Family stories—those legends that get passed down through the generations—some true, some highly exaggerated, others probably myths, but too good to abandon so we keep telling them. I was reminded of that when I spent a delightful shopping weekend with some of my favorite women. Each year, the men go off to the woods to do the manly thing by providing venison for their families; translation—they go to hunting camp and have a blast and maybe one of them might shoot something.
Hunting camp itself is based on legend. The “Clyde’s Cup Club,” is named after their ancestor Clyde who has been gone for so many years that many of them never really knew him. But oh the stories—they can all repeat the stories. Topping the list, is a tale of a young Clyde’s escapade with a certain young lady in a horse-drawn wagon and his inability to take “no” for an answer.
Clyde’s sons are all gone as well, but their sons and grandsons occupy bedrooms at the club that are named after each one of them. There’s “Stan’s Studio,” “Jack’s Joint,” “Bob’s Bungalow,” and “Ken’s Castle.” At night they sit by the fire and reminisce. They talk about Clyde, they talk about Clyde’s sons, and they talk about themselves. And they laugh. In fourteen years or so little Jack will join them—by that time there will be new stories and the old ones will have changed in the telling.
So, as I went on my fourth annual shopping trip, I was keenly aware of the stories and legends that exist amongst the women as well. We compete for “best deal” of the weekend; we discuss whether or not it was worth it to have Kari in a wheel chair last year with her handicap parking privilege; and we laugh about the times we’ve packed too many of us into one fitting room. We come home and we laugh and talk some more and none of us would miss “show and tell” where we each take our turn showing our purchases.
My grand-daughter Piper joined us this past weekend, making me aware of the generational stories that will be passed on to her. (She belonged with us because she is a girl after all and it’s never too early to start her training in proper shopping techniques.) She was fussing a little in the evening, so my daughter decided to tell her some of our classic family stories. “Auntie Ro-Ro” decided to entertain her with stories of her grandmother. So . . . the legend of the shepherd’s pie started its journey through the generations.
It’s not that funny really, but my children witnessed it and they think it’s funny. It involved a recipe with layers of hamburger, corn, some canned soup and mashed potatoes on top. Rather than preparing the instant mashed potatoes, I merely sprinkled the flakes on top, assuming that some magic would take place in the oven and turn the flakes into mashed potatoes. The shepherd’s pie was a thin layer of goo which my children have never forgotten. And now Piper knows the story, but she’s okay with it because she also believes in magic.
When it was my turn to tell Piper a story, the tables were turned on Auntie Ro-Ro. It involved a Palm Sunday, a children’s choir up front and a four-year-old Ro-Ro who had not yet developed her musical ear. Above the children’s gentle singing of the song “A King Comes Riding By,” we heard her loud chant—same words but no melody. So here’s where some bad parenting came in—her father and I laughed, and when she observed us she became silent. Honestly, we tried not to, we just did and to this day she reminds us about it. Call me a bad mom, but it still makes me laugh. (She did figure it out eventually and has lots of musical skills.)
Piper heard these stories and more and will continue to hear them as she grows up. I expect they’ll change with the telling and with time, but that’s okay. We’ll tell her about the glamorous outfit we bought for her on her first shopping trip; a gold dress, little gold shoes and a fur shrug—all in the tiniest sizes ever. (We opted out of the purse.) We’ll tell her how we all were watching the Michigan/Michigan State game on television while waiting for her to be born, and I’m sure her dad and mom will tell her that Uncle Tony and Uncle Tito were able to use their season tickets and actually see the game live because of her arrival.
And so the stories continue . . . and grow . . . and change. My children and grandchildren will pass them on. And they will laugh.
“Life will go on as long as there is someone to sing, to dance, to tell stories and to listen.”
Oren Lyons
