FAMILY TALES: LARGER THAN LIFE

BY DANIEL J WILSON

At one of our writing workshops at Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution, I wrote about a memory I had of my grandfather on his farm in Madras, Oregon. As I put the words down on paper, I began to wonder If I had remembered it all accurately.  When I got back home, I went to ask my mother a few questions about the incident and, as I had suspected, I did not remember it quite as it happened. Perhaps that conversation with my mother simply demonstrated how events can be seen differently from another person’s perspective. It made me think of the stories my father would tell of events I had witnessed and how I often could see him exaggerating what had happened for greater effect on the listener. When we tell a tale is it more important to be accurate or entertaining?

Carolyn Stickley affectionately describes a woman who left her people, her culture and her language to marry a man she loved, in the remembrance Then Drums My Soul. Despite the concessions she makes as an Indigenous woman living in a white community, Carolyn’s grandmother (Mumaw) managed to preserve her identity and pass along pieces of her culture through songs and stories.  A grandmother now herself, Carolyn pens distinct memories to keep Mumaw’s spirit circulating in her family. Carolyn submits her work from the medium side of Coffee Creek Correctional Facility.

Ricky Fay spins tales about his life, and demonstraties that in his family, misunderstandings are often resolved in side-splitting laughter. In the short story, Meow, we witness acceptance in well-married people, his parents. Their evening routine is presented as a side-by-side event that passes with little fanfare, but in this case leads to hijinks. In An Overwhelming Sense of Security, Ricky provides a window into his family’s shared sense of humor.

To start this week, I offer my own legend, my grandpa, Paul Taylor.

My grandpa shot a porcupine. 

When I was about six or seven years old, my family visited my grandparent’s house in Madras, Oregon. Grandma and Grandpa lived up on the little plains, a flat section west and above town.  From there, you could see seven peaks of the Cascade Range. I certainly didn’t appreciate that fact as a kid — and only do now as an adult with no connection to that piece of property. We didn’t spend a lot of time there (my father and grandfather couldn’t have been more different) and my dad controlled where we went on family trips. He would, at least, get to escape every morning to play golf on perhaps the flattest golf course in Oregon and enjoy that same view of the mountains. 

My brother and I were city kids, or more accurately, suburban kids. We enjoyed the farm, but also kind of didn’t get it. Our father’s influence, the requirement of uncomfortable grandparent hugs from people we really didn’t know, and not really having much to do (that we were used to) always made returning home a bit of a relief. I didn’t understand why they didn’t have horses, which would have made the visits better.  Clearly, my grandpa had been on a lot of horses based on his cartoonish bowleggedness.

One day, we got excited because we saw a raccoon in the stack of wood that they used to heat the house. Grandpa came to investigate then quickly went back inside to grab his gun. What happened next is one of my most vivid memories of my time at the farm: Grandpa came back and shot not a raccoon, but a porcupine! I remember seeing the dead porcupine in photos lying dead on an old canvas tarp.

Dad is now gone, and so I am fortunate that my mom is still alive and, in the house, where I grew up—right around the corner from where I live now. When we sit down for a chat, I learn so much about my childhood. The porcupine story was on my mind, so checked my memory with Mom.

The facts of the case (according to my mom’s 86-year-old memory): The porcupine was in a ditch, not the wood pile; Grandpa found it, not my brother and me; and he did immediately retreat to the house for his pistol. 

The rest is unclear. Did I really see this towering man standing over the animal like the black hat in a John Wayne movie asking his victim for any last words? I’m not sure if the porcupine was as big as my 90lb dog, or as cute and fluffy as those after-school cartoon characters on Channel 12. There had to be blood, but I can’t see it. I hear the gun shot and see the smoke coming from the barrel of the gun, but I can’t imagine my mother allowing us to be anywhere near that when it happened. Interestingly, to me anyway, is that in this moment right now, I realize that my mother’s recollection has seemed to erase or blur some of my long-held memories that conflict with her story.

Mom also told me that the golf course is now called Desert Peaks. The city of Madras changed its name long ago from “Nine Peaks,” which was always my reminder of how many we could see from the little plains (not seven!) Pulling into town from the Warm Springs side, the billboard for the golf course was one of the first things welcoming travelers. My dad was probably playing golf there at the time of the “great porcupine incident” because he doesn’t show up in my memory, or maybe he just didn’t make this trip.  I wish I could ask him. | DJW