The Stories We Tell

Father George is a storyteller in the truest sense of the word. He bows his head, organizing the words before he speaks. He tells me that he shares stories during his homilies and I ask if the men enjoy them. He tells me that two of them do.

I’ve been visiting with this priest for nearly eight years, first with my Golden Retriever, Roger, and now with my English Lab, Ivy. I would find him in the activities room of the retirement home where he would be organizing crafts. He and two other men would invite me to join them for coffee and conversation. He is the only one left of the three, and so now his stories are just for me.

The retired priest has taken workshops on the art of storytelling and has shared some of his knowledge with me. I know to read a story five times before sharing it. It’s okay to forget parts and make up new ones. When writing a story, it’s helpful to think in terms of threes, and I am reminded that decorating in threes is also appealing.

On my recent visit, George invited some of the other men to join us on the porch—one at a time. Jim prefers that I not call him Father, because he is retired. I asked him what was new in the house and he paused before responding. He said they were back on lock-down and consequently there weren’t as many stories to share of trips and adventures. I asked about his sister and her dogs, which brought to his face a smile as he told about the cat who just couldn’t get along with the dog and about the allergies brought on by her dander.

When we were alone, George told me his story about a king who wanted more to come from the sky than simply rain, snow, and fog. He commanded something different and received thick, sticky goo in return. In order to get rid of it, he had to say he was wrong and that he was sorry. When he did, the goo disappeared and the rain was welcomed.

It was my turn to tell a story about my walks with Ivy—about looking down to keep her from eating crabapples and, as a result, missing the beauty around me. I purposed to look up and began to see new things, which I listed in threes. I had practiced that story every morning on my walks, sometimes concentrating so hard that I forgot all about looking.

Before I left, Father George taught me a card trick. Starting with a deck of cards with all aces on top, I was to separate the deck into four piles. With each of three piles, I counted out three cards and placed them on the bottom of the pile. I then took one card at a time and placed them on top of the remaining piles. I saved the pile with aces for last. By now, there were three other cards on top, so that when I removed them and put them on the bottom of the pile, my four aces remained. I placed one on top of each pile and when I turned over the top cards, aces appeared. Ever the teacher, he demonstrated the trick, explained it, and then had me do it. He sent me home with the deck of cards to continue the trick on others.

Father George is one who looks up. Though his eyesight is failing, he seeks out what is beautiful. He has his faith, his tricks, and his stories. When I prepare to leave, I ask him if there is anything I can bring him from the outside world. He tells me, no, that he has everything he needs. I believe he does.