Last weekend we went up north to enjoy an extended family picnic at Dadguy's grandparents house. It was an especially good time, what with the home cooked food that was not cooked by me, the huge open field behind the house and a couple of dogs to play with, a stream running through and variety of creepy crawly bugs for the kids to collect in old margarine tubs. Plus Dadguy's cousin had a fourwheeler that she brought out and gave rides to all the little kids. All the kids got a huge kick out of that, but the funniest was Pearl who, when it was her turn just hopped aboard and yelled "WHEEEEE" and cackled in glee the entire four times around the field.
It was really good for me to be able to have some adult conversation with all the various relatives, but I do have one regret. One of Dadguy's cousins is a Deputy Sheriff in that county, a hard won position that she has fought and pushed through endless amount of good old boy red tape and bullcrap for. She's one of those amazing women that I admire. Strong- tough even- yet seeming to effortlessly hold on to her essential femininity, and she can tell a great story. Being a cop, she has some real doozies, stories that civilians just don't have, of dealing with violence and some pretty mindbogglingly nasty folks. She was telling a few of these tales, and they got me to mind of some things that I have seen and done. So I told my stories too. But now I'm kind of wishing that I hadn't. I'm thinking that it might have seemed like I was competing with her for telling stories, and that was not my intention. At least I HOPE that was not my intention. One never can know for sure without some heavy introspection that I simply don't feel up to right now.. I just wish that I had been more of an audience, because hey! I love a good story, and if I'd-a kept it shut, I could have heard more of hers.
I'll remember for next time.
These stories that I have... stories of some pretty amazing specimens of humanity and the bizzarro thing some of them do, stories that I don't really think about very much anymore; I don't know if I really want to let them just slip away into the ether of non-telling. But I also don't really have a forum to tell them in the oral tradition. It's not like they are even vaguely inspirational, not uplifting, or even having a moral to the story other than "this stuff will hurt you, don't be stupid," and they often involve pain and stupidity on my part, sometimes illegal activity. But I think I want them told anyway. They are still there, waiting to be told, even begging to be told; trying to slip through my conversations of permission slips, playdates and the dinner menu.
Stay tuned for the first tale: One Nutso Christmas Eve.