The Telling Tree

It was her first week in the Ninth Grade and she was taking the city bus home the way a lot of kids did. Somehow she had gotten on an earlier bus than she usually did, so she hadn't found any of her friends to sit with. She had gotten a window seat. They were coming to the stop where the Marshall kids got on. Marshall was the Junior High she had graduated from last year.

She didn't notice him until he was standing right next to here seat. At least he didn't just plunk himself down without even looking at you the way a lot of kids did. He didn't say anything, but he did look right at her, smile, and kind of move an eyebrow just a little. She recognized him. He had been in the Seventh Grade when she graduated. He was only and Eighth Grader, "but," she thought, "He is cute." In her mind, she had emphasized the word "is' and had kind of drawled it out. He wasn't a big boy, but he had a friendly, calm, competent look about him that was attractive. He sat next to her.

"I'm not really the timid type." she thought to herself; and said "You're from Marshall, aren't you?" And he seemed just a little impressed that she was in High School. They began to talk.

She discovered that he had come from the Philippines just over four years ago. No, accent, almost. She asked if hes parents could speak Tagalo. He was surprised and pleased that she had heard of Tagalo. He told her that they also spoke English and Spanish. He too spoke the three languages. He said that he would be speaking Tagalo with his grandmother in just a few minutes. His parents were still in the Philippines and he lived with his grandmother.

She surprised herself by asking him if his grandmother ever told him stories. She felt her question had been a little strange, but he did not seem to think so. He said, "Sure, she tells me stories all the time."

She felt a twinge of something; no one had told her a story in a long time; no one at home. She had fought so much with her mother last year that she was now trying to live with her father. Her father was great, but he didn't tell her stories, he even seemed embarrassed to talk to her very long.

"What kind of stories does she tell you?" she asked him.

"All kinds." he replied. "They have morals. She tells me two or three a week. Sometimes more."

Just last period her English teacher had said that stories were everywhere. Maybe there was one right here.

"Tell me a story."  she firmly suggested. His eyes widened, "Here on the bus?" 
"Well, I can't; my grandmother's stories are too long." And they were in Tagalo.

"How long? she asked.

"A half hour; two hours.

She said that she would be on the the bus for nearly fifteen minutes more and suggested that he could think of a short one. Her voice might have carried a hint of pleading in it. He said that he thought that he had to get off the bus before she did. Nevertheless, he thought of one he could tell quickly and that he knew very well because his grandmother had told it to him several times beginning when he was quite young. Maybe he could tell it before the bus came to his stop.

He began.
"Once a bad king had a dark secret. The secrete was that he had horns on his head. His hair hid them.

"Horns?" she interrupted.

"You asked." he said and continued, "Nobody was supposed to know, but it was a fact. The king had horns."

She stopped herself from making a smart aleky remark. She really wanted to hear the story.

"Nobody was supposed to know, but his barbers did. How could they keep from knowing? So, to keep his secret, the king had each barber who cut his hair, killed. Finally, there was only one barber left."


"Sure,' she couldn't help interrupting, "only one barber in the whole kingdom."


He gave her a look that said that if she wanted him to tell the whole story, she had better be quiet. She didn't interrupt again.


He continued, "As the last barber was cutting, the king asked him if he noticed anything strange. The barber had noted that barbers had been disappearing, but he said, "No, what can be strange  about hair? It's about all I see every day."


The king persisted and said, "Look more closely and tell me what you see.." The barber saw horns! but said, "Hair, just hair. Less hair than I saw at first because my shears have left a quantity of it on the floor.


The king felt very satisfied that somehow this barber had not discovered his secret. Others had always shown surprise and fear when the discovered the horns. The king was pleased that he would not have to have the last barber in the kingdom killed.


The barber returned home very pleased that his wits had kept him alive. Still, he thought to himself that the king had horns; horns on his head! The secret was large in his mind, but he could tell no one.


He couldn't burden his good wife with this deadly secret. Nor could he tell his young and innocent children. The barber want very much to share his secret with someone, but he knew that his wife loved to have things to tell her friends. Her did not want to endanger his wife or her friends. If he told his friends, could they keep the secret any better than he?


In her seat on the bus the girl wanted to make comments about secrets, but she kept he mouth firmly closed. He must have guessed the nature of her thoughts, because he said that he usually had time to ask his grand mother plenty of questions. Not that she always had plenty of answers.


The boy continued the story: The barber's wife asked him what the matter was. She could tell that he had something uncomfortable on his mind. He couldn't tell her.


At dinner that evening the barber scarcely touched his food and did not talk with his wife a children as he usually did. They looked at one another and wondered what was wrong with him.


In bred that night the barber's wife told him that she knew that something serious was troubling him and that he must feel free to tell her. He told her that he loved her very much, but that he had nothing to tell. Twice during the night his restlessness woke her. He nearly told her, but instead waited until she was asleep. Then he ran out to yell his secret into the dark night and thus unburden himself. But, he stifled his yell. His neighbors might hear and hearing be burdened as he was. Or, if they unburdened themselves, endanger their lives and the lives of others.


He went back to bed, but not to sleep. Toward morning he got an idea.


After a nearly normal breakfast, he picked up his shovel and walked to a far part of the forest where almost no one went. He began to dig. He knew that for his purpose he needed a deep hole. Once he stopped digging, thinking that he had perhaps dug deep enough; but, looking at his work, he knew he had to dig deeper yet.


Finally the hole was deep enough. He looked at it with satisfaction and relief. He looked to see if anyone was around and, seeing no one, filled his lungs deeply with air, leaned over the hole and shouted his secrete into it ... "THE KING HAS HORNS."  He quickly filled the hole and covered the secret so that it would stay buried.


(The woman in the next seat looked over at them. Guess she heard  "HORNS.")


After that the barber found it easier to keep the secret. H was a good husband to his wife and a good father to his children, And, he cut the kings hair.


Months passe and a plant began to grow from the barber's secret hole in the forest. At first no one saw it and seemed like any other plant. Then came a time when an occasional passer-by thought the leaves of the plant  looked a bit strange. The plant was becoming a tree, but that wasn't the strange thing. The strange thing was that people thought that they could see writing on the tree's large leaves.


In a few short years the plant grew to a strong tree. People began to talk of the strange tree in the forest. Some said that they were sure that they could see some definite words written in the veins of its leaves. "There" one would say, "doesn't that say king?" Some noted too that when the breeze was strong a noise from the tree sounded like voices.


Then, one day, a strong wind blew and a loud sound came from the leaves of that tree. More than a sound; it was aloud voice. The voice from the leaves sail loudly, clearly, and repeatedly, "THE KING HAS HORNS.'


Everyone in the forest heard. Every one in the village hear.


The people made the evil king leave their land. They lived happily for many years.


The boy was getting up so that he could get off at his stop.


"Well, what's the moral?" she had to ask.


"My grandmother says it's 'the truth comes out in the end,' or 'it's hard to keep a secret even if you bury it,' How did you like it?"


"It wasn't too juvenile," she started and added "I really liked it." She did too.


He was outside on the sidewalk now, but before the bus pulled away, he asked through the open window if she were going to tell him a story someday.


"Sure," she yell as the bus pulled away. Maybe she would tell him the one about the babysitter and the 'viper.'

Your True Story

Mostly I'm interested in my story. However, I do believe that your understanding of your history makes you more powerful too. Attending to your history puts you on a high road to understanding and power.

I believe that your story hooks you up. It gets you together.  It connects you to your family, your people, mankind, and the world.

Your history is about truth and reality. It begins with awareness and alertness; awareness and alertness not only to the world around you, but also to yourself, your motives and feelings, your inner self. It continues with better observation of your own experience. It gets on the road with conscious improvement of your interpretation of your observation.

You don't have to have a favorite color, but you may find it useful to know more about what you find attractive. Yourt aunt Sara's love life? Your cousin Jake's Career? Small airplanes? Your left foot? A passage from the Bible? Saints? Kings? Find out what interests you today and find out more about it. Get its story;its history. Your self is likely greater than you believe it is. Exploring that which attracts you may enliven that self.

Today I was attracted by Og. Og may be the name of a giant in a kids story I heard log ago. I believe that following my attraction to Og can increase my power and understanding today. To each his own, right?

My imagination, like yours, is a very valuable tool. However, imagination is what it eats. I try to feed mine on truth and reality. Much that I taste I do not swallow. I find that flavoring my history with goodness and reality is to my advantage. Badly fed imaginations may sicken. However, just getting some information that seems good in mind and letting your mind get used to it being there may be a good start. You can hold something in mind for a time without taking it as real or true, can't you?

Your mind is not exactly the same as mine or as anyone else's. Minds differ in a variety of ways. One mind wants, needs, and benefits from information that consists of doubly or triply validated fact before it is given much time in mind. Another mind wants, needs, and benefits from gathering bits and pieces of information which seem to begin to define the parameters of an attractive area.

My mind tends to work a bit like the the outer limits defining way I suggest above. I am grateful that it works at all.

Now, I find that there has been an Og called a giant in places besides a kid's book. Or, it seems, was: an Amorite king of Bashan; a person of the time of Noah; a canaanite; a neighbor of Shihon and Hesbond. I have discovered that there are those who believe that Og may be related to Magog, Gog, Ogma, ogham, Ogias, and, perhaps, Mago.

I have also learned that translations of ancient works have sometimes confused the idea of big men and great men, with men who were physically much bigger than other men.

Then again, I find that learned men have found evidence that man-like beings well over seven feet tall walked the earth for 400,000 years.

Og data may provide me with a seed that will grow into a tree of power and understanding. An acorn grows to a mighty oak. A tiny mustard seed grows to be a plant of considerable size. Still it may take a whole lot of good evidence to form a vital seed.

Knowing that I find much joy at being where I can see wild flowers bloom is probably a greater thing in my life than any Og can be.

You are your best historian. Even so, you can learn much from the great historians, giants among men. One of those great historians is Herodotus. Herodotus is a dead Greek, but he is still a great historian. He read, but he didn't like to very much. He would travel far to hear a good story or to see for himself. I suspect that he knew that his ongoing inner story was intimately connected to the whole world of all time. He may well have known that it extended beyond world and time.

Your history begins with your personal history. Your personal history is very important. The history of your thoughts, feelings, and doings color your understanding of everything. Those thoughts, feelings, and doings of yours tints the world of each of us. Your motives, experiences, and observations make up your history and the way you see your life. May you enjoy the understanding and power of your truth and reality. Make it a good story.

History

The best part of history, for me, is the story. Much of histories value lies in how closely it approaches reality. A good story which is true is hard to beat. I would love a history that contained no intention to deceive.

History is the presentation of:
~ knowledge or a source of knowledge,
~ an interpretation,
~ a scholarly synthesis of events,
~ what we value from the past (the taste of this mornings toothpaste?)
~ that which is worth remembering,
~ knowledge obtained by inquiry,
~ an account of one's experience,
~ an account of actual events,
~ the study of a human past,
~ a pointing of the way,
~ knowledge brought to the present,
~ systematically related phenomena,
and stuff like vision, wit, and order.

There may be a history for each category of human experience: love, music, martial arts, smut, science, racing, family, you, war, politics, kings, natural events, blood lines, religion, philosophy, magic, history and everything else.

As each of us preserves and interprets happenings, each of us is a historian. Some historians have been judged to be better than others. Some pass on greater power to us. Some try to pass on attractive lies. Many are learned men or women of fine vision from whom we may learn truly.

I have enjoyed and benefited from well told stories of real events told by worthy persons with deep respect for rules of evidence. There are strange histories that may be a sort of travelogue of happenings and experiences out of time which may have their own value. There are chronologies, tiny and grand, which give order to the doings of man. I like best the well told story told honestly by an honest fellow.

The doing of history includes using a variety of methods of research, analysis, and interpretation. A historian may examine and analyze a sequence of events and present his interpretation to you. He searches the happenings and chronologies for causes and effects and tells one what he sees. A historian may follow a trail back in time until finds a primary source of evidence or until he gets a story which seems complete. He is pleased when he finds an eye-witness. A historian may seek and find patterns, order, and laws in the doings of humanity. He may discover imperfect, but useful cycles and other movements in our activities and teach you how to recognize them and to use them for your benefit.

From a history one may learn a good way of living and doing. Processes of making glass or steel may be learned from histories.

You can find power and joy in history; I do.

Bed of Nails

The war is over and we are preparing to move. The pre-war gray-green panel truck is nearly loaded and we will be leaving soon.


I am seven and am helping as much as I am allowed. I glance occasionally with concern at the partially water-filled glass bowl which is home to my silver dollar sized turtle. I feel, more than think, that someone will, or should, make a decision about my turtle.


Now it is very nearly time to leave and I carry the bowl to the old panel truck where my father is standing. "What should I do with the turtle?" I ask.


"Put it in the truck." my father says.


I see no place in the loaded truck for a bowl with a turtle in it. "The bowl will spill." I say.


"Empty the bowl and put it in the truck." my father tells me.


I do as I am told, but hold my turtle, still safe, in my hands. Now,somewhat fearfully, I again ask my father what I should do with my turtle


"Put it there." he points.


I look 'there.' Rusty nails. An open can of rusty nails collected to finish our new home. The nails are unfriendly, uncaring, lifeless. As I put my turtle on those nails, I know he will never see his home again.

The Cherokee people: the story of ... - Google Books

The Cherokee people: the story of ... - Google Books

A book about the Cherokee people on line.

Lots of drawings with interesting detail.

Mago Notes One

 Mago is a given name of my Irish great grand father. My cousin Kevin once asked me why I thought the name was special and why I thought it had Phoenician connections.I don't remember giving him much of an answer. 


I may have asked cousin Kevin how many people he knew with great grandfathers named Mago. I may have asked him what he knew of Hannibal or told him that in Spanish mago means magician.


I guess Kevin and Richard, and Mary are each a name with its special meanings. However, I've this feeling that Mago is especially meaningful.


With this post I begin a series of notes on Mago. If you encourage me I will try to provide sources for information I give here, otherwise you may have to call me a damn lier or to take me at my word.


For example, I may say that there was a son of Mago with King Author in Cornwall. Or, that I once knew a woman related to Mellon related to Merlin. I don't know how I came by this info, but if you don't care I don't either.


Other things I say here may be easier for you to check up on. For example, I say that Hannibal's brother Mago knew how to ride an elephant. That's special and there is quite a bit of info on Hannibal available.


One of the things I intend to do On future "Mago Notes" is to repeat what I have seen, heard, or envisioned of the name or word Mago among the Phoenician and among the Irish and try to point out some associations.


I bet that if you checked the www you could find pictures of Mago's Cliffs at the side in County Clare.