True Stories

The newest thing around our house is “True Stories”. It’s not the latest cartoon or supposedly family-friendly reality show. It’s more like “Real Stories of the Highway Patrol”. Except without guns. And fast cars. And cops and criminals. It’s whatever little blip of the history of our family the storyteller can conjure up from the depths of his or her memory.

“Tell me a true story.” That is what the little guys will ask for, usually when it is half-past lights out on a school or a church night, when they are fighting the darkness of the bedroom and the stillness that comes with trying to fall asleep.

They like stories about everyone. Grandmother tells of when she and Uncle Max used to play in the mud by the little bridge at Grandmother and Granddaddy Jones' house. And when Uncle Kim got hit in the head with a bat. She tells of Aunt Keri falling off her bike into the cactus plant in Dumas, while her little sister ran all the way home, crying for help.

They like to hear about the big pine tree falling in Grandmother’s backyard during an ice storm because it was so heavy, and the loud, crashing sound that it made. They like stories of broken arms and broken elbows and of choking on free, Pizza Hut, peppermint candy.

And they always want to hear stories about their dad. “Tell us a story about Daddy,” they will ask. But nobody ever seems to have one…until recently.

We’ve been working with Brisco on the transition from “orange, squishy-ball” to “semi-soft, rubber T-ball”. He’s been fighting us all the way, still a little afraid of the white ball and the damage it might do should he miss it during its flight. “You can do it, Brisco! Besides, you can’t play ball with Cooper this summer if you don’t learn to use it.”

So within the last two weeks, he has decided that yes, he can do it. Not every day. Not every time, but he’s trying. And for a just-four-year-old, he was doing pretty great…until he created a true story of his own to tell.

As he and his brother stood on the outskirts of the softball field, no doubt in the way while the girls were trying to start practice, they were receiving a little practice of their own: fly balls from someone’s big brother and their own summer league coach. Just as they were about to be ousted from the practice area, and on the “Gimme just one more” pop fly, Brisco took one to the nose.

With screams of combined shock, agony, and the sight of his own blood, Brisco dropped his glove, and that not-so-soft T-ball and started running toward Coach Grant, until he realized Coach Grant wasn’t the person he was looking for.

I scooped him up like momma’s do, and after the blood and tears of the moment, he decided he was ready to go home, but not before going onto the baseball field to tell Daddy the story of his newest battle wound.

With a look and a sigh, and an apparent jog of his memory, Dad had an on-the-spot fix for our little feller. “One year, my birthday was on a Sunday. I got a new, white church shirt and a ball glove. Granddaddy and I went out to play catch before church, and I got hit in the nose with the ball. I had blood all over me and my new, white shirt.”

With that one true story, the boy perked up, gave a little Brisco grin, and decided he wasn’t ready to go home after all. “I wanna play some more catch, Mom.”

And so, like an old pro, he got back on that horse and rode. Not without a flinch or little bit of fear, but still, he rode. With the true story of his daddy---just the one he’d been looking for---tucked right into his hip pocket.

And that’s All in a day’s work!