The Story Behind the Story - Part 1

“But how come I’m not in the story?” I hollered. My father had just finished reading to my brother and me the story of a little green creature named Mr. Schnoozle who lived in Eric’s backyard and was best friends with a crow. 

Eric’s backyard. Why must it be his backyard? Why not mine? At the very least both of ours. We both live in this house after all.

“I haven’t written one with you in it yet,” my father replied, in a tone that one might use to approach a growling tigress. I glared at him. I mean, what was I? Chopped liver?

“But it’s not fair!” I was indignant. Arms crossed and brow furrowed, it’s a wonder there wasn’t smoke coming out of my ears. I mean, he had plenty of time to include me in a story. Four years to be exact. It’s just because Eric was two years older than me. That thought helped a little. I guess that makes sense, I thought to myself. He did come first after all.

“Do you want to hear the second story, or not?” my father asked.

I plopped down in my bed, slamming my head into the pillow, and turned to face the wall. Of course I wanted to hear the second one, but I didn’t want to tell him that. I took a few deep, angry breaths, scowling with all my might.

            “Come on, Sis!” Eric said. I could almost hear him rolling his eyes.

            My curiosity won out over my anger. “Fine,” I mumbled.

            “Does that mean yes?” my father asked.

            “Yes,” I said, barely above a whisper. I felt a strange combination of dejected for having been excluded from the story, and excitement to hear what happens next to Mr. Schnoozle.

            He began. I knew now not to expect to hear my name, so I focused instead on the actual story. The cadence of his voice calmed my fiery spirit. I liked imagining I was as big as Mr. Schnoozle, only 5 inches tall, visiting him in his mushroom house, and exploring the backyard with him.

            It was 1991, and had I known that we would have only one more year with my father, perhaps I wouldn’t have thrown a fit. Perhaps I would’ve been happy simply to be with him and hear his voice, and appreciate the fact that he took the time to create art, and to create it for us. I like to think I would’ve soaked up every moment with him, memorized the words he said, and the shape of his mouth as he formed them. I wish I would’ve branded the memory of him on my brain, and thanked the heavens for each breath he took.

            But I didn’t know that then. He was in remission, and to me that meant he was all better. As it turned out, the lymphoma took him before he could write another Schnoozle story. Five days after Christmas, 1992, I lost my father, and as far as any of us were concerned, his stories died with him.

            After a brief phase of refusing to grieve, the pendulum swung and I couldn’t get enough of his photos, his journals, his memorabilia. I cannot count the hours I have spent, sitting on my bedroom floor, looking through my music box that jingled “Somewhere over the rainbow” while I pored over his military uniform badges, his driver’s license, his emergency medical bracelet. It often surprised me how cold that metal bracelet was to the touch. I traced my fingers over the engraving of the snake wrapped around the staff. He wore this, I would tell myself over and over again, trying to feel closer to him. I would hold the pen that has his name etched in the side, and feel the rubber grip, holding it as I imagined he did. He wrote with this, I would tell myself over and over again. He wrote stories, for Eric and I. 

What happened to those stories, anyway?...