Life is a Story
We are all shaped by the stories of our lives.
Sometimes in the best ways, and other times ways that follow us and tug at our darkest emotions or view of self. Perhaps even more important are the stories we tell ourselves. Stories about how we failed or how we wish our circumstances are or were better. Stories that make us laugh and stories that make us cry. Stories that make us wonder Why?
I learned stories by watching my dad. No, he wasn’t a great storyteller, but he was an original. He spoke things like no one I ever knew. My dad grew up with some hardship for sure. He was abandoned by his father who left his family and started another when my dad was only eight years old. That was in the 1940s and more scandalous than it seems to be today, but not less painful. He wore his fear and pain in his furrowed brow, and he worried about money every day of his adult life. Every day of mine too.
When I married and moved to another town, I tried to see him often. I would call him on the phone and ask, “Hey Dad, what are you doing?” and always the same answer, “Just working.” My dad developed a shorthand for longer conversations. He might call and say, “You coming?” which meant he was cooking. “Yes! We are coming.”
Watching my dad cook was like watching a house on fire. He liked to cook on high, with burners blazing. Meat frying, potatoes boiling, and the kitchen counter floured up so he could make biscuits to go with the gravy he intended to make. Total organized chaos. He always made a lot of food. And his motto was, “If you don’t have food left over, you didn’t make enough.” I still go by his motto today, and I’m pretty sure future generations will as well.
Sometimes Dad wasn’t about the cooking, and he would send us down to the local burger joint, “Get me a burger, and have it dressed, and a sack of fries,” which meant he wanted his hamburger with cheese, lettuce, tomato and onion, and a small order of fries. If he said “box of fries” you knew he wanted a large order. He was happy to pay for yours too.
My dad had an interesting relationship with money. He grew up without enough. My dad didn’t love banks but rather preferred to carry money in a clip in a front pocket of his well-worn work pants. He always talked about money: “You got any money?” meant he was happy to spot you a twenty. That was when 20 dollars actually meant something in your pocket; everyone needs a little “pocket money.”
Dad always talked about what the thing cost, and he loved a good deal. He had a way of talking about money, “two bits” was a quarter, and keep counting by twos until you get to a dollar, at which time the currency name for one dollar was “one skinny.” Five skinnies and you can do the math. A “saw buck” was ten dollars and half a saw buck was the same five skinnies. He might decide to say something was a “double sawbuck” just to keep the conversation interesting. If he wanted to talk bigger money, he might say something cost a “C note” or “half a C note” which is $100.00 and $50.00 respectively. We just knew what he meant, and we assumed everyone else did too.
What I didn’t know as a kid was how smart my dad was. He didn’t finish high school but he loved history and could do math in his head, and he made it look easy. I learned later that some of his monetary terms came from Roman numerals. He knew those too.
Once when I was a little girl, I went to work with my dad. We lived in California, and he drove a food truck, also called a catering truck in those days. He rolled up on a place like the Goodyear tire plant or other large manufacturing companies just as the lunch bell rang. Hundreds of working people came out to the catering trucks. It was amazing to watch him use his changer with a special leather holster he had made that allowed him to roll up dollar bills so he could make change quickly. Until that day, I never knew he could speak a word of Spanish, but he did as he greeted his customers and made change for them.
My dad was artistic and he had the most beautiful cursive handwriting. “I don’t know why they don’t teach kids that stuff anymore.” Like I mentioned, he never finished high school, a thing he regretted all his life.
He taught me about the love of family when he would drive us from California to Seminole, OK to see his mother and his grandmother. Even though his dad left him as a boy and started another family, we saw his little brothers and sisters on a regular basis. We grew up with them, and I can remember hearing my dad and my uncles laugh together, play dominoes, and horseshoes, too. He gave me a strong sense of family.
I enjoy telling stories about family and things that have happened to me and others. Not is the gossipy way some tell stories, but in the way of respect and mostly humor. Stories have the power to shape perspectives, convey cultural values, and inspire change. They are a timeless way to pass down knowledge, convey family rules or rituals. They connect people across time and space.
Knowing the power of stories can help someone struggling or normalize something they feel no one could understand. I love to ask my adult children, “Tell me a story…” and they often delight or surprise me because they know I truly want to know. I’m working on grandbabies stories now; they have really good ones too.
As therapists we use story telling all the time. In research, these are called “case studies” In therapy sessions, the stories or “what happened” or “why I am here” create direction for treatment and allow us to explore the needs of our clients. There are all kinds of stories to hear, and they teach us about ourselves and others.
Whatever Is happening in this life can be told as a story. There are story tellers, and I have known a few. People who see the world in just such a way. I love a good story and I want to learn something. I believe that my love of stories has made me a good storyteller as well. I hope people remember me laughing at some wonderful story they told me or feeling loved, comforted, or amused by some story I told. Maybe they will laugh at a story they heard about me. If so, my love of stories will live on and so will part of my dad. The idea of that makes me smile.