My grandpa was the great storyteller of his time. He could tell a tale, spin a yarn and belt out an anecdote with the best of them.
The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree where my mother is concerned. Mom has often drawn a crowd and held them a captive audience for hours by sharing her recollections.
She has her classics, of that you can be sure. There are her stories about throwing down with thugs who tried to steal her lunch on her way to school in Long Beach, the historic reminiscence of giving birth to a 10-pound baby, and the classic account of feeding a family of six on a shoestring budget and an abundance of prayer.
I, too, enjoy reminiscing and telling tales of things that happened a long time ago, as well as informing of my family’s current events.
I like to recount conversations, share little tidbits, and re-enact the horror I felt when our very own Little Charlie showed up with a dead snake and asked if he could keep him as a pet. If you ask me, that story never gets old. I had a great time telling anyone who would listen about my trip to the deli and watching the young man behind the counter slice my turkey one painfully slow slice at a time. The way I stifled my inner person and kept her from cutting loose with bad words as he weighed my 3-pound order every 5 ounces or so was a real knee-slapper, by golly. I learned from my mother that there is an art to being a good storyteller. One must choose her subjects well, pair things up with a good listener and then look for signs that perhaps she has gone on too long.
For example, if your listener is looking around the room and avoiding eye contact, it may be time for a break.
If he yawns deeply and struggles to stay awake, you might want to draw to a close. If you begin to notice folks answering phones that you didn’t hear ring — then you need to learn to conclude a little bit quicker.
Most importantly, one needs to realize when one is sharing a story with someone that she already shared the same story with.
That’s getting harder and harder to do, and these days I can’t remember who I told what. Word has it that multitasking is causing my lack of attention to detail. It makes sense. I can certainly see how talking on the phone while contemplating a shopping list and then stepping into shoes might cause one to forget why she’s holding a stack of hangers.
I can’t remember if I told anyone to bring home a gallon of milk, whether I recounted my great tale of my five-minute fall in the laundry room to my good friend or if I updated everyone about our great trip to the Grand Canyon.
That said, what good does a dandy of a story do if you can’t remember who you told it to?
Oh, I’m a mess.
The other day I mentioned to my handsome husband that I lost a lid to an antique jar somewhere and suggested that perhaps he could help me keep an eye out for it.
I then began to go into detail about where I purchased the jar, what my thoughts were at the time and what the lid might look like, when he interrupted me with, “This is the third time you’ve told me this; you know that, don’t you?”
Not one to be easily dissuaded, I began to recount the missing-lid story to Little Charlie at dinner time. To the tune of “Dude, you already told me that story like 10 times!” he looked at me for just a moment, then looked at his father and said, “How many times has she told you this?”
“We’re up to four now,” Pat said.
“You know what?!” I retorted, “I’m not telling either of you anything anymore!”
“It’s OK,” Charlie said to his father as if I wasn’t there. “She’ll never remember that she told us that either.” Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].