As a child, I looked forward to my father making it home after a long day at the farm. I remember staring at him and cupping my face while he ate or did something around the house. He knew that look. He knew I needed to hear another one of his stories so he would quickly complete his task or tell me one of his famous tales between bites.
I recently reflected on my relationship with my father and my relationship with storytelling. I love stories; it is carefully knitted in the fabric of my being. It brought me great joy to sit and bask in his well-crafted stories. My father is masterful at what he does and it still brings me great joy to listen to him even now.
It does not matter that I have heard one of his stories before. I will still listen again and again. Until he grows tired of telling them (I hope he does not) because the truth is he will not always be there to tell me stories of his youth; of when he met my mother or when my brothers and I were born. When he tried to slaughter my grandfather's pig but he missed and the pig got away or when got into an accident, which left a scar in the middle of his head.
Reminiscing about my time with my father has helped me to realize that we are all made up of stories; we all have stories to tell. Like my old man, I find most of my stories in everyday life. In the mundane and ordinary things. This perspective will help you see just how heroic you are as well as those around you. Too often we romanticize characters from novels and TV shows and see ourselves as failures.
I have my own stories I would like to tell my children someday and when that time comes I will hand them down like heirlooms as my father did. I recall running home from school one day just to ask my older brother if we were poor (because the kids at school kept calling me poor) and I remember his response like it was yesterday. He said, "We not poor, we rich." I soon discovered that was not true (I could tell from the holes in my shoes) but in one sense he was right, we were rich in so many ways. We had love, faith, food on our tables; all things many dreamed of having.
I also remember crying over the pages in my notebook because I could not draw a car for Art class. My older brother (hero to the rescue again) gently sat next to me and showed me how to draw a car. Since then, I have grown as an artist but where would I be if I had not cried and my brother had not sympathized with me.
I have lots of stories about my younger brother and me escaping our parents' watchful eyes just so we could play outside in the dirt or how we became the ideal tag-team in the neighborhood. We were a force to reckon with (lol). Among the many stories I will tell my children is about how the earth shook beneath our feet an early Sunday morning in November, 2005, how we lost everything in Tropical Storm Erika in 2015, and again in 2017 during Hurricane Maria.
We must pass our stories down; it is how we taste eternity even after death. We should never under-estimate the power of storytelling. So when your children or grandchildren look at you curiously and say "Tell me a story!" What will you tell them?
Talented you are.
ReplyDeleteThank you for reading.
DeleteIt is how we taste eternity, even after death. I love this. Stories are so important. I look at them as handing down treasures throughout the generations. Priceless.
ReplyDeleteIndeed. They are precious. Thank you for reading.
ReplyDeleteMy favourite line too Novie. And if you say thank you for reading....you know the face that comes with it. 😁. It deserves reading
ReplyDeleteLol. Thank you. *Blushing*
ReplyDelete