Wishbones and Monkey Bites

I’ve been a contributor on a wonderful group website dedicated to the craft of writing, but this is my first time having my very own blog. I take this responsibility quite seriously. The relationship between storyteller and reader is precious, and I don’t take it lightly.

via Compfight

If you read my Welcome, you’ll know how I came up with the name Tea with Savages. I've decided it's time to push back against perfectionism and embrace the chaos and beauty of life. My little tribe of savages is made up of my children, my family, and my friends, both old and new. Now I’m hoping to bring together a new tribe who wants to share stories, musings, and ideas: you, whoever you are, reading this post right now, and me. The idea of finding a group of like-minded people resonates with me. When you take the time to open up and share yourself there are always others who reach back.  

I grew up hearing amazing stories from my family. I loved listening to them as much as I loved reading. Now I tell my own tales to my children, along with all the family stories from previous generations. I would like to share some of them with you. Maybe they will entertain you, or maybe they will remind you of your own childhood.

Here’s a little story that my children still love. It's about a monkey. That goes well with the “jungle of my mind theme,” don’t you think? I have a small wishbone shaped scar on the middle finger of my left hand. Yes, it's monkey-related.

 

photo via Compfight

My father's family came from Norway and moved to the United States. He was born in Stavanger, Norway and moved with his parents to Kent, Washington. There his younger siblings Jane and Ruben were born. We have a vast network of Norwegian relatives still in the area. My mother is Canadian. Growing up we moved often, mostly around Washington (and twice in California.) I suspect our somewhat nomadic lifestyle was due to my dad’s Viking blood.

When I was a little girl, my great uncle, who was married with one son, was a quirky man. His favorite pastime was crocheting beautiful things. I can vividly remember the smell of his house. The whole place smelled like Old Spice Cologne. We didn't know him very well, and didn't see him or his family often. The big draw to visit Great Uncle Iver was his pet capuchin monkey. 

We loved the monkey, of course, and begged to get to visit. One day my Grandma Anna took me to see him. Even though it was such a long time ago, I distinctly remember sticking my hand into the cage and feeding the monkey a Tootsie Roll Pop. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Not exactly the best diet for a monkey. I can only imagine how cute a capuchin monkey eating a Tootsie Roll Pop would be. Unfortunately, the monkey wasn't in the mood for candy. The next thing I knew, the little rascal bit my finger. Hard. His sharp little teeth sliced right through the skin.

I got a couple stitches and the doctor cleaned it thoroughly.  My parents weren’t too worried until the next day. My hand had swelled up to an enormous size and turned horrible colors, and I had developed a high fever. They rushed me to the emergency room. The doctors decided it was more than a regular infection, but were stumped as to what could be making me so sick. They took turns examining me, bringing in whoever was on staff. They were stumped. My parents were beside themselves.

After a shift change new doctors came to look at my strange case. This time one of the doctors happened to be a Vietnam vet. He knew immediately what it was: a jungle virus carried by that little monkey. They were finally able to treat me. That doctor's jungle expertise saved my life.

My blue monkey with some Tootsie Roll
Pops. He doesn't bite.

Things improved quickly for me, but not for the monkey. It wasn't safe to own a monkey who liked to chomp on people's fingers, especially if it was carrying a disease. The poor creature had to be put down. To this day I have a wishbone-shaped scar on my middle finger to show people that a monkey once bit me.

Do you have a crazy scar story? 

Let me know in the comments.

Natural-Born Storytellers

Have you ever noticed that children are natural storytellers? They don't need a muse. Creativity just bubbles out of them.

Some little ones prefer to sing their stories. My sister was one of those. She would happily entertain us with melodies recounting the adventures of a particular balloon or flower. I was older and usually trying to read my own book; I wasn't as enthralled by her singing as I was mesmerized by the tales woven by the authors I loved. The grown-ups usually thought it was adorable. (It was.)

my son and niece (who looks just like her mother) as ninjas

If you've ever babysat, worked with children, or have friends with little ones you might have noticed their amazing abilities. I love to sit down with the ones I know and just listen to their stories. A well-placed question or two does wonders in unlocking their imaginations. Even children you've just met will quickly open up to an engaging smile and listening ear (in their parents' presence, of course.) A smile aimed at a bored child at a grocery store might result in an invitation into their imaginary world.

Once while shopping I kept bumping into a pair of preschoolers, a boy and a girl, who seemed to always be half a row ahead of their mother. The sister looked older and seemed to be the ringleader. They were hiding behind carts and baskets and jumping out at each other, their mother, and other shoppers. The little boy would smile at me as he passed, but the girl would only look at me cautiously. The third time I passed, by she grabbed his arm as he smiled at me again and whispered loudly, "She's one of the bad people!" He looked at me, puzzled, and said, "She doesn't look bad." So I raised my egyebrows and grinned mischievously at them. They both giggled gleefully and ran back to their mom. Any time I passed them again I received giggles and smiles from both.

my daughter in her imaginary world

The best little storyteller I've met in a while was a charming girl named Shae-Lynn. I met her and her mother when I was stuck spending a long evening in the emergency room with my daughter. Her mother was a lovely and friendly young woman who kept a watchful eye on Shae-Lynn while she made friends with the patients around her. There were seven or eight of us confined for several hours in a cubicle meant for one hospital bed, sitting in uncomfortable chairs. It was late and crowded, and the wait would have been dreadful without our little entertainer.

First she decided that she was a restaurant doctor. Yes, a restaurant doctor. We were served imaginary food and had our injuries attended to by Shae-Lynn. We were quite happy to play along. Sometimes she was the doctor/server. Sometimes she was the patient. On the wall there were boxes of purple surgival gloves. They bewitched her. First she wore a pair while "examining" us. Even the smallest size flopped off the ends of her little hands. Then she tried her best to persuade the rest of us to wear them. When that bored her, she was easily convinced to sing songs for us. Her mother was obviously proud of Shae-Lynn's precocious and still well mannered behavior.

my son immersed in a book

After the songs I asked Shae-Lynn to tell us a story. She was quite happy to invent one for us. My daughter Emilia was a part of our little imaginary world, too, so the main characters of her story were Emilia, Shae-Lynn's mom, and me. Since she loved the movie Frozen, she named me Princes Anna (declaring that I had the right color hair to be Anna). She decided her mother should be Princess Amma (not to be confused with Princess Anna), and Emilia she named Princess Rose (which pleased Emilia because her best friend's middle name is Rose). It was a lovely, rambling story. We climbed up a high mountain, there was a Prince, one of the Princesses got angry and the other Princesses had to go find her. Eventually she gave us a happy ending.

Not only did the time fly by while we listenend, but this sweet girl made all the sick, sad people trapped in that little room feel better. It took us out of our painful reality for a little while. We lost ourselves in her imagination. And that's what true storytellers do, whatever their age.