How I Wrote My New Book, "Garden Disruptors," 18
I remember them as bald, always in pressed shirts, and always laughing. My great uncles, Chalmers, Tudor, and Bearing. Aunt Elizabeth, too. She was slightly less bald, but just as boisterous. They loved a good story. I can still hear them prompting each other, saying, “Tell about the time you…”
They told the same stories over and over and guffawed every time, probably at the same parts of the story. The stories flowed at Sunday gatherings, family reunions, and even funerals. I was just a boy; I remember the storytellers more than the words.
Daddy told stories too. One rainy night we left a family gathering for a long drive home. Frog eyes glowed on the dark pavement. I didn't want to fall asleep, "Tell me the story about the cow Grandmother Bryan gave you." After that, I wanted to hear about Uncle WZ who shot his own leg off.
Lots of his stories involve his uncles, my great-uncles, those laughing raconteurs of family gatherings. Daddy’s stories of growing up included memories of the generation before him, people born before 1900. In my black-and-white photos, it seems their lives in the rural South didn’t change all that much. Of course, it did; cars came along, and wars.
All of those stories, his and theirs, had to do with the contrast between old ways and new things. Donkey carts vs. cars. Folks who never left the dirt road vs. folks who flew planes over Germany. Somehow the stories always had funny, or at least ridiculous parts.
Today, I don’t remember my great uncle's stories. But I have one amazing thing; an ace in my pocket. Daddy wrote his stories down. He even included a cast of characters, location descriptions, and a vocabulary page full of words that have fallen out of use.
During Covid lockdown, Momma, a friendly helper, and I transcribed all this into word processing software. I love his handwriting, but I value the easy access in my laptop.
His stories connect me. Anchor me. And they’re so much more captivating and exotic than any of my experiences.
I’m doing final edits on my book right now. I've read my stories so many times, I‘m bored with them. They're just stories from the 1990s. I have to stop myself from thinking they’re banal just because there’s no donkey cart trying to pull a stuck military surplus jeep out of the ditch.
Except there are contrast in the ‘90s. The South was changing drastically. Remember that if you saw a mixed-race couple, people whispered? Or worse? I remember a woman who wasn’t allowed communion at her church because she divorced her abusive husband. Remember that we still had blue laws enforced by the Christians, so if sinners wanted to drink on Sunday, we had to plan it all out and shop ahead of time? All the while Snoop Dog sang on the radio about Gin and Juice and getting stoned.
The other day someone asked Momma if she reads my stories. They didn't give her time to answer. Instead, they answered for her, “It’s probably better that you don’t.”
I know what they meant. Some folks don’t want to read these stories. Yes, I’m sure some folks will say I’m telling stories that oughtn’t be told, that we should forget indiscretions of youth.
People will say it’s too early.
Is it too early to write them? I’d rather be too early than too late.
One of your best yet, Jenks. (They just keep getting better & better.) If the book is even half as good as these posts, you'll have a winner! Can't wait to read it.
The book is going to be great with stories like these on substack. I would much rather hear about all your adventures and mishaps personally from you instead of some biographer who didn’t really know you. You can make a mishaps something fun to read and to laugh WITH you. I like your down to earth writing and with the style you write, I can just hear you telling the story in a matter of fact way.