The stories we tell
By PAT WICK
© Another Day in the Country
A couple of weeks ago, I came down to write my column and read the notation on my computer desktop, "Write about your personal myth — it's such a California thing." It wasn't until several days later, rereading my column in the newspaper, that I realized I'd diverted from the original plan. I'd forgotten to write about the stories we tell, the events we mythologize. Flat out, I'd mythed the point.
A personal experience, told and retold, contains the gist of a story and holds the original event like a kernel of truth; but with the retelling, the characters become stronger, more defined, until through the years, the story is a mixture of fable and fact. But it's all we've got.
My mother tells the story of the day she got caught eating her father's prunes. There are key elements in the story that shaped her life. First of all, she'd disobeyed. The prunes were not for any of the nine Schubert siblings to sample — they were saved for A.G. Schubert, the head of the house. He ate them every morning. They were a natural remedy for his abnormal digestive system. However, in a child's eyes, those prunes were a taste-tempting treat only enjoyed at harvest time by the regular ranks. When her older sister caught her invading the prunes in the pantry, and asked "What's that in your mouth, Martha?" she lied. "It's a piece of coal," said the preschooler. She was soundly punished!
When I first heard my mother tell the story, the medicinal portion of the tale wasn't evident. Furthermore, explanations of laxative would have diluted the injustice, explained away the inequity, negated the favoritism that my child's ears believed were the heart of the story. There's always a veiled reason behind the stories we tell each other and those stories shape the family system as we tell and retell them to our children. Mom probably told me the Prune Story because she wanted me to learn that liars are punished. I totally missed the point.
The part of the prune story that impacted me as a young girl was that a man had special perks, treats, denied to a child and my childish soul simmered with the grievance. That story became a fable in our family and helped to shape my warrior's heart as a woman. A heart that, to this day, strives for equality and demands an evenhandedness that is sometimes hard to come by.
Not only do the stories we tell shape the next generation, it is all-too-soon, all they have of their ancestors. Coming back to Ramona has filled out the picture of the grandfather I knew once a year on vacation. Mom tells other stories here — stories of his innovations, his far-sightedness, his wisdom. Town folk tell me stories of his eccentricities and uncles and aunts share tales of his deeds — how he started one of the first threshing companies and helped found the original co-op. Uncle Hank tells the story of taking over the family farm and the story about the first time he went contrary to his father's advice — I call it The Sheep Shed Coup!
My Uncle John Lori (who for many years was the Schuberts' hired hand) and Uncle Hank were going to repair the roof of the sheep shed. John and Hank wanted to use tin to repair the roof and Grandpa wanted them to use shingles. When John sided with Hank in the discussion, A.G. was outvoted. I was aghast. I'd heard other stories of my grandfather and I knew that he was seldom crossed. His prowess at winning card games and arguments was legendary. I waited to hear about the blow-up, the retribution, the angry words; but none came. A.G. Schubert sidled up to his victorious son and said in a low voice, "So now the chick knows more than the hen." That was it! Tin covered the shed.
As I tell you this story, I grieve the quick passage of time and I am reminded that I need to cultivate a similar grace so that as I age and a younger generation takes over the reigns of leadership, I can follow in Grandpa's footsteps.
It's another day in the country and I can no longer catch Uncle Hank on the way to the post office to ask him a question or run over to the house to chat with Aunt Gertie. The chicks knew more than the hen and I had to call clear to Colorado to make sure I'd gotten this story straight.
