Repost today. Mad’s school concert followed by a closed motorway exit conspired to engulf the evening. Apologies, visits to my favourite blogs were impossible but I’ll be around to read today.
A Dominican sister has recently subscribed to these posts: she’s a tweeting cybersister, quick on the draw. And today I ask her forbearance as I repost one of my favourite Irish nun stories.
My dog has started not coming back.
When he was young, that was nothing notable. He never came back , not, that is, until he had followed every olfactory lead, remonstrated with every squirrel, chased every deer. He never. Came. Back.
Except when he was not supposed to. Once I got a panicked call from Phil, still wandering in wide circles in the forest, calling the dog’s name.
The dog’s disappeared, he told me, the overt concern palpable in his voice. Can’t find him anywhere.
We both knew that a ferocious main road separated the forest from our house. The consequences of Macaulay, taking his homeward journey into his own hands, were not worth entertaining.
But as I held the phone, there was a whimper and a scratch at the door. I answered it, and there he was, a bit shook up, with a nasty skin-deep wound on one side, but otherwise, fine.
A trip to the vets later, we were celebrating his new status as the first dog with more than one life. Or maybe he bartered one from Kit Kat.
But as he has grown and matured, he has become the archetypal mutt who trots alongside one, disappearing for maybe two Deep Forest Exploring minutes before he’s back smelling even worse than before.
Lately, though, his hearing has once more become selective.
He is seduced by the forest at this time of year. Those balmy woodland acres are like Mrs Robinson, an experienced siren with so much to offer the young hound-about-town. His senses of hearing and smell take over and when I call, with my comedy Koom-Bai holler, it’s just so much white noise to him.
He’s not the only one to hear selectively.
As a storyteller I often view stories as in a glass dimly, across time. My tales are coloured by those I have learned to love and those I never could get to like. I pick and choose, arrange artfully, present to the best advantage. I am selective.
I retold a Phil story a while ago on this very blog. And whilst he acknowledged that it was vastly entertaining, he said it wasn’t how it happened AT ALL.
How do those Lerner and Loewe lyrics go? We met at nine,We met at eight. I was on time: No, you were late. Ah, yes, I remember it well.
We slave away to ensure that each fact is accurate. But each of us has a completely unique way of selecting and interpreting the facts. They pass through the prism that is you or me, and become refracted.
The irony is, it is that very prism which makes it such a great tell.
Think back to a time you were sitting on someone’s sofa, or in a pub, or in the coffee lounge at work, and someone told you a story which made you cry laughing.
The bare facts, they’re funny enough. But everything is in the delivery, isn’t it?
I went to a wedding in Bantry Bay, Ireland once. Three quarters of the way through the evening, I came across both bride and groom in helpless fits of giggles. Apparently, the bride had headed for the toilet with a bridesmaid some minutes before.
As they chatted and laughed, they became aware of a rhythmic tapping forming an ostinato to their conversation. They stopped talking. The tapping stopped too.
They resumed their chat, only to hear the clicking under their words, just as before.
They stopped. And this time, they waited silently. Softly, softly catches the monkey.
After a short while another cubicle door swung open, and out walked a nun, complete with blue habit and white trim.
“Oh, that’s so much better!” she declared exuberantly to the two curious onlookers. “A bit of practice makes the feet fly, now, doesn’t it?”
And she walked out.
It was that time at every Irish wedding when the dancing is in full swing. And the competition was fierce. Couples were duelling with foxtrots, dazzling with the passo doble.
The good sister had come into the toilet, and locked herself into the cubicle, to practice her tap dancing. This done, she went out to give it her all, out on that most excellent of dance floors.
Together, the bride, the groom, myself and several onlookers doubled up, utterly helpless with laughter. We couldn’t breathe. I’m sure the wine helped: but the bride’s perfect delivery of the simple tale of Sister rehearsing her steps, shielding decorum with a toilet cubicle: that was the real seller.
And the delight of storytelling is this: that each of us is a unique prism. I can’t tell the story the same way that bride did.
I can think of many I have known who have captivated me with their storytelling.
And I hope there will be many, many more.
Kate Shrewsday 
I have to say I am thrilled that last night I found the e-mail subscription button on here. I was subscribed before but I did unfortunately miss things. Now hopefully I won’t! 🙂
Lovely to hear from you Heather! Glad the e mail button suits. I’ll pop over and say hello later….
You tell a pretty good story yourself, Kate, actually.
😀 Which makes two of us, Earlybird….
I agree, Kate, you do tell a good tale. I haven’t seen a nun tap dancing, but I have seen one doing the Highland Fling
(I’m behind with my commenting too, with this migraine, so hopefully I’ll be forgiven as well)
Migraines are absolutely horrible, Nuvofelt! So sorry you’re suffering. I’ve just been prescribed fab new tablets to relieve mine. Life is very different…
Nuvofelt, hope that migraine gets better soon. Miserable business 😦
You do tell a good tale. Love the dancing nun.
What shocked me, though, was your admission that you might exaggerate slightly for comic effect. I would NEVER do that. Shame on you 😉
I have no principles: I must study your technique, Tilly, and learn… 😀
I now have a picture of a forest, swaying seductively like Mrs Robinson… with a ‘come hither’ slinky (?) grin on it’s face… but I was in fits about the Nun, just relieved she was just tap dancing, ‘cos you had my brain cells ‘tap dancing’ to their own thoughts on the matter. Great story telling Kate… and just glad the Macaulay was ok… My Bess ran away once or twice whilst down at the Golf Course, (old one, used for walking dogs now, and children… 🙂 ) a very long way a way, and many dangerous roads to traverse, but she managed it, thank goodness. xPenx
It’s amazing what a pet can do when it is determined, isn’t it, Pen? Glad Bess was all right after that ordeal! That forest seduces the dog every time….
I cannot get enough good stories, either. I grew up with a storyteller – my Father. Stories are still the only way he can carry on a conversation. He jumps between them with ease, because he’s told them all so many times. 🙂 I never tire of the telling of a story.
Simply LOVE the nun. Wish I could’ve met her.
Now we’re quits, Andra: for I will never meet that street preacher….
The nun was the original storyteller, and she only used her feet!
Reminds me of Danny Kaye (the original) convulsing an audience simply by sitting on the stage and rolling an orange around on it.
Danny Kaye: a very clever man indeed….
Telling a story with one’s feet. Now there’s a skill.
You are a brilliant teller of story, Kate… I aspire to write as you do, your ability to weave amazes. It is great joy to read the habit didn’t stop “dear Maria” from a lively step~
Angela, your post today was just as inspiring. Love that prose-voice you’ve found 🙂
Here’s to Dancing Nuns . . . and Flying Nuns!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Flying_Nun
Do you know, I have never seen this, Nancy!! Thanks so much. I have hours of airborne religious fun ahead of me…
Brilliant, Nancy 😀 Thank you….
As others have said, Kate, you tell a good story yourself – I enjoy reading them, for one! 🙂
And, your tale of Macaulay reminded me of another dog from years ago, Lassie, she made her own way home once or twice…
Ah, now there’s a classy canine, Tom. A princess among dogs. You’d never catch her smelling of fox poo.
Nice take on POV, Kate – love a tap-dancing nun 🙂
Everyone loves a tap-dancing nun, BB 🙂
What can I say, Kate? It’s all been said – you are a fantastic raconteur! I love reading your posts.
Thank you Denise: I have to let the bride have the credit for this one though….
Add my vote to the others. You spin a great tale, Kate.
Hi PiedType, thanks 🙂
That is a great story. It’s the type of story you know is true because, why would anyone make it up?
Why indeed 🙂 There are many things about that wedding I remember for being off the wall. One of the groom’s friends, a simple village soul, drank so much he came home, took everything out of the fridge and left it on the floor, and then went to sleep on the floor beside his artful arrangement.
prisms tell innumerable stories. prisms r one of my favorite descriptors of intuition and more. this was lovely. thank u.
I know, Doc – makes me want to go back to look again at the physics of a prism. I’m sure the parallels continue when you look more closely…
Oh, Kate, dear Kate, what a deliciously funny way to end my day. The tapping nun was so funny and what a story to tell for the bride and groom each anniversary.
It was one of many, Penny. That little corner of ireland was filled with event, looking out over the Irish Sea….
I so love tales told through the prism-of-Kate. You always make my day, and to think you almost stopped blogging.My mind shrinks up at that thought, what delights would have missed out on.
L&L had it so right, we do remember it well (and differently)
Blogging’s still a stretch, Sidey, but the stories are the best bit of the day…a reward for doing all the other stuff.
You will understand why we keep Mac firmly on a lead when we are in charge of him, Kate.
How deep was the wound” ? Dettol or stitches?
It’s a repost, Dad – this was years ago when he was first with us. Dettol, if I remember rightly, and a big fat vets bill.
All the best weddings have some degree of chaos, but they should all have that nun 🙂
Yes they should. I envisage a nun wedding hire service breathing new life into the church’s search for vocations
I agree with everyone who says you’re a great storyteller, Kate. I very much enjoy your posts. You are so right about experiences being fed into the prism that is us, and then our interpretations being refracted out. It makes me think not only of stories but of pieces of music and works of art. It’s funny, but I think we can always tell whether or not a musician likes the music they are playing by how it sounds. With paintings we can tell not only whether or not the artist enjoyed the act of creating the piece, but we can also gauge their opinion of the subject matter at the same time, even if the two feelings are at odds! 😀
Heather, what a clever observation…we all have a set of non verbal communication skills which show how we feel through the work of others.So we get Shakespeare interpreted by Olivier, or Rachmaninov through the fingers of Previn. I love that thought 🙂
I wanna tell you a story… You must remember Tommy Cooper? 😉 Excellent post!