I come by it naturally
My grandpa Victor had a particular story he carried with him wherever he went after the harvest of 1952. It didn't begin in a usual way--"once upon a time" or "so there was this guy." It started every time he met someone new. Grandpa would be smiling and likely so would the other fella--Victor's grin was infectious. So the fella would stick out his hand ready to make a new friend when out of Grandpa's right pocket would come his stump.
There it would hover for a moment, close enough to the other fella's hand that if the corn picker hadn't picked more than corn the two would be firmly shaking. But the fella's hand stalls, not sure for the split second that Victor leaves him guessing what he should do or where he should look. Then a sly snicker comes from the one-handed man and he swings his bear-paw of a left hand up into the fella's right hand and the connection is almost dainty--like two lovers joining a square for a little do-si-do. That's when Victor would tell the story of that cool but sunny October day when his life changed but was spared.
Grandpa lived his entire life in Brookings County, South Dakota, and yet he never ran out of people to tell that story to. Old friends would roust up new folks to introduce to Victor, just so they could see the way he started that story...and the way he ended it.
Even in his coffin, the ball of his right wrist cradled in the giant sling of his left hand, he looked ready to tell a story, ready to sit up and proclaim how glad he was we'd all come to say goodbye and did we have time for just one more tale before they shut the lid down. ~Victoria Tirrel
There it would hover for a moment, close enough to the other fella's hand that if the corn picker hadn't picked more than corn the two would be firmly shaking. But the fella's hand stalls, not sure for the split second that Victor leaves him guessing what he should do or where he should look. Then a sly snicker comes from the one-handed man and he swings his bear-paw of a left hand up into the fella's right hand and the connection is almost dainty--like two lovers joining a square for a little do-si-do. That's when Victor would tell the story of that cool but sunny October day when his life changed but was spared.
Grandpa lived his entire life in Brookings County, South Dakota, and yet he never ran out of people to tell that story to. Old friends would roust up new folks to introduce to Victor, just so they could see the way he started that story...and the way he ended it.
Even in his coffin, the ball of his right wrist cradled in the giant sling of his left hand, he looked ready to tell a story, ready to sit up and proclaim how glad he was we'd all come to say goodbye and did we have time for just one more tale before they shut the lid down. ~Victoria Tirrel
posted by Seven Authors in A Private Conversation at 8:51 AM
1 Comments:
What a great and well-written post. You should submit a version of that to Minnesota Monthly!
I miss the stories of the old-timers. The people in my parents' generation were already losing the knack for spinning tales. The demise of the oral tradition came with the demise of people getting together just to enjoy each other's company.
Amy
Post a Comment
<< Home