The Storytellers

“And, then, Aunt Hallie and Uncle Sam took everyone to Galveston. They all stayed at the Flagship Hotel, except, Uncle Sam was CRAZY. One night, he took all of the kids out onto the beach and they slept in the sand! Yes, that’s right. Uncle Sam was great at magic tricks. He could always pull a quarter out of your ear.” This is an excerpt of an actual recent telephone conversation I had with my cousin. There’s one odd aspect to this exchange. I never met my Great Uncle Sam. Aunt Hallie was in her latest years when I was very young. Uncle Sam was long passed away. This was a story of my mother’s youth, kept alive and well through the ages. I’ve heard it told, and retold, so many times, I can see it all in technicolor: my mother’s ruched bathing suit and rubber swim cap, her cousin Priscilla’s pedal pusher pants and penny loafers, Aunt Hallie’s cat-eye glasses with the rhinestones in the corners. It’s a tale from the 50’s, back when there was a Flagship Hotel, and it was legal to sleep on the beach. While family lore is often passed down through the generations, it’s an inherent thing we southerners do, speaking about the long-ago times and long-lost ancestors as if they were just in another room. I never once saw my precious Uncle Opie working in the Seagoville prison, but I can visualize him walking down dimly lit cellblocks, ring full of keys attached to his hip. My grandmother’s father lost his life in a train accident mere yards from the old cotton gin he was racing to before the close of that weighing day. I can see the red flatbed truck he was driving as well as I can see my husband’s truck in the driveway right now. In the south, our stories do more than stick around. They keep people alive.

One of the greatest feuds in the history of the United States culminated in a Franklin County, Virginia massacre of a shoot-out between two families, the Witchers and the Clements. In the current podcast obsession of mine, Season 5 of Tenfold More Wicked, investigative journalist, seasoned documentary producer, crime historian, and best-selling author Kate Winkler Dawson paints an incredibly detailed picture of the failed marriage between a gracious, young, and socially vibrant Victoria Witcher and the troubled/quick to anger James Clement. Family historians from both clans chime in with detailed stories of each character’s personality. They explain their likes and dislikes, their quirks, their innermost thoughts. Yet, the feud transpired in 1860. Victoria’s descendants speak of her as if she were at the church social yesterday. The Clements of current day can describe James’ style of dress and how he groomed his mustache like they just spotted him at the local Walmart. When asked why they think these details have survived 162 years of telling, Victoria Witcher’s present day family say it’s simple. Past tense speech was never used. They were team Witcher. This was an injustice wrapped in a tragedy and cloaked in a nightmare. Keeping Victoria’s memory alive was akin to making sure she received the support she so deserved. Today’s Witchers learned the colorful history from their parents, who spoke of Vic as if she might walk through the door any moment. Those parents learned from their parents, and so forth. It’s a part of their heritage.

Southerners are known for colorful storytelling. It’s hot in the South. We have lifetimes of air-condition deprived summers spent on front porch swings, accordion fans and sweet tea in hand. What better way to pass the time that to spin a long, self-indulgent yarn? We gave the world Harper Lee, Truman Capote, Margaret Mitchell, and Zora Neale Hurston. Our literary contributions include the double entendre and some quite colorful sayings. Bless your heart comes to mind. There’s an old adage about social ranking and standings as they relate to party invitations in the south. Basically, you can wrangle an invite to a southern gala if you’re a scoundrel, a criminal, or any other type of ne’er do well. The only thing you can’t be is boring. Our stories set the scene, make the point, and teach the lesson, with generous helpings of Herculean efforts, vibrant colors, and circus worthy prestidigitation. In the words of Zora Neale Hurston from the opening lines of Their Eyes Were Watching God, “Ships at a distance have every man’s wish on board. For some they come in with the tide. For others they sail forever on the horizon, never out of sight, never landing until the Watcher turns his eyes away in resignation, his dreams mocked to death by Time. That is the life of men.” Pass the sweet tea.