Bill, George, David, Olegineni, Tahnie, and Tales of Nature

     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 miss those experiences and I am afraid the younger generations are being cheated of similar moments. This is the way things used to be taught and how history as well as tradition was 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. He’d water some 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 comes from, a second to the west where our wind and rain originate, third the north where I believed our Cherokee ancestors came from before they went into what is now the Appalachian region, and lastly, the south, where warmer temperatures return from 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 another time. 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, and it hurts when people in my own family accuse me of culture appropriation when I 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, and indicated to its youngster. The baby cat leapt onto the pile and dug with ferocity but there was no meal beneath. The disappointed mountain lions waisted 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.

     George’s story was a thrilling one also and began as a hot summer day in Georgia. Even in the woods, there was no respite. The humidity was oppressive. The man found a stream, stripped down and jumped into the cool water. He waded and swam for some time, then made his way to some roots that provided a little shelter by the streambank. 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 waded in. The stag came closer to 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 quicklymgrabbed 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 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 had never known about that 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 retold of how it was a cold night right after Christmas and Baby Verna was put in a tomato crate, her cheeks and all ten toes and all ten fingers -- cold to the touch. Nobody will ever forget the details. 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 upcoming year I urge you readers to start your own blog. It shouldn’t matter if nobody else outside of immediate family or your close friends reads 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 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.