Chi. Aghast – Jadwiga told her never in a hundred years. Zofia then cursed Jadwiga and said she would regret not turning the dog over to her. Jadwiga ran home crying and told her mother – who marched over to Zofia’s farm and told her to leave Jadwiga and Chi Chi alone.
When Jadwiga was 15 (sometimes in the re-telling it was 14) on a hot summer day in August – the Germans marched into Kalisz at the start of WWI. Jadwiga’s cousins lived in Kalisz and some of them escaped to tell Jadwiga’s family what happened. What happened was horrible. First – the city was looted, then burned to the ground, then all of Jadwiga’s male cousins were lined up against a wall and shot. Many people were left in the streets dead and anyone who came to claim them were either beaten or shot themselves. And though they were reasonably wealthy, Jadwiga’s cousins escaped with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Pretty soon word got out that the Germans were moving through the countryside towards Jadwiga’s farm. Jadwiga’s father tried to sell his livestock so they could leave the farm.
But one night – Chi Chi woke everyone up with his barking. The Germans were outside. Jadwiga’s father went out of the house with his gun and was shot dead. The Germans then took Jadwiga and her cousins prisoner and marched them through the country side. Jadwiga’s mother was left behind (though I don’t know why). As Jadwiga left – Chi Chi followed her. Jadwiga was so worried that the Germans would also shoot Chi Chi that as they passed Zofia’s house – she called for Zofia to take Chi Chi. (For some reason – the Germans didn’t harm or take Zofia as well). Zofia picked up Chi Chi and took him inside her house. Jadwiga said her heart broke into a thousand pieces that day.
As they were walking – Jadwiga asked a guard where they were going and if they were going to kill her and her cousins. He told her that they would not be killed and were going to a labor settlement where they would work on constructing a labor camp. (I later found out this labor camp would be a concentration camp in WWII). As soon as she heard this – Jadwiga knew – she would escape.
This is getting kind of long and I’m so sleepy – so I’ll do the final installment of this story tomorrow.
Oh man! RR that was disgusting and hilarious. Black Angus – you do atmosphere very, very well. You make me want to hear more. The sign of a good storyteller.
To tell this properly, I need to insert the jumping on the bed and tickling parts, which were key to every good bedtime story when I was growing up. This is how dad told them to me, and so this is how I tell them to Sophia. I’ve altered the characters and details so they apply better to Sophia than to three boys.
There once was a girl named Sophia, and she had a friend giraffe named Topper. They loved to play out in the sun. Topper would let Sophia climb all the way up to his head, and then use his long neck as the best slide ever.
But there was a witch who lived up on the hill, and she didn’t like it when people have fun. So she flew in on her broomstick and conjured a storm. AND THERE WAS THUNDER!!!! (Daddy starts crashing around on the bed, and Sophie laughs at the thunder.) AND THERE WAS LIGHTNING! (The lightning bolts just happen to strike everywhere that Sophie is ticklish).
But brave little Sophia wasn’t going to let the witch ruin her fun. She climbed all the way up to the top of Topper, and when the witch flew by close enough, she JUMPED, snatched the witch’s magic wand right out of her hand, landed back on Topper, and slid down to the ground. With a flick of the wand, the storm disappear.
“HEY! Give me my wand back,” screeched the witch!
“Not until you promise to stop ruining everyone’s fun by creating storms! That’s not nice.”
The witch fired back, “But I never got to play out in the sun on a pet giraffe, so you shouldn’t, either.”
For a moment, Sophia was tempted to just break the wand in half, since the witch wouldn’t comply. But then she had another idea: “Well, why don’t you play with us now? Topper will let you use his long neck as a slide, and then we can go in for cookies and milk, and maybe have a bonfire later tonight?”
The witch’s eyes welled up with tears. She joined Sophia and Topper in their play, and she never conjured storms to ruin the day ever again. She actually became quite a nice witch.
Wake up. Joivre, and finish your story!
In the meantime, I’ll tell a bedtime story that I used to tell my son when he was younger. You’ll have to insert the sound effects.
There once was a bad boy named Sid, who was mean to his toys. One of his toys was named Big Bear, and he decided to escape and find a better owner. So one day Big Bear ran away and started to walk down the street. It was nighttime, and very dark and Big Bear was scared but he kept on walking. Suddenly, Big Bear heard a noise in the bushes. He said: “Who’s there?”
It was Puppy Dog, who was lost and alone and scared. Big Bear told him that he had heard a rumour that there was a little boy named Hayden who would be kind to toys and asked him to join him so they could find the little boy. So Puppy Dog joined Big Bear and they started walking down the road in the dark together.
Suddenly they heard someone crying up on a tree branch. They said “Who’s there?” It was Poor Bear, who was lost and alone and scared. They told him about Hayden, the little boy who was kind to his toys, so he joined them and they all set off together.
The finally came to the street where they thought Hayden lived. They knocked on the door of the first house:
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
There was nobody there.
So they knocked on the door of the next house.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
Nobody there.
Finally they came to a house with yellow bricks and tried to ring the door bell. But they were too short. So Puppy Dog got on top of Big Bear, and Poor Bear got on top of Puppy Dog so he could reach the door bell.
Ring. Ring. Riing.
The door opened.
The asked: “Is there a little boy named Hayden who lives here?”
“That’s me”.
“Can we stay with you and will you love us for ever and never ever let us go?”
So Hayden gave them all a big hug and they came into the house and they all lived together happily for the rest of their lives.
When I was in college, I worked at a very famous theme park, known for its mouse ears. I worked in food services, providing such unique delicacies as burgers. During my stint there I waited on several celebrities, including Clint Eastwood, Shirley Jones, Martin Landau and Barbara Bain, James Kovack, and Jerry Stiller and Ann Meara.
Rumors about celebrities in the Park would fly around quickly: via jungle drums from the adventurers, telegraph from the frontier folk, lightning bugs from The Big Easy, wormholes from the futurists, and the rabbit hole from we fantasists.
One day we heard that a certain famous stage and screen actor was in the Park. People were buzzing about it, but I paid little attention because I’d thought he was an incredible ham in a ‘60s musical I’d seen, and he’d also sung a strange trippy pop song about green frosting.
So I wasn’t on the lookout when I began to take my next guest’s order. He was impossible to understand as he mumbled his request in a muffled tone, and I had to ask him three times what he wanted. This tall guy had a bit of a familiar look, and as I turned to give his order to the kitchen, I thought, “If people think that Whatsisname is in the Park, this must be the guy they think is him.” Then realization hit…it was him.
And that is how, in the land of fantasy, I came to serve burgers and fries to Albus Dumbledore, otherwise known as Sir Richard Harris.
No way!
WOW! Talk about your six degrees of separation! I bet if we culled all our stories – we’d get the whole cast of the Harry Potter franchise! Actually – I am really surprised that Harris ate food. I heard he was on a liquid diet – and not one you get from a doctor. Mumbling, eh? Muffled tone – low energy? Sounds like the Dumbledore I know.
(Sorry revgeorge – had to get that in).
I’m thinking I’ll finish Jadwiga’s story later tonight. I’ve got a cool story my Dad told me when I was in third grade. I have a weird last name. If you ever meet anyone in this world with my last name – well, we’re related. It’s hard to spell, hard to pronounce and definitely looks Japanese. In fact, it means something in Japanese. So I was a little perplexed when I realized I was a plain ol’ white girl. When I was in third grade – we were given an assignment on our last names. So – out of the blue – I asked.
“Hey Dad, how’d we get our last name?”
Dad said –
A long time ago, very away from here – my mother and father lived in a Japanese village along a beautiful strip of coast. They were missionaries and set out to construct a church there. While they were there, I was born. One day – something terrible happened. Chinese pirates sailed into the harbor. The villagers and my parents fought them off as best as they could – but in the end, the village was burned to the ground, some of the villagers ran off to tell the monks at the monastery in the hills, and many were killed. Including my mother and father. When the monks ran down the hill to defend the village – they found nothing but ruins. The monks searched for survivors – but found none. But then – very faintly – from out of nowhere, came a cry. The monk who heard that faint cry was Takei-san. Takei-san moved closer to the sound, searching. He realized it was coming from this huge rock – he climbed atop the big rock in a single leap – and on top – was an overturned basket. Takei-san picked up the basket – and there I was. A crying little baby. Somehow, in all the confusion of the attack – my mother left me out of harm’s way. Takei-san then picked me up and said,
“You shall be called O’ Ishei – The Great Rock – and I shall now be your father.”
Takei-san then took me back to the monastery where he and the other monks raised me to be a strict Buddhist. I learned how to be strong in my mind and body. Every morning after our prayers Takei-san would make me run as fast as I could to the ocean, then swim as fast as I could for 3 hours and then run as fast as I could up the hill back to the monastery. After our midday prayers – Takei-san would teach me how to defend myself with a Japanese sword and other martial arts. I loved Takei-san and the other monks and I wanted to stay there forever.
Then one day when I was older – while Takei-san and I were on the beach – a ship came. Some men came over and talked with Takei-san. Takei-san bowed very low to the men and then walked very slowly to me. He put one hand on my shoulder and said,
“O’ Ishei, the time has come for you to go back to your people. I will miss you. You are my son. But every son must leave his family – and now you must leave yours.”
I cried, “No!”. But it was to no avail. I was forced to leave Takei-san and my family at the monastery and go to America. In America, I lived with my mother’s family, I loved them too – but I kept my name. O’Ishei.
Ok – so I went back to school and told this story. Mrs. Burt, my third grade teacher was so enthralled that she called my parents to tell them what a wonderful presentation it was. My Dad blushed and told Mrs. Burt he had no idea it was for a presentation – he had just made it up on the spot. It’s really an Ellis Island name that was misspelled completely. I still tell this story though. I love it.
This is a story my mother used to tell:
Two women were sharing a compartment while travelling by train. They were strangers. One of the women noticed that the other’s young child kept sticking his head out the window, waving his arms and jumping up and down on the seat. His mother did nothing to restrain him. The other woman was greatly frightened that he would fall out but she didn’t want to interfere so she didn’t say anything. But finally she could hold back no longer and exclaimed:
“You should really take better care of your son. He almost fell out when the train went over the last bump!”
The second woman looked at her scornfully and said:
“Why don’t you mind your own business? Did I say anything when yours fell out half an hour ago?”
Thanks for the stories all…this is a great idea. I hope to read ‘em all. Here’s my two cents and I’m going to link the hogshead and repost over at my blog : )
My Grandfather was the funniest person I have ever known. To call him Grandfather feels weird. We called him “Popo” because the first grandchild picks for everybody else. My Grandmother was consequently “Momo”.
Popo was always “on”. Also, he repeated many of his jokes over and over to the point that they became a kind of liturgy that I still remember and sometimes carry on because I can’t help myself. When this happens, Popo would say that. If we were stuck at a stop sign at a busy intersection, Popo would say, “Somebody opened the gate and let ‘em ALL out!” There were a million of those. He loved kids and loved to make them laugh. I remember him as one of the first adults who had timeless time for me
He was also the hardest worker I have ever known. For years, he worked as a rigger (that’s welding and construction at very high heights) for Louisville Gas and Electric. In younger years, to save money so he could marry my Grandmother, he hitch hiked to Detroit to get a job in a factory when work opportunities in Kentucky were scarce. He was too young for the draft in WWI and too old for WWII (he also had flat feet) and so he worked in ship yards building for the navy. He always had a huge garden. It was way too big for his family to consume all the produce so they canned the excess as well as shared it with their church community on Sunday mornings.
Popo was a year away from full retirement benefits at his company when he had a terrible accident. He was working on the roof of a building and slipped off, falling several stories. He told me that he remembers thinking as he was falling that he didn’t want to just land, he wanted to land with a purpose. So he twisted himself around so that he would land on his feet, giving him the chance to roll quickly over and minimize the damage to his body.
The impact immediately broke both of his heels but he did manage to roll when he hit. Being just months away from full benefits, his boss could have let him go because of his disability. There was no way he could continue his work. He would have lost everything. But, it was a different time. Somethings were more important than the bottom line. His boss told him that he expected to see him at work until he qualified for full retirement.
Popo did just that. He came in everyday and made coffee for the guys, cleaned up and did what he could at the work sites. And later that year, retired with full benefits.
Oh – I loved hearing about Popo! He sounds like a strong, yet gentle man who enjoyed life. Stories like that make me smile big.
Ok – I’m going nuts with the stories. This one happened to me.
I was singing Antonia from Offenbach’s The Tales of Hoffman and in my big scene – I literally die from singing too much. (A very Romantic Era sort of thing) I loved my costume and hair in that particular production. My wig was flowing ringlets going way down my back. Gorgeous! Anyways – at the end of the scene, I sing my final note, die and then the baritone who played my father, holds me in his arms and sings a beautiful mournful line ending with a high note on the final syllable of “An- to- ni – AHHHHHH!”. Curtain. During the rehearsals – the baritone kept raising his right arm on the final high note. It was an old-fashioned, bad Opera move and the director told him just to hold me and not raise his arm. But – the baritone refused saying he couldn’t sing the high note well without his right arm up – (rolling my eyes). Well , in the mean time – in the research of his role as the father, the baritone decided that the father of Antonia was a wealthy man – and to show that wealth – he was going to wear a couple of big bulky rings. By the way – he decided that after the final dress rehearsal.
Opening night – I sing – I die – Baritone holds me and sings his final high note with arm up in the air – but, one of his rings got caught on my wig. I could feel what was about to happen, but since I was technically supposed to be dead – I couldn’t move – and he took my wig clean off. There I lay, in my skull cap, bald to the audience, and my father has my glorious hair draping from his ring finger. No one heard the baritone’s high note – because the audience was laughing so hard. Back stage I threw a very real Diva-fit.
The reviews the next day had a subcaption that read –
“Soprano wigs out – literally!”
These stories are fantastic! We’re toasting marshmallows around Camp Cyberfire at the Pub.
Yes, the Richard Harris story is true; it took place in the early ’70s, so he was quite a bit younger, but he spoke with the most unintelligible mumble. I think I figured out his order by guesswork.
I have some amazingly close degrees of separation from Old and New Hollywood. When I was about 10, my parents became friends with a couple whose wife was first cousin to Marge Durante, wife of Jimmy Durante. My dad was a huge Durante fan. The three couples went to Las Vegas together and saw Judy Garland perform. We kids met the Durantes on a Sunday morning before they went to Mass. They were the nicest, kindest people, and Mr. Durante signed my autograph book, which I treasue.
For several months I dated a guy who was beginning a career as a cameraman (we met at a Christian street ministry and then later at the same church). Then he moved away from SoCal to Spokane, and left a decade before (irony alert!) we moved to Spokane. I was stunned, when we bought the DVD of Close Encounters to see that he did the camera work on a doc. So I’m three degrees of separation from Spielberg, etc., and four from most of Hollywood.
And in the early ’80s, I took a couple voice classes to ease back into school. My teacher was opera singer Sara McFerrin, husband of Robert McFerrin, the first African-American male to sing at the Met, and mother of this short, skinny guy, whom my husband and I met backstage at a teachers’ concert, before Bobby McFerrin became famous with the hit “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”
There are a few others, but I can’t think of them at the moment. I’m sure, Joivre, that you personally know far more people. But it truly is a small world, and often amazing connections happen by pure happenstance.
Joivre, we were posting during the same time. Your wig story is hilarious!!
Oh my gosh! Arabella! Bobby McFerrin was my teacher of Creativity 101 at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music during my undergrad years! What a small world!
Very cool about Jimmy Durante – I’ve heard stories confirming yours that he was one of the nicest and most generous of men.
I really LOVE this thread – I’m having so much fun!
This was a fantastic idea, Red Rocker and Travis!
Joivre, I laughed so hard at your wig story. That was beautiful.
I guess I could tell my own stage-disaster tale. I was singing in the choir for an Easter play. Being tall, I stood on the back riser.
Jesus had just died, and we had begun a slow, sad song when I started to feel dizzy and thought “I should sit down.” The next thing I remember thinking was “Is it Saturday morning? Wait a minute … this isn’t my bed.” I opened my eyes and I was lying on my back on the floor with my legs propped up on the risers, the hem of my skirt a bit higher than I would have liked. My sister was crying in the arms of one of the second sopranos, and it looked like just about the entire tenor section–all doctors–was bending over me.
Later, I found out that I’d hit a water cooler in my collapse, which fell over and dumped into an electrical outlet, which shorted out and killed the lights over the choir, which didn’t help the altos who were trying to balance out the choir by sightreading the tenor part. But the show did go on.
Here’s another of my mother’s stories:
Once upon a time in a distant land there lived a poor farmer and his wife. They did not have any children, but they did own a ewe which they loved like their own child. Her name was Goldie. One day Goldie gave birth to a lamb. On the same day, a beautiful rose bloomed on a rose bush in the garden. This rose was so lovely, and had such a wonderful scent, that people came from all over to look at it. Word of the rose went out throughout the land until it reached the ears of the King, who decided he had to personally go to see it. He sent word by messenger that he would be visiting the peasant couple.
Now the couple were glad, but they were also worried. How would they feed the king? Their daily fare was black bread and cabbage soup – they couldn’t give the king such food! So they decided that they would serve the king roast lamb.
The day of the visit arrived. The peasant went outside and killed the baby lamb; his wife roasted it. In the distance, they heard the sound of the trumpets announcing the approach of the king. They went out into the garden to take one last look at the fabulous rose.
And what did they see? The rose was gone. Standing there was Goldie, chewing the stem.
The peasant was distraught. He cried:
“Goldie, Goldie, what have you done? Now we have nothing to show the king!”
Goldie looked at him and said:
“I’ll give you back your rose when you give me back mine.”
This is fun, though Ouch! Red on your story.
Here is a story that is fast becoming family legend:
The perfect day was going so well. The sun shone, not too hot. I had a walk, read my Bible, and everyone was where they were supposed to be. The lost tux had been found and delivered, with my mother none the wiser. And there I stood, at the back of the sanctuary, eyes closed, cutting off the circulation in my father’s hand.
And then, the scary part was over. Down the aisle, being given away, trying to figure out how Dad made it to the platform so fast to finish performing the ceremony. I looked into the shining faces of my mom and sisters as they sang about how beautiful the day was when my dress made an unnatural movement. The head usher was crouched to my left, in my mom’s chair, mouthing something to my father. Unsatisfied with his attempt at attention, he slunk around the front of the now confused couple to say something to my future in-laws. He mercifully waited till the song was over, though by then he was the entire focus. He stepped up to have a hurried conversation with the minister, then bolted to the back. Circulation all but gone from my fiance’s arm, eyes wide, I looked pleadingly at the one man who could make it right- Dad.
His reassuring voice: “nothing to worry about folks. The fire department wants us to evacuate the building due to an incident in the back of our 10acre lot. But we’ll just finish this wedding fir…”
“Excuse me!” A voice I did not recognize came from the back. Eyes definitely no longer on the bride turn to where I had just been. “We need everyone to leave the building immediately. All the cars in the parking lot are in danger and must be moved. We have fire engines and a helicopter coming in.”
No longer in control of my own body, my sisters appear at my side to whisk me away while people bustle in a very controlled chaos to save themselves, their vehicles, the building.
I sat in the room where I had, only hours earlier, been transformed from average to amazingly beautiful. Refusing to look out the window, instead trying to figure out how and where I could possibly get married that day, refusing to leave until that cruel fire chief came and got me himself. Meanwhile, the fire raged in the field surrounding our church. The absurdity of it all had my feet propped on a chair with my head leaned back so the floor could bear the weight of that veil. Nothing else to do, really.
The obligatory sweet, annoying, wedding coordinator appeared: “Its alright! They are controlling it! All the guests moved their cars to the high school down the block. Here, have some water.” I took the water, drinking in the reality. Now what? Walk down the aisle again? Tell everyone to go home? Couldn’t do that- all 300 came back, bless them. We had all that chicken……
So, hit the pause button again to resume, right where we left off, but 40 minutes and 8 fire engines later. Anything can happen at a wedding.
A family ghost story:
When my parents lived in their first house in the town in which I was born and raised, they had a ghost living with them. It started with the night time sounds. My dad would wake up and hear singing, and then a series of crashing noises. He would actually wake up before it happened and know it was about to happen … as if something was waking him up for the show. It always came from upstairs, and it was getting to the point where they didn’t want to be upstairs at night.
They called my grandmother who was living in Florida and had a psychic friend named Bertie. They gave no details at all. They simply said, “Ask Bertie about our house.” A few days later Bertie called: “You have a ghost living in your house. He’s always been there, but he was confined to the attic and was let loose when you broke it open. He’s not a dangerous ghost. He doesn’t intend you harm.”
And then my dad remembered that he had broken into the attic just prior to when this all started. The haunting continued until I was born. After I was born, they never heard from the ghost again.
Not even ghosts care for a howling baby!
What a wedding story, pottermom5.
I’m going to have to read The Canterville Ghost before I can go to sleep tonight.
I was expecting you to go all Jim Morrison on us there, Travis.
So, given your parents’ experience, what do you think about ghosts, Travis? What do you think they are? Perhaps a ghost thread, examining them through literature and culture, and also how they might reconcile with Judeo and Christian thought?
Here’s a story about my friend Dave. It takes place about 20 years before I first met him and he became a huge influence on my life.
Dave really needed some bread.
God had really done some incredible stuff in his life. It was just a year ago that he was an addict on the streets of Vancouver. God totally delivered him from all that, like, instantly. He met these people from this group called “Y-Wam”. They prayed for him. He was done with drugs. A friggin’ miracle.
So now Dave was doing a school type thing with these Y-Wam guys. It was this course that was 6 months long, and you did all these classes where people talked about God and helped you learn about yourself and community and Jesus. After the class stage, you were supposed to go on a missions trip. Somehow, Dave had got all his money for the first part, but he still needed a lot of dough for the mission trip part.
Dave didn’t have any money. But Jesus had helped him quit drugs, among other things, so he must have been able to get him some dough.
“God, you gotta lay some bread on me, Man,” Dave would pray.
And every single dime he found, he counted to God. If he saw a penny on the ground, he’d pick it up and take it to the secretary lady that handled the money.
“I got some more bread for my outreach,” Dave would say, and hand her some change. The money lady would roll her eyes (but not too hard).
This went on for a while. “God, I know you want me to have faith. You just gotta lay some bread on me.”
Dave’s Dad didn’t really get this Jesus stuff Dave was getting into, but he loved his kid. Dave’s Dad was a good guy, but the kind of guy who resented June Carter for “softening up” Johnny Cash. Not really an intuitive type.
Then one day, with the outreach trip coming up fast, Dave got a package in the mail. It was from his Dad. He opened it up, and he was really confused by what he saw. There was a note with it.
Dear Dave,
I was in the grocery store, and I kept thinking of you. I kept going by this aisle and thinking I needed to get this for you. I tried to ignore it, but I kept coming back to this aisle and eventually I had to just buy this for you.
Hope it makes sense.
Dad.
Dave looked at the note. He checked the other side for some other clue. He re-read it. He looked at what his Dad sent him. He looked at the note again.
“God, I don’t get it. What’s this mean, Man?” thought Dave.
Dave stared at the package, and the nice, big, white loaf of Wonder Bread.
And God said, “It’s a joke!”
The End.
P.S.
After that, Dave got his dough for the outreach trip.
I stayed up late watching House reruns.
One more hour to go on the Pacific coast, and March 20th is over all over.
Good night, all you storytellers. You done good.
Jadwiga marched for eight hours with her cousins. They were joined by more young Poles as other soldiers brought them at junctions. All told, they walked for 3 days. They were about a hundred strong by the time they arrived at the settlement. Jadwiga and her cousins did manual labor – clearing fields and carrying big stones. They slept in a tent until they barracks were constructed. Jadwiga lived on one potato a day for weeks and then months on end. Occasionally one of the men would catch a squirrel or other small animal and they would split it among them. Jadwiga was beaten once for confronting a guard for the mistreatment of her cousin Magdalene. Her cousins were taken to a different part of the camp and Jadwiga was alone. Jadwiga said every night before she went to sleep – she thought of her mother and Chi Chi. Every time she thought of her father – her heart broke all over again. Sometimes when working in the field – she would hear a dog bark – and she would stop and look to see if it was her beloved Chi Chi. She cried herself to sleep every single night. But she did not give up hope. She knew there was a possibility of escape because there were no fences. Just guards. If she could get one guard distracted – she might be able to run into the forest nearby. She waited and watched day after day for an opportunity – but the guards watched very carefully.
Then one day, a new guard came to the camp. Jadwiga recognized him immediately. He was Juergen – a German man who had traded goods with her father before the war – her father had brought him over to dinner one night when Jadwiga was a girl. She had played the mandolin for him that night. She knew better than to approach him right away and waited for him to recognize her. While she was working near him, she would hum the tune she played for him that night so many years ago. Hoping he would hear. One day – she found an apple next to her daily potato ration. She didn’t say anything – but looked around and saw him smiling at her. That night she dreamed of her father. In her dream – he took her hand and said, “Go, Jadwiga. Go.”
When she awoke, just before dawn, she left her barrack and looked to see if Juergen was guarding anywhere. He was at the south corner. She picked up a water bucket and cup and walked towards him. She offered him a cup of water. He took one sip then looked in her eyes and said, “Go, Jadwiga. Go.”
And off she ran into the forest. She ran for three days back to her farm. On her way she stopped to get Chi Chi at Zofia’s farm. When she got there – Zofia was surprised to see her. Zofia said that Chi Chi had died. Crying hard, Jadwiga turned to leave – but then she heard Chi Chi’s bark. It was coming from Zofia’s barn. Jadwiga hid in some bushes near the barn. And when night fell – she broke into the barn and Chi Chi jumped into her arms. Jadwiga said it was the happiest moment of her life. Before they left the barn, Jadwiga milked Zofia’s cow, stole the milk and she and Chi Chi snuck home in the dark.
When they got back to the farm. Jadwiga’s mother was in bed sick. She had the flu and died 3 days later. After the death of her mother, Jadwiga traveled by rail and by foot to Paris, France. She worked on the very lowest rung of a brigade style kitchen at a very famous restaurant. After one year – she earned enough money for passage to America. Before she left, she met a fellow Pole in Paris, Michael and married him. Chi Chi lived to be 18 years old and died with them in America – in Jadwiga’s arms.
Seriously, Joivre, That is a beautiful story. Wow.
Thanks Pottermom05 – but I’m just retelling it. I’m amazed at the amount of courage that was needed in such young people back in the day. When I first read Harry Potter, I remember thinking, wow, these kids are going through a lot – and they’re so young! But then I remembered – my comfortable upbringing is – and was – not the norm. Throughout history, war affects the young, and they are called upon to do the most courageous deeds one could imagine.
I loved reading everyone’s stories again this morning. Red, I really loved the story about Goldie. If that doesn’t turn you into a vegan – I don’t know what will. And isn’t the story of Big Bear, Poor Bear, and Puppy Dog the most poignant little thing? Also, the bedtime stories were so sweet. Pottermom05 – oh man – what a wedding!!! You’ll be telling that one for ages and I’m glad the show went on – better late than never. Jenna – holy smokes! What a disaster of epic proportions – glad you’re ok – I loved when you said “Jesus had just died…and I felt dizzy…” – made me chuckle. I have seen people faint during choral performances before – and that’s frightening!
We should have a storytelling day more often.
This was wonderful and I agree, storytelling days more often. Maybe three times a year? I’m looking forward to rereading these and savoring them. And jotting down stories to share next time.
Barkeep, a round of butterbeer – or firewhiskey – to all the storytellers! And a round to all those who came to listen.
And now for the winners:
Best Family History Story: a two-way tie between Joivre’s Babcia and Chris’ Popo.
Most Heart Warming Story: Black Angus for the family vacation.
Best Tall-tale: Joivre again for the tale of O’Ishei (although we’re hoping for more than one entry next year!)
Best Ghost Story: Travis, although, again, it would be good to have more than one entry.
Most disgusting story: a two-way tie between Korg’s tale of the stairwell encounter and Red Rocker’s tale of dinner before the battle.
Best True Life Story: there were a lot of excellent entries for this one, so it’s hard to choose, although my vote would go for Arabella’s encounter with Dumbledore, with honorable mention for the stories of the baritone and the wig, the nearly burnt-out wedding, the syncopated soparano and the loaf of Wonder Bread.
And the March 2010 Hog’s Head Storyteller Cup, given to the candidate who spins the most tales during the annual World Storyelling Day marathon, goes to : Joivre
Bottoms up, everyone!
I WON! I WON!!!!! I WON THE CUP!!!!YIPPEEEE!!!!!
Wait – that’s for quantity over quality?!
Quantity and Quality.
I would like to thank all the little people who have made this great moment possible for me – thank you, thank you, thank you.
Oh – and please fill the cup with elf-made wine.
“Did I really earn this, or did I just wear y’all down?”
–Sandra Bullock, accepting her Oscar.
Awards–I didn’t know there would be any. Thank you!
Huzzah for World Storytelling Day! Thank you, everyone.
I’m truly sorry I couldn’t actually be at the pub with yous on the day itself. But I was at home listening with renewed interest to my mother’s stories, and my father’s stories–even my wife and my sister-in-law’s stories. Realizing how much stories make up the fabric of my life. And finding is surprisingly difficult to think of one myself.
So here’s two: the one I wound up telling on WSD over dinner. And one I first heard in Kosovo, and remembered just now reading all these here.
The most unusual academic assignment I’ve ever had must have been in kindergarten. Actually, as I think about it, it seems very much like a corporate team-building effort. It was just before March, and my teacher–let’s call her Mrs. Meg–had been telling us how some days in March are LIONS and some days are LAMBS. Foul or fair.
Then she had us divide into teams. If we liked LAMB days better than LIONS, over to the right of the classroom. If we liked LION days better than LAMB days, over to the left.
I pondered, and trotted to the left. On rainy days I could play Legos with my brother without worrying about distractions like baseball. I found myself in company of about six other children from our class of about twenty.
Most of us, it seems, like LAMB days.
I remember one girl–too young to be called ‘popular’, of course, but definitely a Personality even at five–realized with horror that all her friends were with the LAMBS instead of the LIONS. At the last moment, she scuttled across the classroom. Now the teams are set. And being on the LION team is clearly Not Cool.
The competition worked like this. Each day, Mrs. Meg would put a sticker on the calendar. She had lion stickers, and lamb stickers. And if the day was — well, the rest should be obvious. Which ever team had more stickers on the calendar at the end of the month, won.
Even at six, I was a bit puzzled on how a competition could be governed by something so cosmic and arbitrary–how winning and losing could be set on something utterly outside of anyone’s control. I didn’t think those exact words, of course.
Turns out–despite the moans and protests of most of the class–it was a stormy March. Rain and wind almost every day. The LION team won without even needing a recount.
And the Personality girl complained to me that it wasn’t fair, how could her team have lost, lambs are cuter than lions, etc. And I thought (but didn’t say), well, you were on the cosmically chosen winning team to begin with, weren’t you?
There’s a moral to this tale, but the teller has forgotten it.
There once was a village famed for the magnificence of its wine. Word came that the king was coming to visit the village, and to sample its remarkable vintage. So the villagers agreed to present him with a keg of wine as a gift of welcome. But so that no one family would have to carry the cost of such a kingly gift–and so no one family would have their wine honoured above another–they agreed that each family would pour a cupful of wine into the keg. That way, it would be a gift from them all.
But one family consulted among themselves, and agreed–wine was costly. The would put in a cupful of water, and who would know? So they did.
The king came, and the villagers presented him with the keg of wine. He drew a cupful, and drank.
‘Well, your majesty,’ the villagers asked. ‘What do you think of our wine?’
‘What do you mean?’ said the king. ‘This isn’t wine. This is water.’
Every family in the village, you see, had the same idea. And, after all, who would know?
Next year, we’ll have a category for Best Story with a Moral
Mr. Pond – I love your stories. The lion and lamb day story was fun. Isn’t it weird how important the “cool” factor is in youth? It takes bravery to choose to be not “cool” and be your own person at that age.
I remember playing Hang Man on lion days. When I got to choose a word, we’d go through the whole alphabet for Hang Man. I always chose the words “rhythm” (hardly any vowels) and “fugue” (most kids didn’t know what it was). You’d think they’d catch on – but then we never had many Lion Days in March here in sunny so-cal.
I guess I should save my drunken geese story for next year!
My apologies to everyone for being such a stranger on this site the past few months. I’m back now and will endeavor both to catch up on the more recent postings and to check in at least once a day going forward. I am planning to register for Infinitus; please let me know if some of you (in addition to Travis) will be there, too.
Lily Luna – Who cares if the day is over – tell your drunken geese story!!!! I’m dying to hear it. Tell it now!
I’m currently out and about for the day but I’ll type it up later on a real keyboard instead of my iPod.
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