Your Personal Testimony
In our upcoming show, three wonderful and very different authors have written fictional stories based on defining moments and experiences in their lives. When we are talking about such deep core experiences, fiction can be a better way to tell a story than simply relating the facts, because fiction lets us explore not just the experience but also what the experience means to us.
The first story, “Rules of the Game” by Amy Tan is about Meimei, the American-born only daughter of two Chinese immigrants,. She demonstrates an extraordinary gift for chess at a very early age. She remembers: I loved the secrets I found within the sixty-four black and white squares. I carefully drew a handmade chessboard and pinned it to the wall next to my bed, where I would stare for hours at imaginary battles. But her Mother quickly took charge and made it seem like all those trophies were more about the Mother than her daughter.
I think this situation will remind a lot of you of your own experiences which you can share in the Post Comments section below.
My questions for you are:
Did you find something you loved to do early in life?
Did you have a parent with whom you had a constant power struggle, even from an early age?
Our second story, “Why I Like Country Music” by James Alan McPherson, is a story about an extraordinarily precious memory that goes back to fourth grade. Our hero, a shy, willful and spoiled boy, falls in love with the most beautiful fourth grade girl in all of South Carolina, who happens to sit in the seat right in front of him: I loved the lemony vapor on which she floated; I loved the way she caused my heart to tumble whenever, during a restless moment, she seemed about to turn her head in my direction.
My question for you is:
Do you have a memory from childhood about an experience or a person that made you deliciously happy?
Our third story, “The Management of Grief” by Bharati Mukherjee is the inspiring story of one woman’s path to recovery from a terrible tragedy. She finds strength to build a new life not in a single dramatic moment of revelation, but through a gentle reconnection with the spirit of her lost loved one.
My question for you is:
Did something or someone in your life give you the inspiration to get over a serious loss or disappointment?
My parents and I never struggled over power. I always felt closer to my parents because we did not have aggression between us. As an adult, however, I wish that there was some of that struggle between us. I wonder how not having someone to confront in my youth has resulted in a difficulty with power relationships as an adult. I am excited about this upcoming show. I think you’ve chosen some great stories.
In fourth grade, I crushed on adorable George Kaufman, who sat in front of me, since both of our names started with K and we were alpha-arranged. Looking over his shoulder, I could see he was engrossed in Silver Chief, Dog of the North books. Love made me check them out, too, reading them all. Fourth grade was my year to then read dog books constantly including White Fang, where I learned “jugular” and wanted my own wolf-dog.
Later, George and I became good friends. In high school, he asked me to the prom but I refused since he was my “friend”. Seated next to each other at HS graduation, we did hold hands at an emotional moment of the ceremony.
We were friends at Nebraska U where he became a journalist, and married my college roommate with me attending. I saw him last when he visited my parents’ home with wife Deanna. He smoked a cigar, had arms wrapped around Deanna, and only later when I returned to Alaska to my job, did I learn that he shocked and angered the Omaha World Herald where he worked, to move to Canada, avoiding the Vietnam draft.
He and Deanna later divorced, he remarried a woman who was his soul mate, had a child, and eventually left his news job in Canada to be an English teacher. Haven’t seen him again and we’ve lost contact, but I remember those crush-pangs and thank George for inspiring my reading of great dog stories!
I think the only thing harder being a soldier is being a husband
or a father.
Either way, you invest in the lives of those you love. It doesn’t matter if it’s a friend in a hole in a hole in the wall on a mountain top in a Stone Age country existence twelve thousand miles away or the boy with your name. They are a part of you forever and regardless, you are better for them. Their triumph and sorrow are shared.
The boy with my name has had a very rough year. He has suffered through things that I cannot imagine and certainly he has been exposed to the things I only began to know and understand when I was much older. A lot has happened this year and in these years since my wife took that plane plane ambulance hospital ambulance plane plane ambulance hospital car ride home from the big sandy. As we make our way through this dark night I have begun to see the light.
My little boy you see
made a friend.
Day after day, he came from his new school, did his homework, went to hockey practice and quietly said; “I have no friends”.
A whisper at the end of a long day
As a father, none of this has had as profound an effect on me as the pain of my children. My wife and I are adults and soldiers and these things we have been through are to be expected. It is different for the kids. They never signed the contract - fate just sent them our way.
Just a few weeks ago, I picked up my son from school. I asked the usual questions: How was school? Do you have homework? How was your day? His face lit up and he smiled at me - all teeth and shine. “I met this kid - Logan. We ate lunch together. He’d like to hang out sometime. He plays football on Scottie’s team and gets box seats to the Rockies Games!” Months of heartache and four years of sorrow washed away by an eighth grade boy who had the grace to say hello to my heartsick son. My son’s grades went up, the principle e-mailed about how well he was doing and from somewhere came the light that has been gone for so long.
My son wanted to hang out with Logan a few weekends ago but he was still on restriction and had an early hockey game. I am a task master - he knew not to ask. “Next weekend,” I promised and despite the bad news he smiled at me. “Cool - thanks dad!” We had a good weekend and a winning game. Monday morning, he texted me at work:
Logan’s dead
Logan was hit by a car, while crossing the road by his home, Saturday evening December 6, 2008 in Parker Colorado. He was transported to Parker Adventist Hospital and airlifted to Denver Children’s Hospital. He died that night surrounded by those who loved him.
We, along with what must have been a thousand others, went to the funeral Thursday. I watched as my son wandered among the crowd, an outlier among the masses, lost and small – his friend gone.
That night I cried silently as my son fall asleep in my arms. One lost boy saved by a new friend I will never have the pleasure of knowing.
I will never meet Logan’s parents and I’m sorry for that. They must be wonderful people to have raised this extraordinary young man who recognized that my son needed a friend. For the time Logan gave to me, for the light he turned back on in my son, I am eternally grateful. I can never thank him or his family for giving me back, in a few short weeks, what I could not seem to get on my own.
My son
I wish I could have heard Amy Tan’s story “Rules of the Game” when I
was a teenager. My Mom was just as strong-willed as Amy’s Mom, but I
wasn’t as good a fighter as Amy, My Mom insisted on fixing my hair
every morning — until I went to college! And she would pick me up
every day from school, no matter how much I insisted that I wanted to
take the bus with the other kids. She wasn’t mean — she just
couldn’t understand anyone seeing anything differently than she did.
There was her point of view, which was “reasonable” and “intelligent”
and then there were the rest of us poor slobs who didn’t have a clue
and were just “silly.” Now that she’s old and I take care of her, the
power is totally reversed. She thinks I’m a genius and that I can do
everything. Taking care of my Mom is a lot of work, and it’s often
very irritating — but watching her appreciation and respect and admiration is pretty sweet, I have to tell you.
a lot of your stories are funny and they are cool
miss mia
Does it have to be from childhood or can we experience that special person at any age? We did at 45
McPherson’s story touched us from not only the “falling in love” at first sight but from the dance angle. Almost 16 years ago I attended a night of singles square dancing where I was immediately noticed by another single dancer. Each dance he maneuvered himself to be my “corner” or the man to my right in the square. Six weeks later we were married and are still as happy together as when we first met. And are still dancing.
McPherson spoke of the laughter but square dancing is much more. To have a successful square there must be eight people working together to form one graceful flowing unit. Sometimes, like in the story, if one person does not know all the correct steps, he can watch the others and learn from them as he follows along. If the square breaks down, there is no blame but a regrouping and continuance. It’s kind of like life should be. All of us working together to achieve a common goal of a happy and prosperous life.
In this tumultuous time I hope that some of the activities some have labeled as “hokey” will be revisited. There is lots of square dancing out there. It is cheap, great exercise, and challenging to the mind.
We thoroughly enjoyed all the stories on Sunday but this was our favorite.