GRAFTON — A new collection of stories has been added to the Grafton Public Library. These stories are not bound in books. They dance through the rooms, flutter at the windows, and whisper in corners and in the memories of all who have heard them.
Last February, librarian Michelle Dufort and I launched a monthly series of storytelling gatherings for adults.
Inspired by The Moth Radio Hour on public radio, and reports of similar gatherings in Mad River, Montpelier, and Burlington, we chose a theme for each month and invited people to come tell stories, or just sit and listen. We asked that the stories be unscripted and no longer than five minutes.
In celebration of Valentine's Day, half a dozen people showed up and told their true love stories. Visual artist Campion Tillbrook brought a collage of images and words called “Love Migrations.” He placed it on the oval table where we all sat.
The picture-story was displayed in a two-sided frame that opened like a tall book containing worlds within worlds. It perfectly complemented the oral stories about beloved people, places, or things. Like Campion's vision, the stories transported us to places we'd never been and simultaneously reminded us of our commonality.
In March, we observed Women's History Month by sharing stories of inspiring women, fictional or real, and in April, we riffed on Campion's theme of migrations, geographical or internal.
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Michelle's theme for May was “The Call of the Wild/The Purr of the Domesticated.”
Almost everyone had a story to tell, and most of the stories involved the wildlife being called into places it didn't belong.
Bats whizzed overhead in the Duforts' dark bedroom as Michelle hid under her covers. A black snake draped itself over a kitchen rafter, disrupting Florence and Jay Karpin's morning tea.
A terrified squirrel arrived in Lucia Corwin's home in the jaws of her cat. The squirrel escaped to the top of the Christmas tree where it shivered, and trembled, and refused to be coaxed from its perch.
In hilarious detail, Lucia described how she and her family painstakingly removed all the ornaments and lights, and again tried to persuade the squirrel to vacate. The family then sawed off most of the branches, lifted the tree from its stand, opened a window, stuck the tree out, and shook it until the squirrel finally hopped off and disappeared into its rightful place.
Every story was filled with tolerance and humor. No one got indignant and reached for lethal weapons. Concern for the misguided intruders was paramount, and removal involved pluck and creativity.
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What I heard in the voices of all tellers was a particular animation, as if these contacts with wildlife had not merely startled them, but also enlivened them. Their stories reflected what author J. Allen Boone called “kinship with all life.”
Not everyone seeks this kind of kinship.
Many years ago, a young man came to mow my fields. At the end of the day, he walked into the barn and proudly announced that he'd killed a 6-foot-long black snake by hacking it with a shovel.
“I hate snakes,” he snarled.
“We don't kill snakes here,” I told him. I explained that snakes eat rodents and, because I didn't have barn cats, I depended on the snakes to keep mice out of the barn.
“Don't kill another one,” I said. “It's against the rules.”
Maybe he thought I was kidding. A month later, he was all puffed up with machismo and bragging about another snake kill.
That lad had to go down the road. I hope no snakes were crossing when he did.
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I'm rattled by how quickly human fear turns to hatred, and hatred so often turns to violence. That's why I'm more afraid of my “own kind” than any other species.
I do understand that feeling a kinship with all life and acting accordingly can be a challenge. Even the most devout Jainist probably doesn't cozy up to everything that slithers, buzzes, or roars. He or she simply refrains from killing because Jainism teaches that every living being has a soul.
At this time of year, I am chronically bugged by the black flies, horse flies, deer flies, and mosquitoes that torment my horses and donkeys, and drastically reduce comfortable grazing time. It's a struggle to adhere to the principle of non-violence, and I often fail.
I always loved watching the bats swooping over our fields at dusk, not only because of their grace, but also because they dined on mosquitoes and other insects.
Now the bats are gone, victims of white-nose syndrome, and mosquitoes flit around as if they owned this place. On the rare occasion when I can flatten a mosquito with a well-aimed thwack, I feel a measure of satisfaction. And anyone who heard the language that spews from my mouth as I pry yet another deer tick off a horse's neck - or my own - would recognize that I'm not Saint Francis of Assisi reincarnated.
But I don't hate bugs. They're a fact of life, like some pesky human kin.
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Driving home from the library that afternoon, I felt very rich: rich in stories, rich in community.
I thought of the numerous creation myths that reflect a long-ago time when all sentient beings spoke the same language. Every storyteller expressed a desire to communicate with our animal brethren and do no harm.
Maybe we had taken a tour back to a more peaceful future, one where we humans appreciate and respect all life. (This is not to say that we'll be inviting the bears to Grafton Cares lunches. Sensible boundaries are a requisite for long, healthy lives.)
Storytelling is a mutual exchange between teller and listeners; it is a conspiracy, literally meaning, “to breathe together.” It is this reciprocity that makes a story a living entity, a remembering, far removed from memorization.
We remember stories not solely in our minds, but in our bodies, our DNA, and our breath. They are a source of comfort or disturbance, of revelation or mystery; they are a “combination of sincerity and fantasy, autobiography and complete invention,” as film director Federico Fellini said.
Long before our ancestors figured out how to read and write, they were remembering and telling stories. But in these modern times, many people perceive storytelling as a “dying” or “lost” art - until they are captivated by one.
Stories provide a unique way to get to know our neighbors and enhance a sense of community. They abound at festivals, in theaters, in art galleries, and in other venues all over this country. They are told on the radio, and at bedside and kitchen tables, campfires, pubs, and yes, libraries.
They're whispering in your town, too, just waiting to be told.