I Come From A Long Line of Love

I come from a long line of exaggerating, laughing, yarn-spinning, opinion-hollering storytellers. In my family we all have opinions on everything and I grew up surrounded by long and loud discussions on politics, religion, and family.  On my mother's side the women would sit at the kitchen table and swap recipes, stories, and the latest things the kids were doing.  The menfolk would sit outside on an old school bus seat under the chinaberry tree and discuss life as they knew it.  My mother was not a huge storyteller.  She seemed to keep all of her stories close, and shared them sparingly to me when I was a child.  I loved hearing her tales as I was growing up.  She told me about my uncle Willie, who actually ran moonshine.  She would tell me tales about her baby brother, Trollis that she practically raised.  He is only 15 years older than me.  She was 15 years older than him.  Growing up in my little home at 1127 El Prado had many happy memories and just as many unhappy ones.  That was especially true after my brother's death in 1963.  Before his death....on the night before our birthdays, she would stay a bit longer in our room at bedtime and read an extra story or two.  One of the memories of my mom is how she smelled like Noxema.  When it was story time she would gather us close, and tell us all about how we came into the world, or about my dad climbing water towers, or about how she and my dad met (that was my favorite story). There were many other stories. She would tell of being in the hospital ward with Bunny Levinson's mom, moving to Florida, dancing in USO shows during the war, and she would sing....oh how I loved to hear her sing. One of my other favorites was how she and Mrs. Geiger saved grocery money so they could fly to New York City to see Robert Goulet in Camelot.  He was Lancelot.  My dad called her selfish and she thew all her change she had saved in his face....and did not go.  When she was 65 I arranged for her to see Robert Goulet in Camelot at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center.  He was older now...and King Arthur.  I also arranged for her to meet him after the play.  He sang Happy Birthday to her and kissed her.  It was a dream come true and a story she would share throughout the rest of her life.   Stories and music were all part of my growing up.  At my mom's parents the stories and music was abundant.  At my dad's parents the stories were outrageous. My dad's brothers could tell some whoppers.  They were all hunters and fishermen....men's men...and could tell some bodacious tales.  Growing up among this wealth of tales made me love to spin a good yarn myself.  I have had people tell me they could listen to me weave a good story for hours and that I should do it professionally....they have told me that my life sounds so exciting while theirs sounds so hum drum....my response to them...."it is all in the use of the adjectives."  My grandmother Sasser could sew like you would not believe.  She quilted...made dresses....did wedding dresses with hand sewn seed pearls...and believe me they were amazing.  That was her story....her story was in the placement of each stitch.  She also quilted.  She would lovingly take scraps of fabric  and create a pattern that told a tale.  Not in the pattern itself....but in each scrap she placed in the framing called a quilt.  Yes, I am so lucky to have come from such a long line of story-tellers.  I want my children to know these stories....and know their history.....and about the people who lived before them.