I love stories. I believe there is an art to story-telling, and that any good story can be made great with the right words. I have gotten some feedback on my posts lately from people who like my writing. If you are one of those people, thank you! But I can't take all the credit. Some credit goes to Ms. Cohen and Ms. Urtz who taught me how to write in elementary school, some credit goes to my university's English department and professors who taught me how to perfect my writing (here's a shout-out to Jeff McCarthy and Chris LeCluyse), but most of the credit would have to go to my dad, who taught me how love stories and tell them well. So this post is for my dad, in honor of the oral legacy he will leave.
My dad, like all of his older brothers, enjoys telling stories. However if you know any of them, you know those stories are more like epic narratives than anything else. They would all say that they like to elaborate the "good parts," but let's face it - they exaggerate. And this is no fault of their own; it has been passed through our genes for centuries. Our last name in the original Gaelic literally means "crooked mouth." In other words, all of my ancestors have been factually challenged, or embellishers at the very least (no
elaboration here, this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.).
But growing up, I didn't care; when I was little I couldn't define "exaggerate" let alone spell it. All I knew was that I was mesmerized with my dad's tales and begged to hear them every night. I would jump under the covers, tightly grab my stuffed puppy-dog, and stare wide-eyed up at my daddy, anxiously awaiting the next
Michael Story. So, as you curl up in bed tonight (or wake up tomorrow morning, or go about your day for that matter - doesn't really matter what time you read this. I'm just writing it before bed), I want to share with you my favorite
Michael Story - one that has impacted both my childhood and adult life (which is another post for another day) and has becoming a running inside-joke in our family. So, without further delay, here is...
Michael and the Missing Lunch Box
When Michael was a little boy, his mother would always pack him lunch on days when the school menu didn't look particularly appetizing. Well, one day when Michael was in first grade, instead of the usual paper lunch sack, Michael got a hand-me-down metal lunch box. It was dull and greenish-gray and missing the thermos, but Michael loved his "new" lunch box and was thrilled to show it off at school.
When he got to school, he hung up his coat in his locker, closed the door, began an excited conversation with his friends, proudly showed off his lunch box, and finally put it in his open locker. The day dragged on and Michael could barely sit still. Lunch time finally came and Michael ran to his locker to get his lunch box. When he opened his locker, his coat was there, but his lunch wasn't. He closed his locker and checked the number. It was the right locker. But where was his lunch? With shock still fresh on his face, he opened his locker again, and checked every nook and cranny and corner as if it had shrunk and hidden itself during the day. But it just wasn't there. Right then, big tears began to roll down his face, his breathing got heavy, and coming to the only possible, rational, and logical explanation, he cried out, "Someone stole my lunch box!!"
Tears still careening down his cheek, he ran home. Michael threw open the back door, and explained the horrific trauma to his mom. As any good mother would do, she inquired where he put it when he got to school and if he looked in the right locker. Stifling his tears and chocking back his sobs, little Michael nodded and insisted that someone stole his brand new, shiny lunch box. His mother made him lunch at home and promised to walk him back to school to investigate further.
When they got there, she looked in Michael's locker, and sure enough, the lunch box wasn't there. But without hesitation, she opened the adjoining locker, and there it was! She pulled the lunch box out of the locker and gave it back to Michael who sheepishly looked down at his feet. With a fond smile, Michael's mother looked down at him and said, "You probably were distracted while talking to your friends in the morning and errantly placed the lunch box in the open locker next to yours. The next time you think someone stole your lunch box, before you come running home in tears blaming someone else, perhaps you should check the locker next to yours." Michael got his lunch box back and learned an important lesson that day: Mothers don't know squat about the deviousness of thieving first-graders! The end.
This story probably has less elaboration in it than the others (and a lesson that his mother was trying to impart, and my dad failed to learn), but it is one of my favorites. Why? Because the theme of this story has marked my dad's life (and what's even scarier is that it has infiltrated mine too!). To this day, whenever he can't find something he yells, "Someone stole my____!" To which we reply, "Dad, did you check the locker next to yours??"
I hope you enjoyed the first installment of the Michael Stories, and that it made your bedtime, morning-time, or afternoon-time a little more enjoyable.
