27 July 2013

I have no stories

All I do here is complain.  But I wouldn't want the boys reading this blog and remembering me as a complainer who whined all through their entire childhood.  When I think of my father and what he was like when I was growing up, I remember his stories.  Sometimes they were long, drawn out narratives and sometimes they were little snippets of his life.

Whenever he estimates the number of people in a crowd, I'm apt to believe him because he often recounted tales of counting ducks who scuttled about and being diligent about herding them all, each and every one, back home. 

I had a serious problem with cows.  I mean, I LOVED them.  Some girls dug ponies and some fancied puppies and kittens, but not me.  I'd pick a bovine buddy over the rest one any day.  First of all, they can kill you (hello...stampedes!) but they don't.  Imagine a creature with all that power at their hooftips who instead chooses to peacefully graze all day.  But I also think my early love of cows had much to do with my father's stories of his farm's water buffalo.  He spoke of them so tenderly that I couldn't help elevating them to regal status.  Once, when the family fell on hard times, they had to sell a portion of their herd and my father told me that they saw them shed tears, looking mournfully back at him.  Now that I'm an adult I understand that it was more likely my father, as a fretful boy, who shed the tears, but when I first heard him imbue cattle with so much emotion, I was completely drawn in by his storytelling.

Though I'd like to believe that I shield the boys from the majority of my neuroses.  I mean, we're still doing stuff like leaping from bed in to bed in our hotel room, right?

No comments: