I write stories of long ago and far away. I write stories about Victorian England and the most famous pastor of the day, Charles Haddon Spurgeon.
The best biographers (David McCullough, for ex) tell stories in ways that stir our imagination. We feel the dirt between their subject’s toes, the wind against their cheeks, and we see stormy clouds looming above their heads. The best biographers allow us to see at the same time as their characters, not peeking ahead. We see through the biographer’s eyes that heroes and villains were not really larger than life—but life.
There are no gods amongst humans in history, only men and women and boys and girls. There are heroes, but no gods. It has oft been said, “the best of men are men at best.” My character, Charles Spurgeon, could read and master six substantive volumes a week and sometimes in a day. I don’t know how he did that. But I do understand his weeping and doubting and laughing and fatigue. He failed, he succeeded, he talked too much about himself, he wept for no reason that he could discern at the time, and he suffered much. He also traversed the mountain tops of great exhilaration. Failure or success, he was no god, but he did press onward and he was a great great man.
Last night Lori and I had dinner outside. It was cold, the wind was blowing, and the gas flame on our table both warmed us and threatened to set us on fire. We ordered “Crack Dip,” a pinkish mixture of tomatoes, green chilies and sausage served with corn chips. We always order that. Lori chose the burger for her main course, she always does. I chose the fish-and-chips as I always do. We stole a bit from one another’s plates. When we were dating, I didn’t like that. I wanted my food, and I wanted Lori to have her food and never the two should meet. However, as Rocky Balboa taught us in Rocky IV, we can change.
Throughout the evening, Lori and I shared a few stories. I told her of two podcasts that I had listened to earlier in the day—both stirred up the nostalgic part of me that has been smoldering of late. I told Lori of how both podcasts provoked in me old desires for a time long ago. Both were about family businesses that had faced hard times, one almost completely bottomed out, and how family members raised them up again making them both profitable and enjoyable.
I told Lori stories of my childhood and youth in country stores owned by my grandfather, uncles, and father. I talked of a special place with a country pond and a big sky which gave me a sense of peace. I had romantic visions of going back.
Lori told me of a computer club and her life as a cheerleader. She spoke of family and friendships. Sometimes it is hard to believe that we didn’t know one another for all those years.
We talked of words that we now use that were not a part of our vocabulary when we were married: words like Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and the rest. We had no computer in 1987. We had no cell phone and we had not yet heard of Al Gore’s Internet. We wondered what words our children be using in 10 or 20 or 50 years.
We lamented too much screen time and not enough story time. I talked with Lori about nostalgic moments that suddenly appear to me, arresting me out of nowhere it seems. Sometimes I have the oddest thoughts and want to do certain things that might connect me to the past. In Somewhere in Time, Richard Collier (played by Christopher Reeve) asks his old college professor, “Is time travel possible?” The professor’s look told him all that he needed to know and, somehow, Collier went somewhere in time. “Is time travel possible?”
In my father’s county [feed] store, Lance crackers and Tom’s cookies were not far removed from horse wormer and cow feed. Dairy farmers came into the store after their morning milking—it was their “pub” after work except they drank ten-cents coca-colas instead of lager. They smelled of cows and feed and country. I can still smell them. “Maybe I will open a store one day,” I told Lori. “Store keeping is in my blood.”
Speaking of oddities, this morning I saw a photo of an old coffee cup. I haven’t seen one of those cups in years yet I could smell the coffee and feel the finger ring on the cup. That photo took me to a café that I have been many times before—it was almost like I was there again.
Lori reminded me of differences that we share. We don’t see everything the same way. We dream different dreams. She imagines living in the same place for the rest of our lives. I think of a complete re-start. Its okay. Our dreams converge in a story, a story that is still being written, a story of two living as one—differences and all. We share that which is of ultimate importance—that which will matter long after our reflections and aspirations are all fulfilled by divine transformation into the ultimate story—the story that all our other stories long for. It is His-story.
We told stories last night on the deck of our favorite Irish Pub. There I learned why Lori loves her part-time job. That led us to discuss how some companies have created a culture that makes it easier for employees to look forward to going to work each day. Since I am somewhat of a loner, I mentioned how some people are perfectly happy working in isolation. I remember listening to an interview with author Shelby Foote who always worked alone. He said that he couldn’t wait to wake up every morning to write—he loved it. No one ever had to force him out of bed and to his writing desk.
Everyone is different and yet the same. Some people want to enjoy their work, but they struggle for various reasons. Stories are complicated, such makes them more interesting.
I have a friend who has shelves lined with hardback ledger-books filled with his stories—stories of his family, friends, and experiences. Years ago, he showed me an entry about me. I made his storybook. His children and grands have a lot of great reading ahead of them as they take down his journals and remember their grandfather.
Lori and I told stories last night. As the wind kept us shivering and the gas flame fought to keep us warm, we almost forgot that we were cold. Stories kept us warm. We forgot for a moment about the 50 challenges facing us that we know about, nor did we consider the 1,000 that we are unaware of. Stories transported us—they took us away, for a bit. I told Lori that I enjoyed every drop of my drink and every bite of my food. I did. I chose my meal, in part, based on a story that I heard earlier in the day.
I shared with Lori that I had a strong hankering to buy a Stuckey’s pecan log roll and a rubber alligator. Why? I heard Stephanie Stuckey tell her story on a podcast yesterday and I was transported back to the day when there were 300 plus Stuckey’s scattered along America’s highways (I will soon order a pecan roll and a Stuckey’s tee-shirt and maybe a rubber alligator, because I heard Stephanie’s story). Stories move us to talk, to go places, to buy things, to re-live experiences, and to remember that we are always connected to the past and such helps us to move forward into the future. It’s all about stories.
I enjoyed my date with Lori. I told her, “Thank you for going out with me tonight.” That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
