Tell Me a Story

Do you know the story of "Tootle" by Gertrude Crampton? Tootle was a baby locomotive who wanted to grow up to be a big locomotive and go very fast. I read the story of Tootle countless times, to the point where I had the words memorized. It was my pleasure to do so, to share in the joy of the story with that sweet little boy. "Tootle" was my older son's favorite book when he was two. Toddlers learn from repetition of favorite stories, and they also find comfort in those favorite books.

I think that some adults also find comfort in their favorite stories, but not necessarily those ones found in books. My friend graduated from university roughly fifteen years ago. Her father has been telling the story that he paid for her college education. He still tells that story. Problem is, he didn't. Well, to be fair, he did give her $300 her freshman year, but that is far from footing the bill. She has corrected him numerous times, but he still finds some odd comfort in telling the story. Maybe he has told it so many times that he actually believes it himself. Now I'm not here to debate whether or not a parent should help a child with college, although I think parents should do that. It's just strange that he would tell a story which is essentially nothing more than a lie. Perhaps you know someone like that, a person who rewrites history to further his own agenda.

But enough about other people. I have to wonder if there are stories that I've been telling myself for years, to the point where I have the words memorized. Is my history true, or have I taken liberties with it to paint myself in a better light? Is what I tell other people, and more importantly, what I tell myself, true?

Susan