Stories

Johnny Jones, 7 May 2004

"Jordan, if you'll be quiet I'll tell you a story about your Mommy when she was a little girl," I shouted over the loud wails of my young nephew. "See that picture of your Mommy on the wall? She was about your age then. I gave her the dress she was wearing. It was pink, and she wore it skating..." Jordan's sobs subsided as he listened to a story about his beloved mother, who was in the Bahamas for a few nights.

That's not the first time family stories have saved the day. When Amy was little and things were hard and both of us were getting angry and she didn't understand anything I was trying to say and I couldn't hear her, sometimes I remembered to say, "Let me tell you a story." She got as quiet as Jordan when I continued, "When I was your age I had only one good friend. Her nickname was Cooky..."

Stories make up a family's history. They tell us who we are. A good story can lighten the heart, give courage, and make children know they belong.

When I was little and Mama put me to bed, I remember begging, "Tell me a story about when you were a little girl." Some of these stories were sad reflections of hard times during the Great Depression. Gangs of boys roamed the rural Alabama countryside, terrorizing younger children whose parents were working. Mama took care of three younger brothers and sisters any time both my grandparents could get work in the fields.

One day, when Mama was jumping on the bed to keep the children quiet, Aunt Ola fell off and cut her head on the sewing machine. Mama has felt badly about it ever since. I couldn't believe a six year old had that much responsibility.

Another time the gang of boys came by and held Uncle Austin upside down over the water well. That scared Mama so badly that whenever she heard anyone coming, she grabbed the children and hid behind the door, quiet as a mouse.

Mama also told about the wandering bands of Gypsies who would come by in their wagons. One group tried to carry my Grandfather away one day when he was a boy; his older brother pulled him off the wagon by his heels.

I hadn't seen Aunt Mabel for years, but one summer I took our family to see her. The years were spanned and we all were entertained by her stories. She loves to tell how, when I was stung by a yellow jacket, I came in sobbing, "Mama, a blue coat stung me!" She still finds it amazing that, when I was three, I looked at the seasoning on the table and said, "P-E-P-P-E-R: Pepper!"

Chip's best story is about being attacked by a whole swarm of bees while he was playing army.

Now we tell stories from our family. We tell about Amy and the dry bath, about Bryan asking the large lady, "Do you have a baby inside you?" and, hearing a negative reply, "Then why is your tummy so big?"

It took more stories every night to get Jordan to sleep. Funny--I didn't mind. In fact, Yvonne called me about one of them. "Jordan wants me to tell him a story you told, but I can't remember it," she said. She and Jordan listened as I relived how Yvonne used to go outside early every morning to eat with the chickens.

Jordan is a star baseball and basketball player now, and Mama, Aunt Ola, and Uncle Austin are no longer living on this earth.

But I still treasure their stories. They're better than Judging Amy or Joan of Arcadia, or even the reruns of the Huxtable family.   They're better because they're real.  Because they're ours.

You have stories, too. Be sure to pass them on.