“Your memory is a monster; you forget—it doesn’t. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you—and summons them to your recall with will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!”― A Prayer for Owen Meany
Our family history in this country dates back to the 1700s, but I primarily hear about memories wrenched from the last two generations. Perhaps that’s because so many of the experiences we’ve heard about ancestors further back are just too sad. There were houses lost in fires and children dying because of burns or drowning. Of course, there are shared memories we’d prefer to forget, but we usually just let them be and avoid stirring the pot.The stories that are routinely repeated in my generation are much less traumatic than from years long past. I mean, SOMEBODY laughs when they’re told. Eventually.
Breakfast of champions - not
As an example, I remember one breakfast where my brother, about 9 or 10 at the time, asked Daddy to pour some milk into his cereal bowl. Nathan held up the bowl and Daddy began pouring. When my brother thought he had enough, he moved the bowl. Without. Warning. Tense breakfast, that one. I don’t remember what came directly after, but it was likely unpleasant. NOW, however, I think it’s hysterical because it was a foreshadowing. It put us all on notice of the trickster my brother would become.
An unforgettable evening
Fast forward about five years. We’re still talking about a long time ago. The kitchen sink was clogged up, probably by potato peels. Gunk from the dinner prep was floating in the sink, creating a picture I can’t unsee after more than five decades. Daddy had an idea that might solve the problem, or dissolve it, without calling a plumber. He climbed up onto the roof and dropped a cherry bomb down the vent. That worked, albeit briefly.
The water began to move. Obviously, if one cherry bomb made inroads into the sludge, two would be better. He dropped the second one. Alas, the pipes, more than 40 years old, could not take the excitement. They burst, covering the kitchen floor with discolored liquid dotted with bits of leftovers. I don’t recall laughter that night, and I doubt that Mother’s immediate reaction was positive. We’ve laughed about it a lot since, though. Well, I have. Still may be too soon for her.
A bicycle not built for two
Another story that wasn’t funny (at the time) involved my son at about 2-3 years old. Ben often went camping with my parents and they took bicycles, at least one one occasion. Daddy decided to go for a little ride around the campground and he put Ben on the handlebars. Away they went, down a road with a surface somewhat better than gravel. The grade wasn’t bad, not too steep, and they were able to locate basic facilities and also wave at the neighboring campers.
And THEN Daddy tried to light his pipe while he was steering the bike. Well, he was actually pedaling. You can’t steer if you’re using both hands to try to light a pipe. And he was attempting to light the pipe with a match, not a lighter. Not the best plan he ever had. About that time, Ben caught his foot in the spokes and effectively applied the brakes. They flipped. Fortunately, no bones were broken.
Ben doesn’t remember what happened next, which is a shame. There is no doubt Daddy had a challenge when he got back to the tent where Mother was waiting. How could he maintain innocence while explaining the sequence of events? I’m thinking it’s likely the sun went down on someone’s wrath.
Odds & Ends
Then there are memories that just aren’t funny. Daddy cut my hair once to save money, just before 2nd grade picture day. Still not amused. And there was a less than satisfactory Thanksgiving dinner when I botched the turkey. Badly. Who knew there were body parts tucked away in there that needed to be removed before roasting?
Or the the time I was watching TV and saw a rat out of my peripheral vision. A big fat one was crossing over to the kitchen cabinets like he owned the place. And he wasn’t cute like the one on Ratatouille. The kids’ daddy got his shotgun and instructed Ben to hold the flashlight so he could take care of business. That could have gone so wrong. In retrospect, it reminds me of an incident when I was six and Daddy shot a rat, but I’ll leave that for another time.
Here's what I make of that
Some of my memories make me doubt that every Duck Dynasty episode is scripted. I’m thinking some of them have grains of truth. Things happen, and not everybody wants to publicly call out the questionable judgment of a family member. Or their own. Creating a TV show that appears to be a spoof is genius.
Every family has stories. Some are told for entertainment at almost every family gathering. Some are told when a family member is laid to rest. It seems to be the best way to honor the departed while you are attempting to hold onto your composure. The humor or adventure or courage related in the telling is a balm for aching hearts. However, almost no one tells the tough, not so family-flattering stories to the world at large. Well, not too many people I know.
Stanford Johnson is a notable exception. His novel, Our Little Secret, is a fictionalized–and riveting–account of one family’s stories and the potential for reconciliation and forgiveness. Stanford paints a picture of complicated family relationships, some involving unconditional love, but others that conjure up tortured memories and sadness. His story makes me think that a lot of families share common threads in their respective backgrounds, perhaps more commonality than we imagine is possible. That, and while some memories may haunt us, others bind us to our history in a way that is rich with a sense of belonging.
You?
I remember most of those, and yes, it can take years to make some funny. My problem came from thinking they were funny when they happened.
Yep. That’s how I remember it. You had a tough crowd and some of your ‘jokes’ fell flat. I wonder if Daddy was around now, would he look back and laugh?
I agree that the stories are funny now but were not at the time. My brother is the storyteller in my family. He remembers not only our immediate sibling stories but the situations involving cousins. We were fortunate that our primary entertainment hours were spent in the company of many, many cousins!
Yes, you were fortunate. We had a lot more cousins around before Daddy’s sister moved her family to Michigan. At least most of us were in West TN or parts just south of there. I wish now I had a lot more of our stories recorded. There’s one story in particular that Daddy used to tell about hauling a house trailer over the mountains from NC – I’d REALLY like the particulars on that one. And those of use who are left don’t remember it the same way. Sigh.