Grendel
Member
My Father's Terrible Tales
I'm the eldest child of my parents. Normally the understanding in those far off days was that boy meets girl, marries, buying a little white house, on a little green hill, and a smile for all who visit.
But WWII destroyed that cosy image of life. My father was 33 when the war ended. By the time he had settled down, met my mother, earned enough to get married on, and they had their first child he was 42. He was a meek and mild mannered man who didn't drink. He was appalled at any conflict with the law. A police car outside the house was a cause of shame. He was also an accepting man and rarely questioned things.
When the first Sputnik came over our house in the late fifties I was only a small child with a younger brother. But my Father took us downstairs and out into the yard, put us both high up on his shoulders, and there, he pointed as that tiny light crossed the star filled sky. Why did my father lift us to his shoulders? I don't know. I guess he thought we were closer and could see better that way.
My father had an outstanding trait. He told really, really bad stories. These stories never really had an ending. Now a story doesn't have to be boring just because it doesn't have an ending. Many famous movies have no ending. But my father's stories weren't this kind. They were boring and they never had an ending. In fact, without an ending meant, to me, that they would finish sooner and I wouldn't have to listen any more.
The worst thing about these stories (and if the old fella collared you there was no escape, you had to listen) was that they made no sense ... like really .. none at all. There was no moral, there was no point, there was no plot. He just seemed to make them up as he went. Over the years I had to listen to untold numbers of them. One day as he was telling me some interminable complicated meaningless tale, (I was in my late teens by this time) it suddenly dawned on me that I had heard this one before. Actually, it wasn't that he had told it before but it seemed to have a common theme.
The more I examined this idea the more I came to realise, that meaningless as each story was, they had a common pattern. What was the theme? I spent a lot of time trying to remember some of the craziest ones. And, eventually, I came upon the secret to the pattern. Now I was armed, I was gleeful, the next time my father caught me unawares and started on an interminable story I would be ready. And I was. And my father was surprised and pleased.
He said then and there, there will be no more stories any more, only one piece of advice to give.
This is the advice he gave, 'If you see one of the child-of-men bend over to the ground, then fly away quickly'
I asked him why.
He said, 'Because they are picking up a stone to throw at you'.
I thought about this and said, 'Dad, what if they already have a stone in their pocket?'
My father looked proud, and said, 'Son, your a Crow, and the son of a Crow'
Out of all the stories I recall, I have picked two at random. I was going to pick three, but decided that would be a boring story too far.
My Fathers Story:
There was a man, a simple man, a plain man, a man of very little means.
The man worked in a brickyard, and every day as he set off to work, his wife made and packed him a nice big lunch in a nice big lunch bag. At the end of the day the man would place two bricks in his now empty lunch bag and take them home to his lodgings where he and his wife lived.
They had managed, between them, to save a small amount of money and they had bought a nice pretty little green meadowsweet block of land in the country nearby.
Each weekend they carried the bricks that the man had stolen from the brickyard out to their little plot. And over the years, with much toil, together they managed to build a house, debt free.
There was one brick left over. Such had been their toil invested in acquiring each and every brick that they couldn't bring themselves to throw it away. So they kept it. It was always in the way in one way or another. Over the years they shifted it room from room, placed it on benches, hid it behind doorways. One day the man accidentally kicked it and broke his toe. In a rage he picked up the brick, raced down to the back fence and hurled it into the wilderness. At last he was rid of it.
And that's the end of my fathers story. And that is a typical story. Plot, metaphor, moral, unknown.
Here is another story I picked from memory's collection. It's just as crazy as the first, but at least it's a different story.
My Father's Story:
There was a man, a simple man, a plain man, a man of very little means. The man had been to the races and there he had had a really big win. Not only had he picked six winners in a row but the last had come in at 59:1
He was happy, he was contented, he was ebullient. He had lunched well, and he had lunched largely. The oysters, like all oysters should be, he had eaten natural in their own ocean juices with just a touch of rock salt and the tiniest squeeze of fresh lime individually applied to each one by himself.
He had eaten a dozen for starters. And after he had polished off the main of lobster topped with slices of charcoal eye filet, he had not stinted on the after dinner Stilton, nor the port wine. He was a very generous man, and when in funds, such as the present moment he was a generous tipper. The waiter had been well pleased.
The man was a plump jovial fellow, and he settled into his first class cabin on the train home with a contented sigh. He was in a first class smoker, and from his pocket he withdrew a huge cigar. Soon he was puffing away without a care in the world and feeling about as good as it was possible to feel in that day and age.
The door to the cabin opened. One of those large pigeon breasted women who look down on anyone who is not related in some way to royalty, or does not have a hyphenated surname and whose name does not appear in DeBrett, stood in the doorway. A supercilious frown appeared on her face as she saw the man's cigar.
She carried a small dog, one of those little hairy-water-chestnut-prince-cock-a-charles-spaniels or something. Not a real dog as dogs go. A different species, they can't walk, they have to be carried by old hard proud women with enormous breasts. That's their only form of locomotion. They make up for this disability by constantly yapping.
Eventually the women entered the cabin, there was no other vacant first class, and sat down opposite the happy punter. She looked at him disdainfully, but that didn't worry him, he puffed away in perfect contentment.
She said, 'Excuse me, I don't like cigars, could you please put that out, now.' The man, startled, looked to the label on the cabin door. Sure enough, it said smoker. The man pointed this out to the women. The cabin was a smoker. Nevertheless, the women insisted that the man put out the cigar, she didn't like it and neither did Archibald, her dog, it made him all snuffy.
The man said the cigar was a cuban of exceptional quality and great expense, to put it out and relight it later would destroy it's subtle flavour and fragrance. He was not going to put it out, he was within his rights, and he had paid for the pleasure.
The women, in a fury, flung the window down, reached forward and ripped the cigar from the man's fingers. She flung it out the window of the fast moving train. The man, reacting on instinct coupled with a rising rage, hardly paused. In a fluid motion he reached forward between the women's enormous quivering cleavage and took Archie by the tail. With a few rapid swings around his head to build up speed he launched Archie out the window after the cigar.
The women was speechless with shock and horror. The man too, realised that perhaps he had gone a little far. Both sat staring at each other anxiously. Soon the train pulled into the next station. Both raced towards the door as the train stopped. They jumped out onto the platform and looked far back, down along the track. Sure enough, there was Archie, using his legs for once, galloping down the track along the sleepers as fast as his little tender feet would carry him. He was carrying something in his mouth. As he got closer, urged on by pigeon-breasts loving excited coo's, they could just make out what it was he had in his mouth.
At this point the old man paused with a smug look and said, 'Guess what Archie was carrying in his mouth?'
'The cigar' I replied, glad the story was over.
'No' said the old man, 'he was carrying the brick'.
I'm the eldest child of my parents. Normally the understanding in those far off days was that boy meets girl, marries, buying a little white house, on a little green hill, and a smile for all who visit.
But WWII destroyed that cosy image of life. My father was 33 when the war ended. By the time he had settled down, met my mother, earned enough to get married on, and they had their first child he was 42. He was a meek and mild mannered man who didn't drink. He was appalled at any conflict with the law. A police car outside the house was a cause of shame. He was also an accepting man and rarely questioned things.
When the first Sputnik came over our house in the late fifties I was only a small child with a younger brother. But my Father took us downstairs and out into the yard, put us both high up on his shoulders, and there, he pointed as that tiny light crossed the star filled sky. Why did my father lift us to his shoulders? I don't know. I guess he thought we were closer and could see better that way.
My father had an outstanding trait. He told really, really bad stories. These stories never really had an ending. Now a story doesn't have to be boring just because it doesn't have an ending. Many famous movies have no ending. But my father's stories weren't this kind. They were boring and they never had an ending. In fact, without an ending meant, to me, that they would finish sooner and I wouldn't have to listen any more.
The worst thing about these stories (and if the old fella collared you there was no escape, you had to listen) was that they made no sense ... like really .. none at all. There was no moral, there was no point, there was no plot. He just seemed to make them up as he went. Over the years I had to listen to untold numbers of them. One day as he was telling me some interminable complicated meaningless tale, (I was in my late teens by this time) it suddenly dawned on me that I had heard this one before. Actually, it wasn't that he had told it before but it seemed to have a common theme.
The more I examined this idea the more I came to realise, that meaningless as each story was, they had a common pattern. What was the theme? I spent a lot of time trying to remember some of the craziest ones. And, eventually, I came upon the secret to the pattern. Now I was armed, I was gleeful, the next time my father caught me unawares and started on an interminable story I would be ready. And I was. And my father was surprised and pleased.
He said then and there, there will be no more stories any more, only one piece of advice to give.
This is the advice he gave, 'If you see one of the child-of-men bend over to the ground, then fly away quickly'
I asked him why.
He said, 'Because they are picking up a stone to throw at you'.
I thought about this and said, 'Dad, what if they already have a stone in their pocket?'
My father looked proud, and said, 'Son, your a Crow, and the son of a Crow'
Out of all the stories I recall, I have picked two at random. I was going to pick three, but decided that would be a boring story too far.
My Fathers Story:
There was a man, a simple man, a plain man, a man of very little means.
The man worked in a brickyard, and every day as he set off to work, his wife made and packed him a nice big lunch in a nice big lunch bag. At the end of the day the man would place two bricks in his now empty lunch bag and take them home to his lodgings where he and his wife lived.
They had managed, between them, to save a small amount of money and they had bought a nice pretty little green meadowsweet block of land in the country nearby.
Each weekend they carried the bricks that the man had stolen from the brickyard out to their little plot. And over the years, with much toil, together they managed to build a house, debt free.
There was one brick left over. Such had been their toil invested in acquiring each and every brick that they couldn't bring themselves to throw it away. So they kept it. It was always in the way in one way or another. Over the years they shifted it room from room, placed it on benches, hid it behind doorways. One day the man accidentally kicked it and broke his toe. In a rage he picked up the brick, raced down to the back fence and hurled it into the wilderness. At last he was rid of it.
And that's the end of my fathers story. And that is a typical story. Plot, metaphor, moral, unknown.
Here is another story I picked from memory's collection. It's just as crazy as the first, but at least it's a different story.
My Father's Story:
There was a man, a simple man, a plain man, a man of very little means. The man had been to the races and there he had had a really big win. Not only had he picked six winners in a row but the last had come in at 59:1
He was happy, he was contented, he was ebullient. He had lunched well, and he had lunched largely. The oysters, like all oysters should be, he had eaten natural in their own ocean juices with just a touch of rock salt and the tiniest squeeze of fresh lime individually applied to each one by himself.
He had eaten a dozen for starters. And after he had polished off the main of lobster topped with slices of charcoal eye filet, he had not stinted on the after dinner Stilton, nor the port wine. He was a very generous man, and when in funds, such as the present moment he was a generous tipper. The waiter had been well pleased.
The man was a plump jovial fellow, and he settled into his first class cabin on the train home with a contented sigh. He was in a first class smoker, and from his pocket he withdrew a huge cigar. Soon he was puffing away without a care in the world and feeling about as good as it was possible to feel in that day and age.
The door to the cabin opened. One of those large pigeon breasted women who look down on anyone who is not related in some way to royalty, or does not have a hyphenated surname and whose name does not appear in DeBrett, stood in the doorway. A supercilious frown appeared on her face as she saw the man's cigar.
She carried a small dog, one of those little hairy-water-chestnut-prince-cock-a-charles-spaniels or something. Not a real dog as dogs go. A different species, they can't walk, they have to be carried by old hard proud women with enormous breasts. That's their only form of locomotion. They make up for this disability by constantly yapping.
Eventually the women entered the cabin, there was no other vacant first class, and sat down opposite the happy punter. She looked at him disdainfully, but that didn't worry him, he puffed away in perfect contentment.
She said, 'Excuse me, I don't like cigars, could you please put that out, now.' The man, startled, looked to the label on the cabin door. Sure enough, it said smoker. The man pointed this out to the women. The cabin was a smoker. Nevertheless, the women insisted that the man put out the cigar, she didn't like it and neither did Archibald, her dog, it made him all snuffy.
The man said the cigar was a cuban of exceptional quality and great expense, to put it out and relight it later would destroy it's subtle flavour and fragrance. He was not going to put it out, he was within his rights, and he had paid for the pleasure.
The women, in a fury, flung the window down, reached forward and ripped the cigar from the man's fingers. She flung it out the window of the fast moving train. The man, reacting on instinct coupled with a rising rage, hardly paused. In a fluid motion he reached forward between the women's enormous quivering cleavage and took Archie by the tail. With a few rapid swings around his head to build up speed he launched Archie out the window after the cigar.
The women was speechless with shock and horror. The man too, realised that perhaps he had gone a little far. Both sat staring at each other anxiously. Soon the train pulled into the next station. Both raced towards the door as the train stopped. They jumped out onto the platform and looked far back, down along the track. Sure enough, there was Archie, using his legs for once, galloping down the track along the sleepers as fast as his little tender feet would carry him. He was carrying something in his mouth. As he got closer, urged on by pigeon-breasts loving excited coo's, they could just make out what it was he had in his mouth.
At this point the old man paused with a smug look and said, 'Guess what Archie was carrying in his mouth?'
'The cigar' I replied, glad the story was over.
'No' said the old man, 'he was carrying the brick'.
