Chapter One - The Stories We Tell

Chapter One 

In this opening chapter, Drew reflects on the stories we tell… and the way they shape how we remember.

From childhood memories of being read to and listening in wonder… to the fragments of lives shared in his work as a celebrant, this is a gentle exploration of storytelling in all its forms.

Because sometimes… it isn’t the story itself that stays with us…

…it’s the telling.

Transcript

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SPEAKER_00 0:08

Hello and welcome. Each week I'll be sharing stories, stories that are drawn from real life, from people I've met, and from moments I've witnessed, sometimes remembered as they were, sometimes softened by time, but all of them brought to you with kindness and care, and all to be found in big skies and small ponds. Chapter one The Stories We Tell Once upon a time we were all storytellers. It's how we made sense of the world, how we pass things on, how families remembered, and how communities were built. People would sit together, sometimes around a fire, sometimes around a table, and they'd share what they knew, what they'd seen, what they believed. And it didn't always matter if the story was strictly true. It was the telling that mattered. Stories carried something else, something human, something that stayed with you. I sometimes wonder if we've lost a little of that skill. We still talk, of course we do, but we don't always sit and listen in quite the same way. When I was much younger, I'd sit cross legged in a school hall as the teacher turned on the wireless, and then we'd listen with mother. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin. As I grew older, I tune into Jack and Aury every weekday afternoon after school. It might be Gordon Gostolo reading The Little Wooden Horse, or John Grant reading his Little News stories. Oh I remember them. The voices of childhood, not forgetting, of course, dear Bernard Cribbins. They were storytellers on the radio, on the television. My little life was full of stories, and how lucky was I that I had people in my life who read to me and told me bedtime stories. My parents did that, of course, but but I have one memory that stands out when it comes to storytelling, and it's about a man I think I only met once, maybe twice, my great uncle Roy. A not so frequent visitor to our shores in the UK from his home in Toledo, Ohio, but a memorable visitor to an impressionable young boy who was fascinated by this man with his self-proclaimed Native American heritage and his way of telling stories. I seem to recall him showing us a scar on his hand and telling us that it was from a snake bite. He was as close to the Wild West as I thought I'd ever get. A world that felt so far away but now was close up and very real. And as a child you didn't question whether every detail is true, because that wasn't the point. It was the way he told his story, the way he drew his young audience in, the sense that something important was being passed on, and I'm sure he could see the sense of wonder that he was generating. And here we are, some sixty years later, and still that wonder hasn't diminished. You know, I think one of the great sadnesses of life is that over time we forget the sound of people's voices. We can still see their faces, like great Uncle Roy, noble and rugged and dark. And we also remember how they made us feel, but the voice somehow slips away. And perhaps that's why stories matter so much, because through them we can still feel the storyteller and hear something of who they were, even if the voice itself has long since been stilled, they remain with us. Thank you, great Uncle Roy. Not because they're more grand or important than any other, but because of how they were told. As children, we would sit and listen while our father told us the story of the three little pigs. Now, on paper, it's a simple tale. Three pigs, three houses, and a wolf with admirable lung capacity, a proper villain for little pigs and little children to fear. But in our house, as perhaps with many others, it wasn't simple at all because our father didn't just tell the story, he performed it. The wolf, well, that wolf had presence. You could hear him coming. And when the moment arrived when he stood outside those fragile little houses, there would be a pause, and our excitement would build because no matter how many times we've heard it, we were ready to hear it again. Yes. And we believed him. Not just because the words were convincing, but because the telling was. Looking back now, I think that might have been the first time I understood, without knowing that I understood, that stories are not just words. They're something you step into and experience with all your senses and emotions. As I grew older, stories persisted, but stories changed. It changed from being a bedtime story being read to you to you reading your own story. Books became treasures. And from children's books to comics to classics like Jock of the Bushfeld and King Solomon's Minds, or even The Silver Sword, the first book I recall reading in English literature classes at secondary school. I read things then I didn't fully understand, but stories that were like adventures on the surface, I now understood to carry something deeper, and I suspect I missed out on what mattered most back then, but the seed had been planted. And I think stories have a way of waiting for you to catch up. Later still, I found myself not just listening to stories, but becoming part of the story. In uniform, walking the beat, you soon realise that every door you knock on, every conversation you have, well, it's part of something that's already unfolding. Somebody else's story as well as your own. But but unlike a novel, people don't present you with neat beginnings, middles, and endings. They offer fragments. And what might feel like a beginning of a story for you might be nearing its end for them. We share a moment, a version of events, sometimes shaped by truth, sometimes by fear, sometimes by what they need it to be, and you learn very quickly that stories in life are not always tidy. Growing up with a love of books and reading, it well, it wasn't a huge leap to become a lover of the theatre. And the theatre gave me another perspective on the stories that we tell. In theatre, the story is fixed, written, rehearsed, repeated, and as an actor you step into someone else's life for a while, say their words, experience their moments, and then step back out again. And you know there's something comforting in that. Life, as I'm constantly discovering, rarely offers that luxury. And then years later, working as a celebrant, sitting with families, listening, not to a story neatly told, well not always, but to memories, fragments again of a greater story. It might be a laugh here or an old habit remembered there, sometimes a contradiction, sometimes a silence. And then there's those moments that mean everything to one person and absolutely nothing to another. The notes from that meeting might fit neatly onto an A4 page in my notebook, but a life never does. And somehow, from those fragments, from those notes, you're asked to shape something that feels whole, not perfect, not complete, but whole enough to ring true and to be kind. A story reflected carefully enough that the person being remembered can be recognised. You can tell it's their story, not yours. Big skies and small ponds with Drew Baxter. For most of my life I thought stories were things that you told. Carefully chosen words placed just so, so that something of the truth might shine through. But the more of life you experience and the more you take notice of what's happening around you, then you start to see that, well, you don't always get to hold the pen. And sometimes you become the story with little, if any, editorial control. And when that happens, it can be an uncomfortable place to find yourself because the version of you that gets written that gets told isn't always the version that you recognise. It can be misunderstood, reshaped by other people's needs and opinions, and I've seen it happen. In fact, I felt it happen. And there comes a point of resignation, that there's often a difference between the life that you've lived and the story that gets told about it. Perhaps well, definitely, that's why I take such care now, because when someone sits in front of me and begins, well, let me tell you, he was just this or or she always used to well I know what's being handed over. It's not just information, it's trust. And I think back sometimes to those evenings as a child, to a wolf outside a little house, and a voice that made us believe, and now I realize it wasn't the story that mattered most, it was the care that was taken in the telling, the pauses, the tone, the understanding that for a moment we could trust that we were all inside the world of a story, all of us together. And perhaps that's all I've ever really tried to do to stand close enough to notice and be careful enough to then tell the story kindly. Do not abuse that trust? What makes a great storyteller, do you think? And I'm not claiming that I am one, by the way, but what attributes do you think that need? A good voice? An expressive voice? The ability to lift words from a page so that they turn into images, maybe? And perhaps all of these are necessary traits, but in the work I do as a celebrant for the stories I tell, the very first skill I rely on is listening. Listening and learning, observing, trying to work out how the story of one life intersects with the lives of others. Really understanding the story beyond the list of times and dates and places, you know, went to school here, worked on this project, enjoyed this hobby. That's part of it, but it's finding the heart of the story. Now there's the thing, because once you have that, then you can speak with confidence, with truth. What makes a great storyteller? Perhaps that's a decision we all make for ourselves. What makes me a storyteller? Well, perhaps that's something we can discover together as I share these stories with you. Because over time I've discovered something else that every life, no matter how ordinary it may seem, carries something special within it. Small moments. Yep, even a quiet life is full of these small moments. A story that might not be told around a campfire, but a story with value, and that story can somehow reflect something far wider, something we all recognize, something we all share. And perhaps that's what stories have always done. They take something small and help us see the bigger picture. Big skies seen in small ponds. Once upon a time we were all storytellers, and maybe we still can be. Share it with your family and your friends. They'd be welcome, as will you, as we share more stories, stories drawn from real moments in real lives. Some names and details have been changed for obvious reasons, but the truth of each story remains. So you'll be very welcome the next time we meet to share the next chapter of Big Skies and Small Ponds. Until then, enjoy writing and living your own story.