The Value of an Oral History

It was mid winter and several members of the Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen were gathered around the old wood stove in the rear of the Chukar Harbor Hardware Store. They do so on most windblown winter Saturdays and those gatherings are the closest that CHAOS ever comes to holding a regular meeting. They were mostly there to be sure the owner, Abel Andretti, didn’t succumb to an overdose of Bold Old Mold single-malt scotch. Their method for helping Abel was to hand the bottle around. This reduced the amount of the old-world scotch available for Abel’s consumption. About half a dozen members were all helping Abel resist temptation as Rusty Steele regaled the group with one of his stories.

"When my granddaughter was 5 years old ... oh, let’s see … that would be back in ’74 or ‘75, I would bring her over to Osborne’s when we cleaned the trout pens." Rusty started. Osborne B. Foreyew had some trout rearing ponds on this property that CHAOS used to raise Brown Trout and Brook Trout to plant in the local streams.

Osborne and I were cleaning the pens when my granddaughter asked for some worms to feed the fish. I tried to explain that these fish were fed pellets of fish food, but she raised such a fuss, I dug up a couple leaf worms for her. Instead of throwing the worms in the rearing pens, she ran downstream to the short bridge over the stream and lay on her stomach.

Then she held one of those worms in her fingers just under the surface of the water. I watched a ten-inch brookie rise slowly from the bottom of that hole above the bridge and gently took the worm from her fingers. She would came over every week during the winter and fed that trout right up to eatin’ size.

We had to stretch a net below the rearing pond outlets when we opened the flow pipes to clean the pens. Well, we would occasionally lose a trout or two to the stream and that one took to living in the small pool just above the bridge."

Then one day, no trout came up to her. I explained that trout sometimes needed deeper water when they grow up and how her trout probably went downstream to meet up with other trout and start a family of its own. I assured her that her trout appreciated her friendship and was probably telling other trout about her right now.

She didn’t ask any more questions, so I didn’t offer anything more.

Rusty said. Then he added, "Tasted good for a worm-fed trout, though".

 

Rusty was in his 90’s, being the oldest member of CHAOS, and had an extensive accumulation of tales and it was Pete Moss, who first expressed concerns. As Rusty paused to help Abel avoid some Bold Old Mold, Pete leaned over and whispered into Abel’s ear.

"You know, when the older members pass on, we’re liable to lose a lot of our history." Pete said. Abel nodded his agreement and took a swallow of Bold Old Mold silently noting how its volume had diminished. He knew some those stories would be lost forever and gave this some thought before speaking.

"You’re right, but there are a number of nuances to this matter that deserve some discussion." Abel said. "Let’s get some younger guys together tomorrow evening to weigh this out." They returned their attention to Rusty as he continued.

"Well, while we were having lunch on the picnic table that day, my granddaughter took a bite of her sandwich and looked over at the bridge. With her mouth full of baloney sandwich, she said ‘I miss my trout. I was gonna catch him and eat him when he got a little bigger.’

Yes sir, that little girl grew up to become a top-notch angler."

Rusty grinned with pride.

The following evening, Zane S. Yewar, and Jason Matail joined Abel and Pete at the mayoral office of Gerry Mander. Odds were there would be no Bold Old Mold in the mayor’s office in order for clear minds to prevail for this most important matter. Pete began the non-meeting.

"Gentlemen, I believe its time to address a serious threat to the esteemed history of CHAOS." Pete said. "The problem facing us is that as our older members pass on we are in serious danger of losing their stories and those stories are an oral history of CHAOS."

"Some of those old stories should expire along with the aforementioned members", said Gerry. "If a lot of those stories didn’t include our Sheriff and fellow member, Flint Locke, the authorities might consider them evidence."

"Nevertheless, we don’t want to risk losing the rich heritage of our group", Pete replied.

"That’s true," added Jason. "Why, those stories are the fabric of our friendship. Those stories make us who we are and they should be written in a club journal." Gerry Mander turned white at the thought of a journal. Abel quickly put Jason’s comments in context.

"Jason’s obviously not married." Abel stated for the group. "Jason, our wives only vaguely understand what we’re about. I’m not sure we want them to see that ‘rich heritage’ in writing." The married members all nodded in agreement.

"Abel’s got a point." Zane observed. "If my wife ever got wind of the predicaments we’ve managed to survive, it would mean the end of my fishing and hunting. The only outdoor activities I’d be allowed to have is mowing the lawn and shoveling snow and under close supervision to boot!"

"I move that we do nothing." Abel said.

"That figures." Pete Moss remarked. "Why are we here then?"

"Think about it for a moment." Abel said. "I imagine the elder members of our group had this same conversation a number of years ago and came to the same conclusion. I also suspect our sons will have this same conversation some years from now and I hope they too will realize the value of an oral history.

"What do you mean?" Gerry Mander asked.

"Do you recall the story that Rusty tells about his old friend, Imus B. Rong and the trip to Basigani Creek?" Abel asked the group. Everyone recalled Rusty’s story about Imus scaring a skunk out of camp by imitating a bear. It was midnight and Imus was in his briefs stomping around the camp and growling. Everyone remembered and remarked about how Rusty regaled with laughter whenever he told that story.

"Imus was never on that trip." Abel said. The other looked puzzled and Abel continued. "Oh there was probably a skunk, maybe even on a trip with Imus, but Osborne once told me that Imus was on a business trip at the time and couldn’t go at the last minute. You see one of the best things about an oral history is that the stories change ever so slightly each year. Sometime details are added, sometimes they are dropped, or even combined with another story to create a new one. I suspect that’s what happened to Rusty’s rendition of the Basigani trip."

"You ... you mean those old stories are all made up?" Jason said. "But I was on a few of those trips when those things happened!"

"But those trips are recent, Jason." Abel explained. "Those stories may be fairly accurate now, but when your Rusty’s age, you’ll be having Pete, Zane, Gerry, and me responsible for things we never did. Over time, the trails in your stories will get longer, your long distance shots will begin to hit their mark, you will remember the water as colder and faster, and your fish will get bigger.

Don’t you see? A fine oral history like ours isn’t about facts. It’s about how the years have touched our souls. When Rusty tells those stories, I see the sheer joy in his face; and that’s what is contagious and bonds us. Deep down, we all understand that life is how we relive it in our hearts, not how it was lived. Yessir, we have a fine oral history. I call for the vote."

Abel’s motion passed unanimously. Somehow they were all closer now and everyone was looking forward to next Saturday and trading stories around the old wood stove.

Royal Dun