My Favourite Storyteller

My dad was a storyteller. In the few memories I have of my father, I can pick out numerous ones of him telling outrageous stories to me that my 3-5 year old brain took as fact. While if I told you them you would say, 'that's a joke! how could anyone believe that?' and I agree, who would believe such a thing? However, growing up, any sentence that came from my dad's mouth would be a statement I defended with my life, something I think many people can relate to. As a child, I looked at my dad as a man who had lived life, and had the proof to back it up. That's why when he told me about how I was born on a farm in a water bucket, (despite having lived in the city my whole life) I believed him with the utmost certainty. In fact, it wasn't until I finally questioned my mom a few years ago that it occurred to me how outlandish it was. Regardless of the decieving nature of it all, I'm grateful to my dad for the memories I have of the entertaining, ridiculous, and shocking stories he told me.

One of the most memorable stories I was told is still one I look back on when I need a laugh, or a good topic starter. I am half indigenous, I get it from my dad, but I was never very involved in my culture and no one pushed me to research it. That's why, when my dad told me an almost cultish story to do with tradition in our family, I believed it wholeheartedly. On a morning when my dad had come home late the previous night, late enough that I did not see him before going to bed, I asked him what he had been doing because, as any child was, I was curious.

"Well, my girl, do you remember where we go fishing?" He asked me. I did, it was a small clearing of sand and gravel beside the river near our townhouse. So I nodded, waiting for the rest of his explanation.

"Right, so there was a huge pile of bones there, and the family was there, grandma, your cousins, your uncles. There was a big fire too." He continued, painting a picture for me that sounded more interesting than any Sunday morning cartoons could be.

"Your grandma said, "hey son, come here," and so I walked to her and they cut a small line into my elbow. Right here," he explained, touching the inner part of my elbow where they supposedly made this incision, "and they reached in, and pulled out the small bone in there before tossing it in the pile of bones. Then, they took a different bone and put it in its place. They wrapped it up and I came home. It was my turn for the tradition last night." He finished the story and walked off to continue his morning, with no further explanation, as if what he had said was as simple as reading out the newspaper. It was such a jumbled mess of words looking back on it that I wonder how I never questioned him. Or even asked to look at the healing would that must've been there should the story be true. Granted, kids are quite naïve, so perhaps I shouldn't be so hard on myself.

I remember being grossed out by the story rather than suspicious and my face scrunching together in partial disgust. But, I was also fascinated by it and the image it gave stuck with me for all these years. The thought of this weird bone swap being done to my father in the middle of the night seemed like the most interesting story any five year old could have available to them. I thought about it for that whole day but never brought it up to anyone until I was much older and wanted an interesting conversation filler.

While this story was so clearly made up, (for a multitude of reasons) I still look back on it as a fond memory of my father, the man who used these outlandish stories he came up with to make the life he lived seem more exciting for my still developing brain. I thank him for showcasing one of the truest parts of my culture, storytelling. Dad, I hope you passed that special talent down to me, and if you did, I hope you believe I am doing a good job with it.