The Birth of the Taradiddle
My father started the story-telling tradition for our clan. He actually gave birth to what I would call a taradiddle, even though he never used the term. Most of his narratives came straight out of the humorous realities from his life. He replayed them time and again whenever he had a willing audience. And like most stories, over time, Dad’s stories grew. From childhood, Dad amazed us with his recollection of playing against the Harlem Globetrotters in the 1930’s in Yarmouth, Iowa. I never thought to question Dad’s thrill of a lifetime; after all if he said it, it must be the truth. People began to question the veracity of his story and that ticked me off. So, I set out to document his claim. I am still looking, but I have found enough circumstantial evidence to keep his recollection leaning strongly to truth rather than fiction.
The Globetrotter’s began their march to fame in Chicago in 1926 when Abe Saperstein formed a team of black basketball stars named the “Savoy Big Five.” My dad was nine years old at the time. The first team included people like Bill “Ham” Watson and Walter “Toots” Wright. The team name was changed to the Harlem New York Globetrotters and began touring to seek worthy opponents. They arrived in a Model “T” Ford in Hinckley, Illinois, for their debut game in 1927 in front of 300 fans. The total game payout was $75. From there they toured Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa into the 1930’s and gained more and more credibility and fame. They played their 1,000th game in 1934, meaning they played approximately 120 games a year in a variety of cities and small towns in the mid-west. It is a strong possibility that one of those small towns was Yarmouth, and if so, Dad would have been at the front of the line to play. He would have been seventeen and in the prime of his high school basketball career. In May of 2012 I asked Uncle Major, my dad’s brother, (age 95) if he had any recollection of the Globetrotters in Yarmouth. And, without blinking he said, “Yeah, I remember them smoking cigarettes and eating candy bars in our school lunchroom as they waited for the game.” Why all those weird details unless it really registered in his vivid memory.
My dad stuck with that story until one year before his death when he kicked it up a notch and began to say, “You know the Globetrotters tried to get me to go on the road with them.” He lost me there…but the first edition still intrigues me and causes me to wonder. Dad wasn’t interested at that point in telling his history, he focused on the “story.” How do you separate the truth from the fiction as a biographical writer? You cannot do that completely! You can only demythologize your memories to the limit of your desire to keep your story honest. Dad was a great storyteller, but he was a greater man.
Thug Can Be Only Skin Deep
Dad taught me with his thoughtfulness that a woman loves to receive flowers, wants to be pampered, and desires both closeness and space. He may not have bought many flowers during a more than fifty-year romance, but certainly brought Mom a lot of wild ones. Those deep purple winged violets and root beer brown and deep yellow daisies brought a loving pause to Mom’s busy meal preparations for an unpredictable number of friends and workers.
Dad had incredibly good taste in selecting the prettiest woman in the county. He was a small town boy—a very, very ornery one. The following photo makes him look a bit like a thug. But, then, like father like son. The next picture was taken of me taken 28 years later.
My Dad Was One of the Best
My father had a real sharp eye for the unusual. He could be cultivating on a tractor and spot a small arrowhead between the cornrows that some Native American had lost while hunting years and years ago. He would walk across the lawn and suddenly stop to reach down and pick a four-leaf clover that he always saved for my mom. He could see a morel mushroom while others saw only grass and dead leaves. I asked him how he did those things and he said something profound, “Look for something that isn’t like everything else. Look for what shouldn’t be there.” I would learn later that with a little adaptation that insight would help my fictional writing. The key to writing is the ability and willingness to see what isn’t or shouldn’t be there.
Dad was a hardcore romantic. He loved to sing to my mother. One song always caught my attention–“Can I Canoe You Down the River?” Here are full lyrics.
“Can I canoe you up the river
Can I canoe you up the stream
Can I canoe you up the river
Like I did in last night’s dream
We’ll drift a moment in the moonlight
I’ll fish for little things to say
And with the help of Mr. Moonlight
Maybe you’ll see things my way
I tried to tell you how I care
But never made the grade
Now things might change if I could have
A setting for my serenade
So, can I canoe you up the river
I’ll be as nice as I can be
And hope that while we’re up the river
You’ll go overboard for me”
A Boy Does What a Boy Has to Do!
You are nine years old. You are playing a little league baseball game in the visitor’s area of the Iowa Army Ammunition Plant near Middletown, Iowa. You stand in pain in right field waiting for the end of the fourth inning. A crisis looms just below your belt. No bathrooms exist within site. Your mind races for a solution. No large trees or storage building can be seen. You cannot hold this growing problem for another hour or more. What should the fellow do?
Finally a viable creative idea yells, “Let it rip.” I decided I would just go ahead and alleviate my pain, await the last out of the inning, run at lightening speed to the bench, pick up the water bucket, and “accidentally” pour it over my entire body effectively erasing any tell tale signs of wetting my pants. Relief, sweet relief! Oh, the kids laughed at my clumsiness but they never knew the rest of the story.
via Daily Prompt: Relieved
It is my hope people hearing or reading my stories will be motivated to write and tell their stories. Everyone is a storyteller. Some are just better than others. Think about how many times you say or hear, “I remember,” “You should have been there,” or “Now listen to this.” Those are phrases that indicate the speaker is about to weave a tale of one sort or another.
I used to play a game with my grandchildren in order to tell my stories. I called it “Truth or Fiction.” I would weave a tale and then ask them to guess if it was true or fictitious. This game excited their interest while allowing me to testify to many of the “mighty acts” of God in my life or expose them to some of our family lore. I hoped some of the stories would be etched in their minds and that some of them would take up the family tradition of storytelling.
Our life is a series of moments. They follow one after another in endless succession. A series of moments make an experience. It is fair to say that most moments are hardly discernable and seldom processed. Brief experiences only provide a small effect on our life and are then filed in our subconscious and eventually forgotten. However, important transformational experiences impact our life in one way or another in terms of who we are as a person. As Sue Monk Kidd wrote in the Secret Life of Bees, “Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.” The sum of our experiences determines who we are.
We begin to understand why we act the way we act when we retrace our life to identify transformational moments and how we responded to them. It is like walking backward with a personal characteristic in hand trying to find the place or moment where we picked it up. Transitional moments can be negative experiences such as the premature loss of a parent that drove us into a responsibility for our family that we certainly didn’t want or expect. Or, on the positive side, they can be the special attention given by a teacher that birthed our positive self-concept. Every moment carries the potential for a positive or negative impact upon life, but only a few really make dramatic and immediate changes. Most of my writing focuses on such transitions whether serious or humorous.
Shaping of My Work Ethic
I have returned to the 160-acre farm that provided a wonderful childhood for my sister and me during the fifteen years my mother and father sharecropped the property for Mr. C. J. Artz (affectionately called Artzie Fartzie). I remember him driving his Studebaker out to the fields to watch us work.
Landowners seldom lent a hand in the physical labor. Mr. Artz was a sweet man and gave me the freedom to raise my baby beef and sheep without any rent for the use of his land or its products. Actually, He certainly realized the manual labor that the children of his sharecroppers provided. I don’t believe it entered my mind to complain about the hard work I did. “This isn’t fair” or “I am going to take this week off,” was never uttered. As I think about the laziness of so many children, I have to blame it on the parents for giving their children such an option. I never heard my parents complain about our employer. I am thankful for this because it enabled me to work and serve without resentments. I remember one angry response from my father when I complained about helping him work on a piece of broken equipment on a humid day. The sweat poured off both of us. The salt leaked into my eyes and in pain I said, “I hate this.”
Dad quickly responded, “Nope. I think you should go to the house, I will do this!”
When I retreated with the desire to stay, he said, “Go, go now.”
I rebutted, “But I can help.”
“No, I don’t need your complaining. Go play.”
I was wounded. I was wounded and healed forever. This was a transitional moment in my life. I would never leave my father under those conditions again. I am so thankful that my parents cared enough to block any ideas I might have had to be a lazy complaining bum of a child. Their desire to form a productive child has made it easier to make a difference in this world and to bring happiness and meaning to others. Our folks were not our pals; they were our parents.
These were laborious years—most of the work was not done voluntarily; instead we were obligated by our station in life, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. I can still feel the endless fatigue and perspiration from a long day with a hoe cutting weeds out of the soybean rows. We protected ourselves from the blisters and calluses by using leather gloves. There were also the scratches on my neck and chest and aching muscles from lifting several hundred bales of hay into the barn loft that readily rest in the recesses of my mind. Those were happy years despite the illnesses and hospitalizations that my parents faced and conquered. My father’s heart attack, numerous back surgeries, farm accidents that required multiple stiches, and annual bouts with poison ivy are better relived as a memory than during the times that the incidents rocked our family. My parents bent in the wind, but they never broke.
Humble beginnings are not necessarily a limitation. Martin Luther was born a peasant in rural German. He became a theological giant. Abe Lincoln started life in a one-room rural cabin in Kentucky and became one of the most influential men in the United States.
Replica of the Lincoln Home
Millions of other farm boys got their first view of life feeding pigs, riding horses, hiding in a fort of hay bales in a barn. Not every person born humbly ends famous, but most mature with the satisfaction that they made a difference for their family and community. Obviously, the same can be said of people born in affluent circumstances. What were the differences between children in a rural setting and those in cities? This is the story of one rural family.
My Childhood Home (1946-1963)
My life began in humble but not poor circumstances. I am thankful for that launching platform. I knew little about discretionary spending and never enjoyed using money foolishly. We never hungered, but seldom ate in a restaurant. We had a quaint house, but no extra bedrooms. We argued over bathroom time once we graduated from the galvanized tub. Hospitals were available. We always had a car and a pickup, even though we could often expect a breakdown. Our clothes were clean though simple. Mom accepted hand me downs with grace and thanks. I got glasses when I needed them and then again when I broke them. We were blessed with excellent teachers and public schools. We could afford the hot lunches. I went to the dentist annually but encouraged to not request Novocain because of the expense. We took family vacations but only to locations within a day’s drive. We lived a very simple life.
I didn’t resent having very little money, but I knew before puberty that I wanted something other than farming or living on a lonely lane in Iowa. I had no idea which path I would take away from the farm; nor did I know where the chosen path would lead. I would never have dreamed that I would live in Costa Rica before age 30 and spend most of my life serving the international community in Europe, Asia, South America, Africa and the United States.