Squandering Stories

In third grade at Yantacaw School, we had a weekly timeslot reserved for show-and-tell – sometimes involving show-and-listen, where we were allowed the opportunity to share our favorite music with classmates – more like show-and-tell lite. I believe this is where I may have been exposed to the one-eyed, one-horned, flying Purple People Eater – something I can’t unhear – and, possibly, On Top of Spaghetti. Which also can’t be unheard. Nope. (You’re welcome, for the earworms.)

In preparation, most of us spent the entire week envisioning the absolute, hands-down, perfect show-and-tell piece. This was serious stuff. So, after as much advance consideration as an 8 year-old can rally, I schlepped my mom’s copy of Tapestry to Mrs. Story’s class, eager to share its melodic treasures of deep elementary school meaning. (It was that, or the soundtrack to Hair – a close second. Carole King won. Probably because she was Really Rosie. Hello.)

On that Friday, I presented my selection to Mrs. Story. I was promptly vetoed for the subject matter’s inappropriateness (!), certainly difficult to wrap my adult head around. Yes, my head. Where my ears are. The ones which hear my son and his friend giddily singing Baby Got Back – a classic, for sure – in the dugout on Saturday mornings. Inappropriate? Um….okay. (Good thing I didn’t bring in Hair. Whew.)

I’m not sure if I’ve ever fully recovered from this thwarted attempt to share my love for Carole King with the world (that is, third grade). Luckily, though, her career was able to thrive, notwithstanding the injustice of it. And I have no idea what, in fact, I actually showed-and-told that day, if anything. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the story I wanted to tell.

Which brings me to my point.

Tell the stories you want to tell. Even better, in doing so, follow the March Hare’s advice: say what you mean. Your stories aren’t to be squandered – they’re to be told. I, myself, don’t ever want to wind up like Harry in The Snows of Kilimanjaro, mentally kicking myself with a gangrenous leg for having frittered away a lifetime of opportunity, overwrought by the fear of perhaps offending someone, or – even worse – what might be thought of me. Whatever it is YOU want to do, do it now. Say it now. Live it now. Regret is a common literary theme for a reason.

So I will keep telling my stories. Even if they’re mediocre. Even if no one is listening (or reading) now. Eventually, someone may.

I won’t be a squanderer. And I will say what I mean.