“I’m the youngest of three brothers; there was the one with no brains; the one with brains that couldn’t remember where he put ‘em; and the smart one of the bunch………”
My son, daughter, and their friends heard a lot of stories around campfires that started with those words. While unfair to my brother's, as the campfire stories unfolded, most times the first two were never clearly identified, and equally unfairly, more often than not my character was drawn as the smart one of the bunch.
You see, I am a storyteller; and as a storyteller I start with memories, generally follow the facts, blend in some color, embellish a few of the details, personalize them, and relate a piece of the experiences that made me who I am.
Not that there isn’t some danger in that. There is a hazard in drifting away from the cold hard facts. Danger stalks somewhere beyond the margin of embellishment, lurking in smoky lairs somewhere on the sloping edges of fabrication. Most stories include other characters, and they will recognize themselves in the flow of the words and their own memories of the experience.
An historian protects himself by not drifting very far from the solid foundation of the exacting details; but history was seldom the most engaging of classes in anyone’s past.
So there is a balance between fact and story; and the tipping point is very personal indeed for the teller. But, for the good storyteller, the risk is worth the running. For when crafted well, the true character will embrace the shadow changes and the gamble can even blossom into humor; memorable lessons can be crafted; and on occasion, new memorable stories will grow from the telling.
One day when my family and I were visiting my eldest brother, that lurking danger pounced out of the shadows, enriching my storytelling when its bared fangs shattered on the stark strength of the underlying joys of shared and remembered experiences. Experiences such as can only be shared by true brothers, not just of the same parents, but of the same values.
Several of us; my brother and his kids, myself and my son and daughter, were all swimming in the backyard pool when my 12 year old son abruptly said; “Uncle Barry, dad says that when you guys were boys, one of you had no brains; one had brains but didn‘t know where he kept them; and that he was the smart one of the bunch. Is that right?“
I had a flashback. Instant recall of most any day growing up, fists balled, arms swinging, flesh being bruised. Yep, my brothers and I had been known to fight some; constantly and energetically actually; and for slights that were a whole lot less significant than what my son had just divulged.
To be truthful, I wasn’t entirely sure Barry had put those days behind him.
To be truthful, I wasn’t entirely sure Barry had put those days behind him.
My eldest brother slowly turned towards me and lowered his head a fraction to stare up just under his eyebrows at me.
That look I had seen lots of times before, often right before things got pretty fuzzy.
He held that stare for several seconds, eyes bright, lips in a firm line.
Then he turned back towards my son, smiled big and bold and said; “Yep, sounds about right to me.” he said with a laugh.
Copyright © 2012 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved
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