the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

I'm not sure why, but I recently decided it would be fun to find ways to tell stories (and get others to tell stories) with the "so there I was..." lead-in. It entertained me for a while, until I said it at a party. I was about to launch into some tale which now escapes me, but I said, "So there I was," then paused, as you do after you say this, and Bling (it's his call sign) said, "Three knuckles deep in a Persian hooker...."

You can't really follow that. 

But it didn't break me of the quasi-habit. Nope. I continued to start stories like this (and influence the occasional soft-headed friend to mimic me, poor critters), then I happened to say it in front of another friend (female, straight, married, children...). I was about to tell her the story I'm about to tell you, and I began--of course--with "so there I was...." 

And she said, "In the Congo. With my tongue up some chick's ass."

That was more of a show-stopper than Bling's comment a couple of weeks earlier. I think I choked. 

***

Anyhow...I've only recently come to appreciate how many stories I have. I've been busy living and such, making ends meet, being in love, kicking kittens around, and generally wreaking havoc with conservative mindsets the world over, so it wasn't until I found myself amongst my group of friends all the time here that I began to discover that I have more stories than even I know I have. One of them popped into my head this last weekend because someone mentioned loving the book Where The Red Fern Grows. I agreed instantly, of course; this was one of my favorite books when I was growing up. 

Back in Virginia, I was with Barb, see. Barb was and is an animal lover in every sense. When we went to Gouda (in the Netherlands) to visit a cheese farm, she petted every creature in the place. I remember pulling her back from reaching through the fence to pet the bull, even. That is the level of animal lover she is: off the charts. 

I love animals, too, but even I cannot compete with Barb's affection for anything animate and non-human. (Except fish. For some reason, she has no problem murdering innocent fish and frying them until they're golden brown and utterly delicious.) 

For my part in this story, it's important to understand that my father always read to us. That's sweet, you say, but all dads do that, right? No. He did it our entire lives. We'd be washing the dishes or engaging in some other unavoidable delay, and he'd sit down at the table behind us and start reading something to us. It might be a Sherlock Holmes story, or "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," or some cute thing he'd just found in Reader's Digest. It didn't matter. He enjoyed sharing literature, and we enjoyed absorbing it in this passive manner. 

It should come as no surprise that I, also, enjoy reading to people--or "sharing literature," as I prefer to think of it. Reading aloud is an acquired skill, though. It's something you have to spend years doing (and preferably, having done to you) so as to refine your delivery. Good reading is acting, really. You don't just one day do it. You learn it over a lifetime. 

I'm not as good as Daddy is, but I'm pretty good, nonetheless. 

So there we were, on an overcast, rainy Saturday afternoon in Virginia. Both of us were off work and there wasn't much to do. I'd been reading Where the Red Fern Grows to her, a chapter at a time. She worked all the time, so that was normally all I could get in at a time. She decided it would be cool to finish the book that afternoon. I thought it was a capital plan. We relaxed on the balcony and I began to read. 

I was a bit over half-way through the book at this point, I think. Maybe two-thirds. We were launching into the coon-hunting championships, as I remember. Barb and I both curled up under blankets on the balcony and got into the story. 

Remember that the book is very animal-lovery from the beginning. I mean, it's about a home-schooled hillbilly in the Ozarks who wants coon hounds so badly that he saves his nickels and dimes for five years so he can buy two hunting pups, since his family is too poor to get them for him. He trains them himself, develops a special bond with them, and eventually becomes the talk of the county, what with his hounds' hunting skills. Everything for most of the book is fuzzy puppies and happiness. 

So I pick up on the entry to the state (?) championships, which our young hero got into only because his grandfather, who owned the local country store and trafficked his coon hides for him, kept count of his coups and entered him in the contest. So far, we have a sickly sweet story, right? Young hero goes and, despite a blizzard, wins the championship. He comes home with the winnings (which he gives his folks, like he does all the money from his coon hides, since all he wants is to hunt with his dogs), and goes back into the hills to hunt--just him, Old Dan, and Little Ann. 

Then they tree the mountain lion. 

At this point, I begin to steel myself. I've read this book at least twice before. There are no surprises for me here. I know what's going to happen. I can keep it together while I read this story aloud. I will do this thing. 

Both of the dogs intercede when the cougar comes after Young Hero.* I clench my teeth and read on. Young Hero pulls his dogs from the dead throat of the mountain lion and decides Little Ann is in worse shape.

* I did that on purpose.

I glance at Barb. She's watching me, expressionless. 

Good. I can do this. 

Young Hero (Billy, I think) starts helping his puppies down the mountain only to discover that Old Dan isn't with them. He backtracks to find he sustained a deep gash in the belly and his intestines have fallen out and gotten hung on a briar by the trail. Through his tears, he kneels next to Old Dan, cleans the debris off the intestine the best he can, carefully puts the organ back in the cavity, and ties his shirt around it (or something like that) before carrying him home. 

Everything goes well until Old Dan dies from his injuries the next day and Little Ann gives up her desire to live. She mopes around, doesn't eat, and sleeps on Old Dan's grave. This was where I lost it. Almost instantly, Barb was bawling and laughing uncontrollably. 

She fetched a fresh box of Kleenex, then--still laughing and crying--said, "I wasn't going to cry. You were being so strong. I wasn't going to be the one." We blew our noses and wiped our eyes and I kept reading. Every couple of pages, we'd stop and cry, blow our noses, and read again. 

By the end of the book, the box of tissues was empty, the balcony was littered with crumpled tissues, and both of us were exhausted but oddly happy.

It was one of the singularly most cathartic experiences of my life.

d