The Adventures of Bill and George
Back in March, Michigan
had severe floods. Major roads were wiped out; fish were swimming in parking
lots and dams were in danger of bursting. For the first time, my crawlspace
flooded. My family and I, in an act of teamwork and desperate determination, gathered as many journals and
photographs as we could during the crisis. Sadly, a lot of furniture that my youngest
daughter was storing for when she buys her own home was destroyed. In other
words, we saved what we could and it wasn’t much. A lot of it fed a dumpster
that we rented. For months now I’ve been sorting photographs, journals and mementoes.
(The ones that didn’t get wet.) I can’t
keep it all, and now I have the opportunity to share even more stories from these rediscovered notebooks in my
blog. I feel compelled to, before
another storm or flood ruins any more journals.
Decades ago when I was
in grade school, I loved listening to the tales the old folks used to tell.
These relatives and friends were clear of mind and recounted the stories of
their youth, the admonitions of their parents and grandparents, and other wise counsel
as they sat, gathered at kitchen tables or in living rooms. I used to write it
all down in journals and in spiral notebooks. I am so glad that I did! I miss
those experiences and I am afraid the younger generations are being cheated of similar
moments with the abundance of streaming, social media and cell phones taking the place of real conversations. Family
gatherings or the simple act of sitting around a dinner table are the way
things used to be taught and just one of the ways history, as well as tradition,
were passed on.
My father, David
Owen, taught me how to plant trees and shrubs. He said to dig in a suitable
spot, water the hole, place the roots in and pat the soil and also sometimes
actually pound the earth with our boots. (I’d used my bare feet then, and I
still do now! Somehow, I feel closer to Mother Earth when I take my shoes off.)
My daddy cautioned me not to leave air pockets around the roots. We’d water just
a little more (usually that meant I’d hold the hose in my tiny fists). Then he
showed me how to do a little “dance ritual” around the tree, further patting
the soil. Later I added a solemn invocation to the four directions of the
earth: One to the east where the sun rises from, a second to the west where the wind and rain originate, third the north where the cold winter winds come from (may winter be gentle upon our trees) and lastly, the south, from where warmer temperatures return in spring. That
is, I thought I’d added those supplications to the four winds. I learned
recently that it is an indigenous prayer and that the “planting dance” is known
to many Native Americans and First Nations People east of the Mississippi. I
wonder if my daddy taught me that entreaty, as well as the dance, because it
was hidden deep in my conscience. I know it was all passed down by some
ancestor at some time from another ancestor at some other time, to another ancestor and so-on. My father
passed away in 2007. I cannot ask him the particulars, but I do know my
Cherokee ancestors had the Anglicized surnames of Silver and Walkingstick.
Their Cherokee names were Olegineni U-Ta-Lv-Nu-Sti and her husband Tahnie
Udalvnusti. They were both born in 1735 and both died in Bird Town in what is
now Swain County, North Carolina. I can only speculate that each generation
passed this planting dance down to their children all the way to me. It
hurts when the younger people in my own family accuse me of culture appropriation when I want to pass these traditions down to my own grandchildren. It is my history. It is
what I was taught, and it is what I do even now when I plant fruit trees.
Everybody has a
story. I have mine, my ancestors had theirs. Some stories are lost along the
way.
I was told the adventures
of two men in my ancestry: Bill and George. It was said that Bill, on my Parker
side, was out hunting when he was a young man. It was a beautiful autumn day in
North Carolina. The long walk and refreshing air made him weary, so he took a
nap at the base of a tree. A sound sleeper, he later woke, but his eyes were
blurry. He had a difficult time adjusting his vision and soon realized he was
under a pile of leaves. He carefully dug his way out and wondered what in the
world had buried him and for what reason. Old-Man-Curiosity had Bill by the
heart so he climbed the tree and patiently waited. Later a mamma mountain lion
came into view with her half-grown cub. The two large cats neared the pile of
leaves. Bill could have shot one or both, but he saw no need to, and he wanted
to observe a little longer. The lioness gave a signal, sort of a squeak, an
indication to its youngster. The baby cat leapt onto the pile and dug with
ferocity but there was no meal beneath. The disappointed mountain lions wasted
little more time investigating where their dinner had gone and padded off. Bill
realized that had he slept much longer, he’d have been eaten.
My grandfather George
Owen’s story was a thrilling one also and began one hot summer day in Georgia.
Even in the woods, there was no respite. The humidity was oppressive. The man walked to a stream, stripped down and jumped into the cool water. He waded and swam
for some time, then made his way to the riverbank where some roots provided a
little overhanging shelter. George relaxed in the dark, damp, coolness. Not
long after, he heard a rustling close by and saw a buck and a couple does
tentatively walk to the stream. The buck somehow signaled his okay and the
small herd dipped their heads in and drank. The animals also sought out the
coolness of the water and eventually waded in. The stag came closer to the side
of the bank where George rested, and soon, all he could see were spindly, brown
legs at eye level. Closer and closer came the buck as he passed the sheltered
spot where George held his breath and waited in stillness. The deer turned his
haunches toward the bank. On a whim, George quickly grabbed onto the animal’s
back legs. With a whoosh the startled stag leapt as best he could with George
holding on for dear life! The man tightened his grip as imagined scenes of the
large cervid potentially turning to gore him with dagger-like antlers flashed
in his brain -- which by that time was being shook in his skull all while sharp
pointed rear hooves kicked at his face. Within a few more bounds, George lost
his grip and the herd fled the stream.
Many years later,
I asked the old folks about these stories. They could not remember which old
uncle had nearly become the big cats’ chow. I asked my dad about Papa George
grabbing the stag’s back legs. I recounted it word for
word. He just shook his head in doubt. My dad told me that he didn’t believe
his father, a very smart man, would have been that foolish. Daddy claimed he had
never heard such a story.
Tonight, I
realized, we all know an Aunt Marie or an Uncle Raymond that did something of
note. There might have been an old friend named Verna who was born in a barn.
We say, “that was quite a story.” We believe that at each family gathering, the
tale will be told of how it was a cold night right after Christmas and Baby Verna
was put in a tomato crate. Nobody will ever forget. Then decades later
our kids say, “Mom says Raymond was quite a character!” yet they don’t quite
remember why he was a character. Even later, our grandchildren ask, “Who
was Raymond? Who was Marie? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of Verna.” Another
generation passes and these people are barely names on a family chart, even if
someone is doing family history.
This summer as
you gather, I urge you readers to tell your stories, write in your own
journals, start your own blogs. It shouldn’t matter if nobody else outside of
immediate family or your close friends reads any of it. Tell your story. Tell your
parents’ stories. Recount the adventures of what it was like to go to a pajama
party, ride a bike, go on a trip to your grandma’s house. Commit to write one
day a week, or at the very least, one day a month. Set aside a couple hours or
an evening to do one story at a time. Write that day and time on your calendar.
Make it a ritual. Let it become a habit. Put down that remote. Set down your
phone and stop zombie scrolling. I guarantee, the same silly reels will be
waiting for you on TikTok and in the long run, you won’t really miss them.
Don’t let your stories fade. Tell your true, authentic history before you
are history.
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