Did you ever wonder how myths
and legends develop, grow bigger and more exciting as times passes, despite
their meager births, sprouting sometimes from the smallest grain of fact, a
kernel of truth? I’m sure it has something
to do with children, their capacity to absorb and exaggerate. Unabashedly, they apply their imaginations to
the stories they hear, weaving in details that enhance their understanding and
in turn stitching together a fabric both vibrant and rich, one far more
striking than the original they set out to replicate. Family legends are no different. We collect what we know, pass the tales down
to our children and smile – sometimes even chuckle - as their minds process the
details through the tiny portholes of their own experiences. The stories, of
course, are always most endearing, when the past collides with and influences
the present.
Sixty years ago, my father, a
small child of five, was bit by a goose.
He distinctly remembers the nibble – which didn’t even hurt - but the
encompassing details are vague, almost entirely lost. Once, in passing, I mentioned the incident to
my four year old son, “Once upon a time, long ago when Grandpa was not much
older than you, he was bit by a goose.” This occurrence, of which there is
virtually no back story, made a startling impression on him. In his mind, the nibble has been transformed
into a vicious attack, one that caused his grandfather great pain, and one that
he must avoid at all costs. If his
grandfather had lost a limb to a to lion or shark, his reaction would make
sense, but four year olds play by different rules, and the logic they apply to
situations is often lost on adults.
Several days ago, as part of our
camping trip to Maryland,
we visited the Catoctin Zoo. My son was
extremely excited since he, like most children, adores animals. His enthusiasm was infectious as he bounced
from animal to animal. And then, in the
distance, he caught sight of a gaggle of geese.
He froze, as if encountering a deadly beast, as if instead of some
distant cousin many generations removed from the original culprit, he had come
face to face with the goose of his grandfather’s distant past. He face contorted in a mixture of fear,
bravado and anger as he raised his hand to his mouth and shouted a warning to
the clueless creatures. “Stay away from
me,” he shouted, blood rising to his cheeks, adding color to his face. “You bit Ba’bap but not me. Leave me alone. Do you hear me? Don’t come near me.” The geese, completely oblivious to the fact
that they were being simultaneously reprimanded and warned, went about their
business swimming in the pond and searching for food.
Feeling better, my son, finally
approached the birds, but as he walked by them, his hands instinctively flew to
his tushy and he clenched his butt, a defensive move just incase a goose
succumbed to temptation and attempted to bite him as one once bit his
grandfather. For the rest of the day,
whenever a goose came near him, or whenever he spotted one in the distance, his
hands raced to backside. “No, goose it
going to bite me,” he declared each time, “Nope, nope, nope.” And none did.
But I had to wonder, if geese had the capacity to think, what thoughts
would go through their minds at the vision of a little boy, twice their size,
clenching his butt and telling them off.
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