This space is set aside for the philosophical musings of my 600 Honors English Class. No fretsawyers allowed.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Family Folklore
Tell an "exaggerated" story from your own family lore, a story that has grown and been embellished over time. It doesn't have to be long, just a paragraph or two--though you may write more if you wish.
Many years ago my Grandmother was at her house and a plumber was working on something in the master bathroom. When the plumber finished he went out to his truck to get the papers she had to sign. While he was gone she went back to her bathroom to see if the sink worked. Upon entering she noticed that my Grandfather's watch was missing. When She realized what happened she went into the closet and found a small .38 caliber revolver. The plumber returned to find my grandmother with a gun demanding the watch back. She held him there until his boss came to the house. The plumber denied it and eventually she released him, yet the watch was never found.
My Great Aunt, I think it was, was a very feisty old lady who, in her latter years, had very bad vision. At one point she requested the services of a plumber to arrive and repair some broken apparatus which was faulty and had caused her some distress. So the man worked for several hours, with my great-aunt pottering in the background. When he finished he went and told her. She was quite glad, and asked "Now, how much do I owe you?" The man replied, quietly and casually, "Um, that'll be eight-hundred dollars, ma'am." She looked at him, or at least toward him, and was very quiet for a long minute, before asking "Young man, do you have a gun?" The plumber was shocked, and replied "No Ma'am! Why my family are pacifists, and we have a long tradition of peace and nonviolence and...why on earth do you ask?" "Well the last time I was robbed, they had a gun."
One time not so long ago, my mother and I were in the car going to the mall. As we were driving we were talking about the order of the traffic lights. I consider it a trick question because technically there are three answers. But as we reached the next light, my mom came to stop. Since she has been driving for so long I figured it was a red light. Suddenly the cars behind us began to blow their horns and we would budge. Curious as to why they were blowing their horns I looked up at the light to see that my mom had stopped at a green light. I guess that question really was a trick question.
Years ago, my little brother William was three years old and I was at summer camp. My grandfather had a beat up, old, brown farm truck that was broken in too many ways to count. I've been told that my younger brother, too young to know much of what was going on, jumped into the cab of the pickup truck. Then, he fiddled around with the wheel and accidentally shifted the manual into neutral, which made it begin to roll forward at a fairly quick clip. He was rapidly approaching the open pool, when my Dad managed to jump into the truck and pull out the keys, and steer away--right into a huge oak tree.
A long time ago my grandfather, who passed away about 17 years ago, invested in food lion stock. He was interested in making enough money so that he could buy a riding lawn mower. The day finally came when he had made enough money so he sold his stock and went and bought himself a riding lawn mower the same day. He had made a couple thousand but had he waited another day day he would have made a lot more. The very next day what had been his stock was worth a million dollars. Had he waited one day to sell he would have been a millionaire.
The woods were dark and endless. My Grandfather sat, tired and starved, next to the horse that had been his only companion during this two week hunting excursion. Loaded with everything from shotgun shells to cooking dishes, this horse was the only help he had in the unforgiving Colorado wilderness, and he hated it. Staring into its glossy eyes, all my grandfather could think of was the large 16 point buck emerging from behind the tree, only to be spooked back into the darkness by the horses loud nay. Sharp pain shot through his bruised hip, and his faced reddened in anger as he thought of that stupid horse bucking him off the saddle and onto the hard ground. A week later, my Grandfather returned into the small Colorado town. Entering the log cabin house where he set up this grand hunting trip, he found the owner of the horse. After bargaining and bickering, my grandfather was finally able to buy the horse for $200. With his chest out, he proudly walked out of the store, shouldered the shotgun, and emptied 3 shells directly into the horses head.
When I was only four, I ran away to find my lost dogs on my tricycle. Of course, I had forgotten to tell my parents. I had gone around half a mile down the neighborhood when I heard a bark, and in a nearby house I found my dogs. I went over to the house, grabbed my dogs, and then watched as people who lived there shuffled out of their house to see what I was doing. Instead of yelling at me to get off of their property, I was offered a wagon ride, and around an hour later my parents found me.
When my dad was attending SMU back in the sixties he came upon a many stories of which are note worthy but this is the most memorable to me. One night after he had been studying, he and his friends decided to get something to eat. Their typical late night munchie fix was Jack In the Box. As they were driving to the restaurant my dad heard a "chop-chop-chop-chop..." from above him, looked out the window and saw a low flying helicopter above him. Curious to see if they were following him he turned off his lights. Immediately a spotlight flashed directly onto them as they drove so my dad quickly flicked the lights back on as he pulled into the drive-thru of the Jack In the Box. As he was giving his order to the Romanian drive thru attendant police cars poured in from every exit in the parking-lot, sirens blazing. The attendant shouted at my dad, "What did you do!?!" My father quickly replied that he had just stuck up a 7-11 down the street which was answered by a gasp and a quick shut of the door. My dad later found out that he matched the profile given to the police about a man who had robbed a bank.
My father is a funny guy. No funny in a “huh huh” kind of way, but when he tells stories. Although I don’t know if it is on purpose or not, but he tends to blur the line between what’s fact and what’s fabrication. There is a story in my family that has been told and retold time and time again. It goes like this: The part takes place about ten years ago. My American cousins had just arrived from Boston and in an effort to make them feel welcome we invited them, other family members, and close friends over for dinner at our house. My father had brought some sort of special drinks for this occasion. And one of my cousins, Solomon, liked it so much that he drank both his sisters when they were not looking. That was how I heard it first, but after some time has passed the story evolved into “Solomon like the drinks so much that he went around and switched his empty bottle for other guests drink.” Almost always, my father tells it differently.
The year was 1959. I was one year old and had only been walking for a couple of months. My mom took me out on the front porch one spring day to get some fresh air. She also took the canary cage out with her, because, apparently, I liked to watch and listen to the bird singing. After a few minutes the phone rang, and so my mom left bird and baby on the porch to answer it. When she returned, she found the door to the birdcage open, the canary dead on the floor, and me smiling with feathers all over my mouth. And that, children, is how little Johnny bit the head off the canary.
My dad used to tell me this story every now and then, whenever he was reminiscing about his younger days, about one night at a bar. As the story goes it was a very rough bar out in the redneck part of a small town- basically a place you don’t go unless you are a regular. My dad went with a few of his friends, one of whom had the nickname “Buck.” I had the chance to meet Buck one night when I was a young kid, probably six or seven. After an hour drive outside of town to his shack, I discovered he was not neither a small man, nor a nice one, referring to me as “little shit.” As they were all leaving the bar, apparently somebody had some words for Buck. After pleasantries were exchanged, it was clear there was about to be a brawl because people from the bar had come out in support of their guy. Buck stepped up to the guy he had been arguing with and pushed him, the guy pushed him back, and Buck punched him in the face and then picked him up and threw him over the bed of his pick up. No one really had anything else to say and my Dad and his buddies got in the truck and left.
I am an English teacher at Woodberry Forest School in Madison, Virginia. I am also a freelance writer and author of a book of essays, titled "Every Now and Then: Occasional Essays."
12 comments:
Many years ago my Grandmother was at her house and a plumber was working on something in the master bathroom. When the plumber finished he went out to his truck to get the papers she had to sign. While he was gone she went back to her bathroom to see if the sink worked. Upon entering she noticed that my Grandfather's watch was missing. When She realized what happened she went into the closet and found a small .38 caliber revolver. The plumber returned to find my grandmother with a gun demanding the watch back. She held him there until his boss came to the house. The plumber denied it and eventually she released him, yet the watch was never found.
My Great Aunt, I think it was, was a very feisty old lady who, in her latter years, had very bad vision. At one point she requested the services of a plumber to arrive and repair some broken apparatus which was faulty and had caused her some distress. So the man worked for several hours, with my great-aunt pottering in the background. When he finished he went and told her. She was quite glad, and asked
"Now, how much do I owe you?"
The man replied, quietly and casually,
"Um, that'll be eight-hundred dollars, ma'am."
She looked at him, or at least toward him, and was very quiet for a long minute, before asking "Young man, do you have a gun?"
The plumber was shocked, and replied "No Ma'am! Why my family are pacifists, and we have a long tradition of peace and nonviolence and...why on earth do you ask?"
"Well the last time I was robbed, they had a gun."
One time not so long ago, my mother and I were in the car going to the mall. As we were driving we were talking about the order of the traffic lights. I consider it a trick question because technically there are three answers. But as we reached the next light, my mom came to stop. Since she has been driving for so long I figured it was a red light. Suddenly the cars behind us began to blow their horns and we would budge. Curious as to why they were blowing their horns I looked up at the light to see that my mom had stopped at a green light. I guess that question really was a trick question.
Years ago, my little brother William was three years old and I was at summer camp. My grandfather had a beat up, old, brown farm truck that was broken in too many ways to count. I've been told that my younger brother, too young to know much of what was going on, jumped into the cab of the pickup truck. Then, he fiddled around with the wheel and accidentally shifted the manual into neutral, which made it begin to roll forward at a fairly quick clip. He was rapidly approaching the open pool, when my Dad managed to jump into the truck and pull out the keys, and steer away--right into a huge oak tree.
A long time ago my grandfather, who passed away about 17 years ago, invested in food lion stock. He was interested in making enough money so that he could buy a riding lawn mower. The day finally came when he had made enough money so he sold his stock and went and bought himself a riding lawn mower the same day. He had made a couple thousand but had he waited another day day he would have made a lot more. The very next day what had been his stock was worth a million dollars. Had he waited one day to sell he would have been a millionaire.
The woods were dark and endless. My Grandfather sat, tired and starved, next to the horse that had been his only companion during this two week hunting excursion. Loaded with everything from shotgun shells to cooking dishes, this horse was the only help he had in the unforgiving Colorado wilderness, and he hated it. Staring into its glossy eyes, all my grandfather could think of was the large 16 point buck emerging from behind the tree, only to be spooked back into the darkness by the horses loud nay. Sharp pain shot through his bruised hip, and his faced reddened in anger as he thought of that stupid horse bucking him off the saddle and onto the hard ground.
A week later, my Grandfather returned into the small Colorado town. Entering the log cabin house where he set up this grand hunting trip, he found the owner of the horse. After bargaining and bickering, my grandfather was finally able to buy the horse for $200. With his chest out, he proudly walked out of the store, shouldered the shotgun, and emptied 3 shells directly into the horses head.
When I was only four, I ran away to find my lost dogs on my tricycle. Of course, I had forgotten to tell my parents. I had gone around half a mile down the neighborhood when I heard a bark, and in a nearby house I found my dogs. I went over to the house, grabbed my dogs, and then watched as people who lived there shuffled out of their house to see what I was doing. Instead of yelling at me to get off of their property, I was offered a wagon ride, and around an hour later my parents found me.
When my dad was attending SMU back in the sixties he came upon a many stories of which are note worthy but this is the most memorable to me. One night after he had been studying, he and his friends decided to get something to eat. Their typical late night munchie fix was Jack In the Box. As they were driving to the restaurant my dad heard a "chop-chop-chop-chop..." from above him, looked out the window and saw a low flying helicopter above him. Curious to see if they were following him he turned off his lights. Immediately a spotlight flashed directly onto them as they drove so my dad quickly flicked the lights back on as he pulled into the drive-thru of the Jack In the Box. As he was giving his order to the Romanian drive thru attendant police cars poured in from every exit in the parking-lot, sirens blazing. The attendant shouted at my dad, "What did you do!?!" My father quickly replied that he had just stuck up a 7-11 down the street which was answered by a gasp and a quick shut of the door. My dad later found out that he matched the profile given to the police about a man who had robbed a bank.
My father is a funny guy. No funny in a “huh huh” kind of way, but when he tells stories. Although I don’t know if it is on purpose or not, but he tends to blur the line between what’s fact and what’s fabrication. There is a story in my family that has been told and retold time and time again. It goes like this:
The part takes place about ten years ago. My American cousins had just arrived from Boston and in an effort to make them feel welcome we invited them, other family members, and close friends over for dinner at our house. My father had brought some sort of special drinks for this occasion. And one of my cousins, Solomon, liked it so much that he drank both his sisters when they were not looking. That was how I heard it first, but after some time has passed the story evolved into “Solomon like the drinks so much that he went around and switched his empty bottle for other guests drink.” Almost always, my father tells it differently.
The year was 1959. I was one year old and had only been walking for a couple of months. My mom took me out on the front porch one spring day to get some fresh air. She also took the canary cage out with her, because, apparently, I liked to watch and listen to the bird singing. After a few minutes the phone rang, and so my mom left bird and baby on the porch to answer it. When she returned, she found the door to the birdcage open, the canary dead on the floor, and me smiling with feathers all over my mouth. And that, children, is how little Johnny bit the head off the canary.
My dad used to tell me this story every now and then, whenever he was reminiscing about his younger days, about one night at a bar. As the story goes it was a very rough bar out in the redneck part of a small town- basically a place you don’t go unless you are a regular. My dad went with a few of his friends, one of whom had the nickname “Buck.” I had the chance to meet Buck one night when I was a young kid, probably six or seven. After an hour drive outside of town to his shack, I discovered he was not neither a small man, nor a nice one, referring to me as “little shit.” As they were all leaving the bar, apparently somebody had some words for Buck. After pleasantries were exchanged, it was clear there was about to be a brawl because people from the bar had come out in support of their guy. Buck stepped up to the guy he had been arguing with and pushed him, the guy pushed him back, and Buck punched him in the face and then picked him up and threw him over the bed of his pick up. No one really had anything else to say and my Dad and his buddies got in the truck and left.
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