This is a true
story.
It happened 30
years ago, when I lived in the Allegheny Highlands of Pennsylvania and
loved to canoe, hike and camp. We were at a campsite designated as "primitive"
in one of Pennsylvania's many state parks. "Primitive" means
"in the woods, no amenities. If something goes wrong, deal with
it."
"We"
were my longtime camping pal, Patty, her two boys, my youngest sister,
Beth, who was nine at the time, and a new friend, Karen, who had grown
up in Chicago and thought sleeping on the ground was high adventure.
We spent the day
canoeing down a quiet, beautiful river sheltered by hemlocks, with just
enough rapids to give you a rush about the time you needed it. Now,
as evening fell as softly as apple blossoms on a May breeze, Patty gathered
the kids to clean them up while I, the chronically designated camp cook,
whipped up a skillet full of smoked sausages and beans with pancakes
made from the batter left from breakfast.
I was just hefting
the cast iron skillets, those same skillets I had laboriously hauled
from campsite to campsite for years, steaming and succulent smelling,
onto the log that served as a table when I saw Patty stop dead still.
Her eyes grew huge.
"Oh ... nuts."
That isn't an exact
quote, but you get my drift.
Before I could
turn to look behind me, a large, glossy black head sunk into one of
the pans I was holding, and the black bear that the head was attached
to bumped meaningfully against my left side. Before I could surrender
the pan and slip away, a second bear came around my right side and dug
into the pancakes. In seconds it was sharing its dinner with a third.
I was trapped in the midst.
I tell this story
because it is one of those incidents that happens in a person's life
that is a lot more fun to tell and re-tell than it is to experience.
Recently, while
giving a speech at a business seminar, I told a story that happened
when I lived in Houston and worked at Enron Corp. The good thing about
having worked at Enron is that you have material for life.
Afterwards, people
told me how much they loved the story, and I started thinking about
the pleasure of sharing stories. With all the sophisticated entertainment
available today, there is much to be said for the sheer joy of listening
to a fellow human tell a story.
Here in Gloucester
storytellers abound. When I was writing the guide book for the North
Shore Arts Association's 2001 Legacy Exhibition, I gathered stories
from local artists about their favorite teachers. The humor and warmth
of those tales enriched the book immeasurably.
My friend Mark
is writing a collection of stories about his
years lobstering aboard his boat,
F/V Black Sheep. His power as a storyteller astonishes me. I read
his work with awe.
"Did this
really happen?"
He smiles. "That's
not even the best one," he says.
My friend Dianne
is writing a family cookbook with anecdotes that have been passed down
from parent to child.
Every time I attend
one of the area open mike nights for writers, I marvel at how many people
come just to listen.
"I love to
hear what people are writing about," they say.
It is one of the
most ancient forms of community. Our earliest ancestors, weary from
a day of mastodon hunting on the veldt, gathered around the fires as
the meat roasted and shared themselves by sharing their days' experiences.
"Everything
grew suddenly quiet," they might have said, "I could smell
the danger in the air."
"Once upon
a time," they later said. And everyone pulled their chairs together
to listen.
"Back when
I first met your grandfather ...."
"I remember
when I was a boy ...."
Thus begins a form
of intimacy, a way of opening our lives and inviting another in. Those
are the stories that will linger in the mind and touch the generations
to come more than the latest episode of any television show ever can.
We owe it to the
future of the world to turn to another and say, "Did I ever tell
you about the time ...?"
That day in the
Allegheny Highlands the bears ate every bit of our dinner. I managed
to squeeze out from among them and get far enough away to watch with
amazement as they moved from the detritus of that dinner to whatever
provisions we had stashed for the week. They ate their fill and moved
on. We packed up and did the same.
My sister Beth
has three children of her own now and she tells them the story, "Long
ago, when I was little, Aunt Kathleen took me camping ...." And
they fix their big eyes on her and hang on her every word.
"Tell it again,
mommy," they say.
And, of course,
she does.
