When I die I want to come back as an Irish man. I want to be skilled at telling a good story and I think the Irish do it well. If some blarney is thrown in for colour I am ok with that. A little embellishment never hurt right? Great.
I love a good story. I love telling them and I love hearing them. A simple but truly effective way to learn about people. Be it for friendship or for other reasons, a lot can be gleaned from how a story is told. At least I think so. Like I said, I love a good story.
One of my former business partners is Filipino and his dad was recounting a time when his brother came to visit them in Toronto. He had to take a street car somewhere and as he stepped onto the platform of the vehicle, asked the driver if this street car went to Yonge street. An emphasis on the silent "e"...Yongeeee street. The driver, not feeling the need to engage the potential passenger, simply pointed at the fare box and sat silent. Our intrepid traveller, not knowing what to do, asked again; does this street car go to Yonge street? Again, a gesture to the fare box. So in a somewhat miraculous sense of reasoning, visitor to the city, grasped the fare box with both hands, lowered his head to the top of the fare box and in a crisp loud voice spoke into the fare box....DOES THIS STREET CAR GO TO YONGEEEEE STREET? I fell of the bar stool I was perched on from laughter. Excellent. Hell, I'm chuckling as I am recounting this to you.
I tease my kids that when they get married, as the father I get to say a few words at their ceremony. Dressed in my baby blue tux with orange ruffled shirt I will find something funny to recount about them to the adoring crowds. They know me as just unhinged enough that I actually might do something for the simple joy of doing it. I love a good story.
I could recount my young sons infatuation with the colour green when he was toddler and how, while making a pit stop he looked up in pure joy at the green, ahem, thing floating in the toilet. The result of the bright green ice cream he ate an hour prior. Probably not, no one wants to hear about poo at a wedding reception. Right? Or perhaps recounting my eldest daughters strong will and resolve. Even as a toddler...I was trying to get her into a car seat and she had other ideas. Stiffened like a 2x10 and try as I might I could not bend her into the seat. I'm sure it looked pretty funny from passers by. Tickling ended up being the magic switch.
Turning everyday events in my own life into stories is part of who I am. Ask me about falling asleep at the wheel with a police car behind me or the time I crossed over a 23 story chasm to change out air filters. Or.....well, you get the idea I am sure. And I can't give everything away here right?
My former father in law told good stories. At weddings he was always someone looked forward to for his speech. I'm not a huge fan of public speaking but I think I hide my nervousness well enough to get by. Some people are simply really good at spinning a yarn or making a story something that everyone in the room can relate to. Like the Irish.
I think it would be fun to attend some of those story telling groups that get together over a pint like The Moth in New York or, even more interesting, the resurgence of story telling in pubs across Ireland and Great Britain...road trip!!!! If this exists in Halifax please let me know.
Well, I am yawning like all get out now. Time to crawl under my desk, a la George Costanza, for a nap.
Ciao
D
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