I’m a fairly good storyteller. I get involved with my story; I feel; I smell; I hear. My real difficulty is in ending. My father was an excellent story teller. He had no problem ending a story. He simply went to sleep.
One moment, the listener was on the range in Colorado, or in Kansas, or on ship with bored, homesick soldiers playing jokes and doing hilarious disgusting things or another of a thousand favorite tales, and the next moment there was silence. The story was over and my father sat with eyes closed, his head cocked to one side, his mouth open as in anticipation of the next word and hands folded across his chest which heaved with strong, deep breaths.
His stories were animated, well thought tales that relived his senses and emotions. Frequently, one tale, instead of concluding, led to another tale. But eventually the end was found in sleep. Sometimes the grandchildren would listen for a time, then another would wander in and the first would simple drift away leaving the second a captive audience to my father’s endless story of life, waiting impatiently for the inevitable dose or another sibling or cousin to show up.
His poetry never stopped, it ended, it concluded. Yes, it was introduced, developed and concluded within a specific style and meter. But his stories, well you know. It didn’t bother him in the least.
My dad and my husband made a great pair. One moment we’d leave them, eyes wide, mouths wide in discussion or my dad in his story teller mode with my husband in his full attention mode. We’d return shortly to find them both with heads nodding or cocked, eyes closed, mouths open. If we left the room for a minute they’d be back in full communication mode when we returned. One trip home I commented on it. My husband said, “Your dad is such an interesting, funny guy. I always hate it when I fall asleep. He never seems offended, but I still feel bad.”
I smiled and replied, “Don’t,” realizing that my father probably never knew when my husband went to sleep or when he awoke. Since dad would resume a story when he awoke, it probably startled my husband into consciousness.
It is my dad’s legacy that I and many of my family are storytellers. Redundant storytellers. If the story fits, tell it without questioning who heard it before. It was such fun to watch and listen to my father tell a story, that I didn’t see it as a problem. People truly enjoyed his stories and would never say “You’ve told that story before.” Well, yes, mama would say that, but it didn’t stop him most of the time.
During the last two years of his life, they lived close to me. He had many maladies including one that made his legs and feet from his knees down swell and blister. When they first moved to Fort Smith, his legs were covered with open sores. I took him to the doctor who said he needed more water, to walk more and to loose weight. That was it!?! I began massaging, cleansing, and wrapping his legs morning and night. The sores went away. The color came back.
Those maintenance sessions are some of my most precious memories. His mind was beginning to succumb to age and the onset of Alzheimer’s. I could always tell if it would be a good day or a bad day when I arrived at his house to dress his legs before I started my day as a school teacher. On occasion, he would be sitting half asleep in his recliner when I arrived, he would awaken slowly to the sound of me preparing his water jug and the supplies to cleanse and rewrap his legs. When I began the task, he would try to talk to me, but would change the stories around. Sometimes he’d ask if I remembered when we did something from his childhood. I’d smile and remind him I was Donna. “Oh, yeah, you were later,” he’d say, with an uncharacteristic uneasiness. He always knew I was Donna, but at times, he forgot where I fit in. It pleased me that he knew I was Donna and that we were close in a special familial way. I could see the deterioration, though the diagnosis had not yet been made.
Yet, most days, he was awake and singing as I came up the walk. He greeted me with a cheery, “Hello, daughter dear.” Sometimes I’d giggle as he called out, “Come in here, Bunny Faye (my childhood nick name).”
He’d laugh and sing and recite poetry – usually his own edition - as I worked. I’d laugh and tease and sing along or bounce his nonsense back as I’d always done. We’d reminisce and he’d ask me about my classes and give his authoritative view on the needs of youth in our current world. Then without a break, he’d launch into a story I’d heard a hundred times from the time he worked for Denver Public Schools overseeing one districts maintenance. I knew it would be a good day.
Evenings were not so chipper. The TV was generally on, Mom would make some kind of goody to bless my husband and me as I prepared to clean and dress my dad’s legs for the night. Mom would complain about the day and dad’s antics. We’d all change the subject as we could and watch some TV show we were not interested in. Eventually, the storytelling would begin. My mom would usually say. “Oh Bill, you’ve told that story a hundred times.”
My husband or I would say ,”But I love to hear it,” and while my mother pouted, he’d launch into the story. Some nights it would get jumbled and my mom would interrupt with corrections. But the best nights were the ones where the story telling ended as my dad dosed off: head back, mouth open, eyes closed. I’d tiptoe to kiss my mom while my husband picked up jackets or car keys and then brush dad’s forehead with a soft kiss and whisper “Goodnight, daddy.”
No wonder I never learned how to properly end a story. I usually just stop when my mind goes to sleep or I see other’s have.
The picture is my parents and my three older daughters, preschool age.
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