Storytelling is an art of necessity that you learn when you are young and come home rather late from lying in the grass with Corinne in her backyard talking and holding her hand, your head on her shoulder, observing the slight rise of her breasts as she breathes, and your mother is at the door, wanting an explanation, and rather than get Corinne on your mother’s list of Temptresses, you invent a story in which you were hitchhiking and a drunk picked you up and he was a veteran of D-Day, wounded by the Nazis in defense of democracy, a good man fallen on hard times, and he was too drunk to drive so you took the wheel and drove him home and listened to his long list of troubles and then had to walk home. True? No. Sinful? Hardly.
You’ve done it again, GK! You struck the deepest chord and suddenly my heart felt full and my eyes were full with tears and reminded once again through your largesse that life is happening now. Act now. My late Father used to say “don’t postpone joy.” And never miss a chance to tell someone you love them. Thank you for the great storytelling and the deep impact of the story.
The genius of that lie is that even if you don't believe it, you would not dare call it out for fear of insulting a veteran who was shot by Nazis even though you know that the veteran is fictional.
How touching is that story!!! So much so this good man in your allegory sought the love of the woman he loved, no matter. Although bruised with a nunaway team that ended up overturrned in the ditch, lucky to be alive. Nothing got in the way of his love and commitment. Love will see them through, as long as they live. This is a fine story to be told to gathered-'round late year teens! You don't need to read it. Tell it! As Paul Simon told us in "Kodachrome," "....Noting can match my sweet imagination....."
Writers do need to invent stories, and how glad I am I can reread yours, since I have this newfangled way of saving them in an electric file. That World Wide Web comes in handy for this gal who beat you to eighty 3.3 years ago. My dear sister is neck and neck with you. I’m glad I have both of you in my life.
I wake up very early each morning and start reading my emails, drinking my coffee with homemade nut or soy milk. Your email is always so wonderful. I loved the stories of your grandparents and your parents. Thank you for sharing them and stirring my emotions on this early morning. I have a lovely feeling in my heart. God’s blessings to you and your loved ones.
Once again, you've proven that "regular" people have great wit and possess a wealth of understated drama in their pasts. I always enjoy reading about your family. They remind me of the stock from which I descend. And thank you for the reminder that the politicians we hate or love on any given day are humans as well. It's easy to forget amidst the rancor.
Each time I read of your father losing control of the double team of horses while working the fields and being flung to the ditch, I remember my family’s story (reported in the local newspaper also) of my great great grandfather out on his farm in Audubon, MN on his farm equipment being pulled by a double team of horses - and the horses galloping out of control, and he was tossed with a less fortunate ending as he died. Reginius Larsen (his son was first to change to “Larson” - reason yet unknown), an immigrant from Norway. While our story ends more tragically, your story still brings warm memories of Minnesota life and family. A few more chapters to go for me to finish Boom Town - thanks for ALL your stories - love them all.
I suppose most couples tell their progeny the "Origin Story." Mine starts in Bridgeport, CT. The woman was a local gal - nominally a Congregationalist, because "that's what Good Connecticut Yankees are." My father-to-be was born to Methodist missionary stock. They seem to have pledged Methodism as de rigueur for all their lineage for the rest of time immemorial. Which is to say, he regularly attended a Methodist church to please his mother - who was born in a Methodist mission in India. Privately though, he stuck to Science as "The only one, true way." It just so happened that the Methodists in Bridgeport in the 1940s met in Reverend Hatch's Congregationalist church building. The two Youth Groups intermingled. (Dad didn't tell his mother that!)
Dad was the shy sort. He probably wouldn't have "popped the question" if there hadn't been a lot of prompting from the other side. He did get around to it, though, around noon on December 7, 1941. With a discrete new diamond ring on her finger, the Lady Love went home to hear that the Japanese had been bombing Pearl Harbor practically concurrently with the ringing in! Somehow, the rest that followed in their "Origin Story" never held a candle for me, to the timing of their proposal!
To appease her future Mother-in-Law, the young woman had to practically sign in blood that any children born to the couple would be raised as Methodists. With that little detail cemented, the families got together and the Reverend Hatch married them, "Til Death do us Part." As it turned out, death didn't even do much parting. Forty-five years after those vows, and a decade after her death, I retired and came to live in my father's house. I slept in an upstairs room. From time to time, I'd hear his voice calling out her name as she returned to him in his dreams. Several women in the Methodist Church he attended tried, in vain, to interest him in recoupling. But theirs was a marriage that lasted beyond their lifetimes. The one thing that made death acceptable in Dad's final days was his oft-repeated thought: "I'll meet her in Heaven." Perhaps that has come to pass.
Beautiful stories, Garrison. A couple of things, first you should expand the first paragraph into a longer short story, especially the first about you and Corrine. I knew Corrine via my girlfriend Gloria, my future wife. I was always impressed with her intelligence and outgoing personality. Gloria and Corrine remained friends even after Gloria moved to Minneapolis when I met her and the rest his history. Corrine was one of Gloria's bridesmaids at our wedding in June of '61 which is the last time I ever saw her. You may not even have to fictionalize that part since both women are no longer with us.
The second is that photo of your parents (engagement photo?) very much resembles the engagement photo of my parents in '29, including their appearances (which I have on display in our smaller guestroom). He was a farm boy and physical laborer from MN and she was from an Iowa small town and a housekeeper ("domestic") in Minneapolis. They were married in '30, my sister was born a year later and I, the "caboose", born in '40. They were in love and we had a loving family until my mother passed away from cancer in '60.
I married Gloria in '61 and later that year, Dad married Lillian who was a wonderful stepmother. She even made a Twins fan out of my Dad. She passed away suddenly in '90 so my Dad survived to wonderful 29 year marriages before he passed away in '92. We were wonderfully blessed.
Are subscribers aware that they likely shall have their subscriptions to GK & Friends renewed automatically on their credit cards? What a hassle to remove that charge now that most banks mandate everything be done on line. And it was impossible to contact Substack directly, asking they remove the charge, which I had not authorized. I did not want to post this information here, but think subscribers need to be aware of this dubiously acceptable policy.
You’ve done it again, GK! You struck the deepest chord and suddenly my heart felt full and my eyes were full with tears and reminded once again through your largesse that life is happening now. Act now. My late Father used to say “don’t postpone joy.” And never miss a chance to tell someone you love them. Thank you for the great storytelling and the deep impact of the story.
The genius of that lie is that even if you don't believe it, you would not dare call it out for fear of insulting a veteran who was shot by Nazis even though you know that the veteran is fictional.
How touching is that story!!! So much so this good man in your allegory sought the love of the woman he loved, no matter. Although bruised with a nunaway team that ended up overturrned in the ditch, lucky to be alive. Nothing got in the way of his love and commitment. Love will see them through, as long as they live. This is a fine story to be told to gathered-'round late year teens! You don't need to read it. Tell it! As Paul Simon told us in "Kodachrome," "....Noting can match my sweet imagination....."
Writers do need to invent stories, and how glad I am I can reread yours, since I have this newfangled way of saving them in an electric file. That World Wide Web comes in handy for this gal who beat you to eighty 3.3 years ago. My dear sister is neck and neck with you. I’m glad I have both of you in my life.
beautiful stories
I wake up very early each morning and start reading my emails, drinking my coffee with homemade nut or soy milk. Your email is always so wonderful. I loved the stories of your grandparents and your parents. Thank you for sharing them and stirring my emotions on this early morning. I have a lovely feeling in my heart. God’s blessings to you and your loved ones.
Tears came into my eyes at the end, there, GK.
Once again, you've proven that "regular" people have great wit and possess a wealth of understated drama in their pasts. I always enjoy reading about your family. They remind me of the stock from which I descend. And thank you for the reminder that the politicians we hate or love on any given day are humans as well. It's easy to forget amidst the rancor.
Beautiful. You made me think of my own family's love stories and I'm smiling. Thank you!
Each time I read of your father losing control of the double team of horses while working the fields and being flung to the ditch, I remember my family’s story (reported in the local newspaper also) of my great great grandfather out on his farm in Audubon, MN on his farm equipment being pulled by a double team of horses - and the horses galloping out of control, and he was tossed with a less fortunate ending as he died. Reginius Larsen (his son was first to change to “Larson” - reason yet unknown), an immigrant from Norway. While our story ends more tragically, your story still brings warm memories of Minnesota life and family. A few more chapters to go for me to finish Boom Town - thanks for ALL your stories - love them all.
I suppose most couples tell their progeny the "Origin Story." Mine starts in Bridgeport, CT. The woman was a local gal - nominally a Congregationalist, because "that's what Good Connecticut Yankees are." My father-to-be was born to Methodist missionary stock. They seem to have pledged Methodism as de rigueur for all their lineage for the rest of time immemorial. Which is to say, he regularly attended a Methodist church to please his mother - who was born in a Methodist mission in India. Privately though, he stuck to Science as "The only one, true way." It just so happened that the Methodists in Bridgeport in the 1940s met in Reverend Hatch's Congregationalist church building. The two Youth Groups intermingled. (Dad didn't tell his mother that!)
Dad was the shy sort. He probably wouldn't have "popped the question" if there hadn't been a lot of prompting from the other side. He did get around to it, though, around noon on December 7, 1941. With a discrete new diamond ring on her finger, the Lady Love went home to hear that the Japanese had been bombing Pearl Harbor practically concurrently with the ringing in! Somehow, the rest that followed in their "Origin Story" never held a candle for me, to the timing of their proposal!
To appease her future Mother-in-Law, the young woman had to practically sign in blood that any children born to the couple would be raised as Methodists. With that little detail cemented, the families got together and the Reverend Hatch married them, "Til Death do us Part." As it turned out, death didn't even do much parting. Forty-five years after those vows, and a decade after her death, I retired and came to live in my father's house. I slept in an upstairs room. From time to time, I'd hear his voice calling out her name as she returned to him in his dreams. Several women in the Methodist Church he attended tried, in vain, to interest him in recoupling. But theirs was a marriage that lasted beyond their lifetimes. The one thing that made death acceptable in Dad's final days was his oft-repeated thought: "I'll meet her in Heaven." Perhaps that has come to pass.
Fiction is often the truest expression.
Beautiful stories, Garrison. A couple of things, first you should expand the first paragraph into a longer short story, especially the first about you and Corrine. I knew Corrine via my girlfriend Gloria, my future wife. I was always impressed with her intelligence and outgoing personality. Gloria and Corrine remained friends even after Gloria moved to Minneapolis when I met her and the rest his history. Corrine was one of Gloria's bridesmaids at our wedding in June of '61 which is the last time I ever saw her. You may not even have to fictionalize that part since both women are no longer with us.
The second is that photo of your parents (engagement photo?) very much resembles the engagement photo of my parents in '29, including their appearances (which I have on display in our smaller guestroom). He was a farm boy and physical laborer from MN and she was from an Iowa small town and a housekeeper ("domestic") in Minneapolis. They were married in '30, my sister was born a year later and I, the "caboose", born in '40. They were in love and we had a loving family until my mother passed away from cancer in '60.
I married Gloria in '61 and later that year, Dad married Lillian who was a wonderful stepmother. She even made a Twins fan out of my Dad. She passed away suddenly in '90 so my Dad survived to wonderful 29 year marriages before he passed away in '92. We were wonderfully blessed.
Are subscribers aware that they likely shall have their subscriptions to GK & Friends renewed automatically on their credit cards? What a hassle to remove that charge now that most banks mandate everything be done on line. And it was impossible to contact Substack directly, asking they remove the charge, which I had not authorized. I did not want to post this information here, but think subscribers need to be aware of this dubiously acceptable policy.
Excellent!