STORIES ARE LIMITLESS

Stories are either written or oral, and are at the base of every civilization. Even cultures who had no written language had storytellers. At a lecture by F. Scott Momaday, a Kiowa Indian writer and educator, he stated that at some time in everyone’s life, he must know from where he came. The Native American has no such problem, because he has been taught the legends of his people over and over his entire life. He can recite his family tree for generations back, and can also remember and tell stories about ancestors long dead.

Stories are painted and carved on rocks throughout the world. Reminders to us that we are not unique, and that those who have gone before us left their legacies for us to interpret.

In the 19th century, missionary schools began popping up on reservations all bent upon teaching the white man’s ways to the Indian children, but in 1870 the first off-reservation schools were organized to ensure that children would come to be Euro-American.

“Emmett Oliver” original watercolor painting by kayti sweetland rasmussen

Our good friend Emmett Oliver, dear friend and educator, recently celebrated his 101st birthday. His mother was a product of one of the off-reservation schools, forcibly taken from her family. Tales of mothers clinging to the fences outside these schools are heartbreaking.

“A Hole In My Heart” Stoneware sculpture by kayti sweetland rasmussen

It was said that a hole formed in the hearts of mothers so that her children could climb back in.

Children were given American names, and boys were given short haircuts and American-style boots. All were taught to work for their keep. Often when boys returned to their homes they knocked the heels off their boots and returned to moccasins.

Once back in the arms of their families, they again became part of the stories of their family.

“I Am Home” stoneware sculpture by kayti sweetland rasmussen

In this sculpture, the child, standing within the warmth of the blanket, is surrounded with the stories of his people. He hears the words once more, and again feels a part of the story.

“What cannot be changed must be accepted. What is accepted must be endured. Back when we were a people on foot, running up and down the mountains, we lost our advantage. People took our land, our children. We accepted everything, except the loss of our children. When you look at us now you will see a big hole in our hearts. This is so our children can climb back in. We go out to your world and come back, trying to decide which way to go. The young travel to places they think will give them everything. After awhile, they come home. They stand in the plaza, looking up at the mountains, seeing our ancestors. We older ones say nothing. Isn’t silence better than a scolding?”

THE STORYTELLER

“I Am a Child of the Sun and Wind” original watercolor painting by kayti rasmussen

CANTALOUP AND KOOL-AID
by kayti rasmussen

Where is the door to the story?
Can we all walk through it?

A story lives on the lips of
Diego from Hollywood days.
Far from this dusty village
where nothing happens.

Cantaloup and Kool-Aid
and a bedroll on the floor,
in this stone village
where he tells his stories.

Even the tree outside our windows
seemed to listen with ruffled
leaves tipping and cooling
in the evening chill.

The pleasant knicker of an Indian pony
through the open window over
heads drowsy with sleep,
announced the coming of the dawn.

We sat around the fire pitching our
own stories into the lap of the storyteller.
We dropped troubles and pain.
Are they now someone else’s stories?

WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN

The Church Pew” stoneware sculpture by kayti sweetland rasmussen

I was not a willing churchgoer as a child. Beyond dressing up in my hat and little white gloves, I was probably like the child on the far right of the sculpture. And then I discovered music.

The music in the church of my grandmother did not reach in and grab me by my soul as I thought it should, but by my teen years I had quietly visited a number of other denominations, including a Southern Baptist church where mine was the only white face. I found the music uplifting, and the faces of the faithful inspiring.

I dressed my daughters in hats and little white gloves and sent them off to church, until my youngest embarrassed us all by singing an old Salvation Army song in the middle of the service; “Put a nickel on the drum, save another drunken bum, Hallelujah!” at which time she was whisked off the stage. Be careful what you sing to your children.

Sitting in the front pew at a guitar Mass in the 70’s I looked down at a quiet grandson and stage whispered him to “Sing”; “I don’t sing” he said. “Of course you sing. EVERYONE sings.” “I don’t sing”. When we left the church I asked him “If you don’t sing, why do you want to go to church?” His answer was “I like the stories.”

My father was an agnostic, sent off to a parochial school as a child after being suspended for being somewhat of a troublemaker. His delight during his stay at the new school was researching the Bible to refute any chapter the teacher had assigned. He had a sharp wit and an astonishing memory and was able to point out dozens of phrases which contradicted a previous one. He was not beloved by his teachers, but the other children loved him.

My maternal grandmother set the style of my religious education, and my mother and aunt followed in her footsteps. I’m sorry to say I was a rebel and a disappointment to them, but my wise little grandson was right; the stories are not bad.

GRANDMA’S STORY-TELLING BED

To say my grandmother often changed her place of residence would be an understatement, but wherever she moved, there were a few belongings which went with her. Among them were the treasured connections to her New England birthplace. A large old dresser made by her great-grandfather in mid-nineteenth century, the large old Kendall family bible, her mother’s childhood autograph book and diary, and not the least, her large old bed. Fortunately for her descendants, Grandma was a saver. She took great pride in assuring us of our proper place in civilized society. Of course like many others in the Great Depression, we had no money, but you can bet your boots
grandma made sure we had class!

The old bed and dresser, like many of the other pieces of memorabilia, now live my house, having dutifully passed through a generation. Grandchildren and now great-grandchildren have been lulled to sleep while snuggled deep in old quilts made by loving hands of long-dead grandmothers. It has been a favorite beacon for story-telling time, stories ranging from fairy princesses to Ranger Dan and the Cowboys, and it was a great place from which to listen for the sound of Santa’s sleigh bells. The edges of the day called out to small children that if they were very quiet, a story might be waiting in Grandma’s bed.

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I am the Grandma now, and have been for many years. Now Great Grandchildren climb upon the old bed, but times have changed. TV is nearly old-hat, and iPad is close behind. What will be the next digital story-teller to amuse these modern children? On Thanksgiving Day a seven year old Great Granddaughter was seen on the old bed watching the movie “Jaws”. I have never thought of that killer shark being a symbol of the harvest festival, and yet?

As this Christmas approaches, I hope someone will still be held in rapt admiration of the great Santa myth, told with such practiced panache by this Grandma, or will there be something new to entertain?

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Times have indeed changed. I even find that I have somehow shrunk during this past year. Children and grandchildren have always been taller than I, but this year while reaching for the wine glasses for Thanksgiving dinner, I found I could not reach the glasses on the second shelf. It truly is not fair, and I hope an absence of height will not be the legacy I leave. Grandma left her bed, so she will be remembered for that. My mother wanted people to remember her as being fun. But I guess we aren’t in charge of others memories.

The radio has been churning out Christmas music since the day before Thanksgiving, and we will remember Bing Crosby singing about a White Christmas he probably never saw, but the saddest legacy in the music department has to be for poor Gene Autry, who rode herd on countless villains on his trusty white steed, but ultimately will be remembered for writing and singing “Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer”.

RICH TRADITIONS OF STORYTELLING

Stories, either written or oral, are the base of our civilization Stories are limitless, and connect people from all walks of life. Cultures who had no written language had storytellers.

At a lecture by F. Scott Momaday, a Kiowa Indian, he stated that at some time in everyone’s life, he must know from where he came. The Native American has no such problem, because he has been taught the legends of his people over and over his entire life. He can recite his family tree for generations back, and can also remember and tell stories about ancestors long dead.

Stories are painted and carved on rocks throughout the world. Reminders to us that we are not unique, and that those who have gone before us left their legacies for us to interpret.

The time honored Indian pueblo pottery tradition of working with clay and telling stories has merged into a modern art form of “storyteller” pottery dolls. The art of making clay effigies is as ancient as the Anasazi peoples who inhabited the deserts of New Mexico many centuries ago. In recent history, it is the Cochiti pueblo potters who are knlown for clay effigies depicting many different aspects of their everyday life.

Helen Cordero of the Cochiti pueblo created her first ‘storyteller’ figure. Cordero’s storyteller mode was her grandfather, who gathered his grandchildren around him to play the drum, sing them songs, and tell stories of their Indian heritage and traditions.

Due to the decline of the number of speakers of native languages in various parts of the world, oral storytelling has become less common. In recent years many of the stories are written down, though many people argue that the telling of the story is just as important as the words within. Story telling, once confined to people in our own community, due to the virtue of the internet, allows us to tell our stories to people around the world.

Language is the archives of history. Ralph Waldo Emerson

THE OLD TABLE

I wonder what stories an inanimate object such as an old dining table might reveal if we were able to listen? Would it sing of families gathered for their daily meals?
Perhaps she who cared for it remembered it from her own childhood, or if found in a quaint old shop, what homes had it rested in?

If a kitchen is the heart of the home, surely a dining table is its handmaiden.

The old woman stood by the table wondering these things. The sound of children pounding on this table while waiting impatiently for breakfast or dinner remains in her ears and she smiles at the memory.

She remembers them sitting diligently doing homework every afternoon as she plied them with cookies and milk. How anxious they were to grow up.

And then there were the grandchildren, who sometimes on a rainy day made “caves” underneath the table, and she let them keep their cave even though it interfered with dinner preparations. Such a little thing to do. She did enjoy spoiling them a bit.

Oh how many dinner parties and holidays this table had seen! A last minute waxing before the pristine white table cloth was gently lowered onto it so as not to muss it up. And the flower arrangements! Too many to even remember. It was so important make sure the silver was polished, and her mother’s crystal shining. It was tradition; this is the way she had been taught by her mother and grandmother.

Holiday dinners with the whole family milling around while the turkey or roast beef (or both) sent out their tantalizing smells were special memories. Everyone trying to help at the same time while children whined because it was taking so long. Her pies had been legendary, and there were alway several for a hoiliday; always pumpkin and apple, and her daughter loved pecan, so she made it for her. Each holiday she made something different that she hadn’t made before, and sometimes they liked it and sometimes they didn’t! She prepared for days ahead.

Do they ever think of those times too? And if they do, were they special to them as well?

Times and customs have changed. When everyone left, there were only two which meant learning to cook all over again, but she did it, and it was a new and different life, special in its own way. More casual perhaps, but satisfying, and there were always occasions when some of the family came again.

And then there was only the old woman, and the old table, though remaining, is in someones else’s dining room. It doesn’t look quite the same she thinks as she caresses the polished surface. Perhaps my eyes are not as strong as they once were, maybe I need new glasses.

“Mother, what are you doing alone in the dining room?” called her daughter. The old woman roused from her reverie replied “I was just remembering.”