Tell Me a Story . . .

Annalon Gilbreath as "Sally Scull"

Storytelling has become almost a lost art in our culture, but thanks to a number of committed people who know the value of a good tale, it has made a revival in recent years.

Even in Jesus’ time, stories were an important method of communication. When people asked him questions, he often answered with a story. It was how he got his point across, sometimes with a cryptic story that was lost on those who were not seriously seeking answers.

Through the centuries, numerous cultures in the world have preserved their sense of history by telling stories. Whether you call it folklore, ancient legends, or tall tales, everyone seems to love a good story.

I was born and raised into a family that knew about stories. There was no chance I would grow up not loving to hear family tales because both of my parents came from families that appreciated a good yarn.

My mother’s sister was their family historian, and her memory served her well as she recounted the family stories that had been passed down from her dad. She could really get into a good fairy tale too, complete with facial expressions and voice changes. When I was very small, I often stayed with her and would beg for stories. Being a former elementary teacher, she loved entertaining my young mind with fairy tales and nursery rhymes. Two of my favorites were “the Three Billy Goats Gruff” and “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Whether she was the quaking voice of the goats, fearful of the troll under the bridge, or made the booming voice of the Giant who chased Jack down the beanstalk, she made my little heart beat faster and I would shiver in fear . . . but would ask for those same stories again and again. She loved to tell in later years how she would promise me a story before my nap, and my eyelids would be drooping in sleep as the story ended. She would start to tiptoe out of the room and my eyes would pop open and I would say, “Tell me another ‘tory!”

My father came from a family of eight children and whenever they came together, we always heard the accounts of their escapades as children. Daddy and each of his siblings loved to tell their stories, and as children we all knew most of them by heart. They told many of the same ones over and over when they were together: setting the stage, building up the suspense, leaning forward on their knees as they neared the punch line or climax of the tale (eyes glistening with humor), and we all sat breathless, waiting. We knew the way the story ended; no surprises there. Yet we listened to it each time with fresh ears, allowing our minds to be led down the familiar trail as they set the story up yet one more time. I remember knowing the punch line and waiting expectantly to hear it once again, and all of us falling out laughing as if we had never heard it before. So valuable, to grow up in the home of a storyteller! Perhaps it is why I write; I love a good story, and can’t wait to make up more of my own and share them with other people. It is my way of giving something I think is valuable for others to enjoy.

Just last week, I was privileged to hear a professional storyteller give a first-person historical account of the life of Sally Scull. Annalon Gilbreath of Lubbock, Texas came to our gathering in period costume, with the Texas accent of her character flowing from her mouth, and her gestures and posture making the character believable. I found myself so caught up in the story that I actually believed she WAS Sally Scull.

Annalon, herself a former Midland school teacher, portrayed Sally’s years in Texas as a hard-headed, pistol-packing woman on the Texas frontier. Born in 1817 in Illinois, Sally moved with her family to Texas in 1823 and fearlessly faced all the trials and agonies of living a frontier life. History books would probably not paint such a charming picture of Sally, who married and divorced several Texas men, and killed (or at least threatened) anyone who got in her way. She was hard-wired to manage and control her own affairs with dogged determination, which was probably one reason why all her marriages failed so miserably. Yet Annalon brought to light not only the hardened tough woman Sally had become, but gave us a glimpse into her life that made me unable to feel anything but compassion and even amusement at her character.

I am grateful for people like Annalon, who know how to tell a good story. I loved her depiction of Sally Scull, and her ability to teach, amuse, and give us perspective on what life might have been like in another period of our history.

What is your story? We all have a story telling where we have been, what we have done, what we remember, and the people and events that have influenced us. I encourage you not to keep that inside yourself, hidden away. When the opportunity arises, tell your story to a child or grandchild. Recount things you remember that might be of value to someone else. Our stories help define us, and they are also part of our legacy. What we leave behind to future generations is bound up in our stories. Tell yours.

Hero Without a Uniform

As we celebrate Memorial Day and remember the heroes who have made possible our freedom, I wanted to post something I wrote a few years ago about my dad:

"A few years ago, as I attended a tribute to our local veterans, I noticed with surprise that my father, Charlie Martin, was listed as one of the deceased veterans. In reality, Dad never served in the military, and I felt a little embarrassed that he was listed with all the men who have served our country through the years.

Following that tribute, a number of people mentioned Dad’s military service to me, and as I found myself explaining the situation, I realized that my dad was indeed a hero, even though he never wore a military uniform.

During World War II, many of the young men in Petersburg were headed for the military because their country needed them. My dad was no exception. Like many, he was undoubtedly torn by the desire to serve and the need to stay home to care for my mom and sister. But he wanted to do his duty, and had enlisted in the Navy. In fact, he had already taken his physical exam and was ready to go.

At that time, my dad was not only the sole school bus driver for students who lived on the farms surrounding Petersburg, but he was also the bus mechanic. He kept the old bus in good working order in spite of the difficulty of getting parts and supplies in wartime. And he took his job very seriously, making sure the bus was roadworthy, and taking care to get the children back and forth safely.

Dad was so conscientious that he even risked losing his job one day rather than put the school children in harm’s way.  A very serious blizzard blew into the area quite unexpectedly soon after school convened that winter day. Dad asked permission to take the children back home before the storm worsened, but was told that there was no need. As the day wore on, it became apparent that the roads were becoming too treacherous for travel. Finally, around noon, they asked Dad to start loading the kids and take them home ~ but he refused. He had checked out the roads and knew that to venture out was too dangerous. Conditions had become so difficult that the parents could not even get to town to retrieve their own children. So the kiddos had to bed down in the schoolhouse for the night. Dad probably was not too popular with the schoolmaster that day, but took his responsibilities for the safety of the children too seriously to venture out into the storm.

During the wartime climate of World War II, when the superintendent of the Petersburg schools and the school board learned that Dad was headed for military service, they intervened. They contacted the draft board and made an appeal for Dad to be released from his commitment in order to keep the Petersburg bus routes open and the bus running. I think Dad was always a little embarrassed that he had been kept home, and may have felt that his contribution was insignificant.

But regardless of whether he served his country in the military or not, he still died a hero because of how he served his community and his country, being faithful in the everyday things he was called to do. Many others, for one reason or another, did not serve in the military because their presence was needed on the homefront. 

The speaker at the Veterans Ceremony that day expressed it well when she said that there were soldiers who did not serve in combat and who may not have considered their service to be significant. But she explained that it is a team effort. Every person does what they are called to do, working together toward a goal, and it takes teamwork to get the job done whether a person is on the front lines or not. Some of us have not accomplished the "big" things that are known and celebrated, but what we do for the good of those around us still matters.

So the rest, as they say, is history. Who knows . . . if Charlie Martin had indeed served in the military and died, I would not be here today to tell his story . . . and to remind us all that a military uniform alone is not what makes a hero."

My sister with my dad in his later years.

copyright 2008

What it means to be “Family”

Martin Cousins

I had the joy this past weekend of spending time with cousins and extended family from across the nation. We are a large family with cousins spread far and wide, but a handful of us have stayed close despite the miles separating us.

My dad was the youngest of eight children who were all raised in a pioneer West Texas family. One of his older brothers fell in love with a girl from another pioneer West Texas family in this area. They married and had three children.

In 1946, Dad’s brother packed up his family and moved west from Texas to Oregon, where he lived for the remainder of his life. As the couple left home ~ leaving their parents and siblings and everything they had known ~ they promised faithfully to return every two years to see the family. While many people make such promises when they move far away from family, seldom does it work out that way. But my aunt and uncle made sure it DID happen, and they brought their children back to Texas every other summer for a month’s visit with both their families until their children were grown and their parents were no longer living. Even then, they came back whenever they could until their own health and age prevented it. Those visits were some of the highlights of my growing up years. And because of the connection by marriage between these two families, we all felt like “almost cousins.”

Two of my cousins from that family now live in Oregon and the third in Alaska. This past week, two of them traveled to Texas for a Cousins Reunion. What made the reunion somewhat unique was that it was not only the cousins from their mother’s side of the family who gathered, but those of us from their father’s side were also invited to join them!

Our two families have been intertwined now for three generations. So it was fitting that we joined together over the weekend to enjoy the company of our mutual cousins. The day was filled with much laughter, many stories, photos, and of course food to be enjoyed. The “shared” cousin who hosted the event sang a song with his own lyrics to kick off the day. Here are the words:

“Let’s hear some memories.

Let’s see some photography.

Let’s share a meal while we enjoy each other’s company.

Come on and sit a spell;

We’ve got so much to tell.

So glad you came today to be with Family.”

The reunion made me ponder, “What does it mean to be Family?” One dictionary definition describes it as “a group of people related to one another by blood or marriage.” That would describe the two distinct groups who were at our reunion. Another definition I read gives it even more meaning: “a person or people related to one, and so to be treated with a special loyalty or intimacy.” Amen to that definition! The third definition I found is, thankfully, not accurate (at least not to my knowledge!): “a group of people united in criminal activity.”

A fourth definition, however, is significant because in my own experience and observation, sometimes we are “family” with those with whom we have no blood ties. This definition describes “a group of people united by certain convictions or a common affiliation.” I am fortunate that with most of my blood relatives, I do have common convictions and beliefs that help bind us together and provide meaning to our relationships. That commonality was evident this past weekend in the gathering of cousins. I realize, however, that not everyone has that experience. Some people have little or no significant connection to their blood relatives. Fortunately, God provided a way for everyone to know what it means to be family, even without close blood ties.

I am a woman most blessed because I have both: close blood relatives as well as a small fistful of folks who I consider to be my Family because of the level of intimacy we share. I have been through tough times with each of those people, we have shared intense moments, and we have sweet memories of time spent together. Our values connect us. These people will always be family to me. Each of my children have non-family members they have connected with over the years in that same way. One of the cousins at our reunion this weekend was called away early because of a death of someone so dear to her that she considers them family. I’m sure most of you reading this blog can describe your own experience with someone who has become family to you, despite no blood or familial connection.

Regardless of who you consider to be your family, I pray you will realize what a valuable gift you have been given. Nourish and cherish those relationships. Make time to be together. If you are a believer in Jesus Christ, then pray for those in your family circle, whatever that circle looks like. Let them know how important they are to you. Show love, grace, and forgiveness to them. Shower them with kindness. And please, don’t forget to laugh together! Share the memories of precious times you have spent in their presence, and thank God He has allowed you to be in relationship with them. Those connections are gifts from God; don’t you dare be guilty of taking them for granted!

The Copeland "Almost Cousins"

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
Many of you email me comments on the blog, which I deeply appreciate. However, I think it would be interesting if everyone could read those comments as well. It is NOT as intimidating as you think to leave a comment. Below are the instructions in case you want to be brave and try a new thing!

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