Finding the Extraordinary in the Ordinary
A story-in-a-story that shows why my attic floor is groaning under the weight of a dozen-odd boxes of paper.
She was just 18 when she wrote about broad-shouldered, full-chested Uncle Darrell and the heartbreak of discovering her childhood hero was a fraud. Her story taught me a profound lesson about the difference between lies and truth. And the profound importance of writing things down.
They say when a person dies, the world loses a library. For me, losing my mother and her mother at the age of 16 meant those libraries closed before I was even aware of how useful they might have been.
That aspect of loss didn’t hit me for a few years. Finally out of college, there were so many life decisions to be made. So many questions.
But nothing came in response. So many lessons, so many stories. Just gone.
What was her early life like? What had happened in the family way back when that caused certain relationships to be strained? Why didn’t Grandpa and Uncle Paul get along?
I would have loved to have the chance to ask Mom—Zoanne Maureen Caskey Hines—about her childhood, beyond the handful of facts she had leaked as I grew up.
Fortunately, no one else had wanted the photos and letters and steno notebooks full of shorthand none of us is able to read. My sister and cousins were happy to leave the questions of family history to me. No one challenged my request for whatever written or printed evidence was available as the grown-ups cleared out after the funerals.
One big cardboard box held as much of the family library as I was going to get. To a documentation fanatic like me, it may as well have been filled with gold doubloons.
Finding Buried Treasure
As I sat on the floor one day in my early 20s, surrounded by stacks of black-and-white photos and faded letters, I struck gold. There in the bottom of the box lay a college paper Zoanne had written at the University of Pittsburgh for her second-term English class in 1950. It was identified as a Long Persona Theme, titled Uncle Darrell.
It was, no doubt, the last college paper she had written. Two semesters was all her parents could afford in those days before financial aid became readily available.
If you’ve read my Well Guided spiritual memoir series, you might remember that I have mentioned Zoanne’s paper before. But I didn’t get to share the entire piece. And I only shared one of the lessons it has held for me.
Like most good stories (and Shrek 😉) there are lots of layers to unpack. I only picked up on a few of them back in the day. Later in life, I chanced upon Zoanne’s paper once again, while rifling through a file drawer in search of something else. New lessons ensued.
In fact, given that I was in the ministry by then, her paper led me to a new spiritual insight. I’ll share all those lessons soon enough, at the bottom of the page.
But first, Zoanne’s essay.
[Editor’s Note: I have included Zoanne’s paper here in its entirety. I have corrected a few typos, broken up paragraphs for readability, and added section headings. Otherwise, the words are all hers.]
Uncle Darrell
My earliest memory of Uncle-Darrell-from-West-Virginia is the picture of a broad-shouldered, full-chested, craggy giant of a man, who came barging into our home laden with packages. He would swoop me into his arms, crush me savagely and demand, “Who’s my best-est girl in the whole wide world?”
After greeting my father with a slap on the back and a joke that somehow never seemed funny to me, and calling a hearty “Hi-ya, Sis” to my mother, he would insist that we all open our gifts.
And what gifts! There were boxes of candy, large colorfully illustrated picture books, dolls, and gadgets that did amazing things, making everyone laugh. He would then settle his bulk into an arm chair, light up a long cigarette, and draw me onto his knee so that I could explore the wondrous realm of his vest pockets.
Uncle Darrell’s vest pockets never failed to produce a little gift that had been “hiding way down in the corner.” These pockets always held three extraordinary items. Each one had a story behind it that entranced my childish imagination.
With his slow drawl he would tell me the stories. I listened, spellbound.
Three Trinkets Told Three Tales
The large round watch was an antique that had once been presented to a Duke by a King. On its back was carved the royal crest. I could almost see the Duke, who of course had worn a monocle, take the watch from his pocket with courtly grace.
A tiny gold nugget dangled from the watch chain. Uncle had panned it from his stake in the Yukon after braving the wilds of nature and escaping from a tribe of Indians. A large yellow tooth from the mouth of a wildcat that he shot when he was a cowboy in Texas was attached to the other end of the chain.
I never once doubted any of these stories even though my mother insisted that Uncle Darrell had been given the watch when he graduated from high school and that he had never been any further west than Missouri.
Mother just didn’t understand. Nothing could dispel my complete belief in his daring exploits. Nothing, that is, but my own powers of reasoning as they matured. Such complete belief could not go on forever.
Finally the day came when I realized the inevitable truth.
The Truth Will Out
Uncle Darrell was with us for a short visit. Mother had gone shopping, and my little brother and I were entrusted to Uncle’s care. It was a bright, sunny, April afternoon, and the three of us went out into the garden to sit beside the fishpond.
As we watched the fish glide through the brown water, Uncle Darrell mused, “You know…those fish dart and fly about just like trapeze artists in the circus.”
“The circus! Oh Uncle, the circus is coming to town next week. Could we go, could we?”
“Well, now…did I ever tell you about the time that I worked for Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus?”
“You did? Really! Gee!”
“I sure did. Why…I traveled with them one whole season.”
"Golly!”
“Yes…I knew all the clowns, and I rode an elephant in the parades. I bunked with the Indian rubber man, and I sharpened swords for the sword swallower. I knew them all,” he said as he casually tripped a pebble across the water. “I even learned a secret trick from a Hindu magician.”
“Honest? Tell us, tell us.”
“You must remember that it’s a secret.”
“We won’t tell anyone, cross our hearts.”
He then raised his right hand to his right ear and with great deliberation, pulled. As he did, his upper teeth slowly protruded out over his lower lip and made him look like a grotesque creature. To add to the effect, he crossed his eyes and made a terrible noise.
My brother was frozen with fear for a moment, and then he ran screaming and crying to mother, who had just returned. Uncle laughed and laughed till tears ran down his cheeks. I hadn’t said a word.
Suddenly he stopped laughing and said, “What’s the matter, honey? Don’t you want to learn the secret?”
Cold, bitter realization was in my heart. The tears that I fought to suppress welled up into my eyes and brimmed over. “You lied,” I sobbed, “You lied. It’s no secret. Grandpa does the same thing with his store teeth. You never knew a sword swallower, or a Duke, or anybody. You’ve never been to China or India or…or just anyplace. You lied to me.”
Then I, too, ran crying to mother.
Mother Explains It All
My world was crushed; all my castles had crumbled about me; my heart was broken.
Mother listened to my story. She told me that I must not feel so bad about my discovery. She explained that such realization was part of growing up; that I would love the real Uncle Darrell much more than the make-believe one who had lived in my childish imagination.
Mother convinced my brother that there was nothing to be afraid of and sent him back to the fishpond. Then she sat beside me and told me Uncle Darrell’s story.
Mother tried to show me that Uncle Darrell was like my image of him. I had believed that he had been to all those wonderful places—and he had. He had visited all those places through books. He loved books and read every one that he could.
Grandfather was a minister and many missionaries visited his home. They told of their adventures throughout the world. Uncle would take the tattered old Atlas from the shelf and follow their travels. So he knew almost as much about the world as he would have known from personal experiences.
When he finished high school, he went to work in the hardware store of a friend of his. Soon afterwards Grandfather decided to come to Pittsburgh.
Uncle Darrell had been doing very well in the hardware business, and his employer offered him a junior partnership if he would stay in Clarksburg [West Virginia]. The family left sadly without him.
In the next few years Uncle became very successful. He had become active in civic affairs. It was through his influence that the circus began to make an appearance in the town every year. He had been involved with circus people, perhaps a little less dramatically than he had me believe, but…
The hardware business grew. The small one-room store became a large five-story building. Uncle’s partner retired and sold him the remaining share in the business. Uncle hadn’t literally discovered a gold mine, but figuratively he had one right in front of him.
He Really Was a Hero
I had thought him a hero—well maybe he was, in a way. He hadn’t exactly fought tigers and lions, but he had fought hard times and depression. The [Great] Depression nearly ruined him. He was bankrupt. But he struggled with great courage and even greater determination. And finally he won. He had lost a lot during the ordeal.
Afterwards there was little demand for hardware, so he decided to alter his stock. He changed the back of the main storeroom into a toy shop. He put all of his imaginative powers to work and produced a magic fairyland.
He seemed to know exactly what kind of toys children wanted most of all. He understood and loved children. Perhaps that was why he told me the stories. He recognized the need in a child’s life for something apart from reality.
Soon after opening the toy shop, he was asked by the town’s people to organize a boy’s club. The boy’s club became a Boy Scout troop. The basement of the store became their headquarters. This inspired Uncle Darrell to add a sporting goods department to the store and to sponsor contests during hunting and fishing seasons.
As mother told me these things and showed me the relationship between the imaginative and the real, I saw how he was really true and sincere, and I was ashamed.
When she had finished, I walked slowly back to the garden. I stopped behind a tree and watched Uncle Darrell and my brother. Uncle was laughing heartily. Then I, too, started to laugh.
My little brother was trying desperately to make his teeth come out. He had pulled both ears till they were red and swollen. He moved his jaws feverishly and twisted his lips in wild grimaces.
With superiority, I walked to him and said, “You just aren’t old enough to understand.” Uncle smiled and squeezed my hand. Then he started off on another story to make my brother forget about his teeth. I listened intently …and in a way Uncle wasn’t really lying …
Zoanne Shares the Lesson
All of Uncle’s stories were true. They were true because they lived in his imagination. He was not lying. There was nothing about him that was deceptive. His stories were alive and exciting. My brother and I never found them hard to believe.
Even after I fully realized that the stories were not true, they fascinated me. I never thought of their untruth while listening to them. The truthfulness of the story was a minor detail; it was the story that counted.
The stories of his wild and adventuresome escapades, of all kinds of men, and of thrilling places—the stories that I have shared with many of my friends—will never be lies to me. These people, these places, these adventures, this uncle, all have been important parts of my life.
Uncle Darrell will always be the same. The last time that I saw him I had just finished my first week at Pitt. It was a warm September evening, and we sat alone beside the fishpond.
He leaned over and casually tripped a pebble across the water. Then he said, with a chuckle, “Say now, did I ever tell you about when I went to college?” No, Uncle Darrell, you never told me…
What Uncle Darrell Taught Us Both
There’s a difference between lying and storytelling. It’s mostly a matter of intent—to deceive and manipulate, or to create magic.
Heroes are regular people succeeding in extraordinary ways. Uncle Darrell’s real life accomplishments—surviving the Depression, pivoting into a new business, organizing a Boy Scout troop, and bringing the circus to town—were every bit as heroic as anything that happened in his wild tales.
It can take a while to figure out your life’s purpose. You probably won’t hit it the first time out. But once you find it, things begin to take off.
True isn’t always the same as accurate. The emotional truth of love, creativity, and the desire to bring joy can matter more than factual accuracy.
Teachers sometimes don’t realize they are teaching. Often we don’t know the effect we have on others. So let’s live our best lives and trust that someone is learning from our example.
What I Learned from Zoanne
Get as much education as you can, even if you can’t make it to graduation. And then do the most you can with it—even if you have to take a step back from your dreams. After two semesters of college, Zoanne became an executive secretary for a Vice President at Gulf Oil. Later, as a mom, she became a community leader, started a Girl Scout Troop, and brought a branch of the Carnegie Library to our neighborhood.
We tend to have consistent themes or threads running through our lives. Uncle Darrell had a penchant for entertaining children. Books and writing ranked high on Zoanne’s list of importance.
Writing a story preserves more than just facts. It’s worth the extra time involved to make a story come alive for the reader, to show rather than tell, and to use all the devices known to writers of creative nonfiction.**
Family stories are treasures. When going through the things a loved one has left behind, don’t just throw entire drawers and boxes into the dumpster. Look for and save the papers and electronic files that tell their story.
Alternatively, if you’re the one writing, make sure someone knows where to find it all—or label it well—so it doesn’t get tossed by accident.
And, Finally, My Spiritual Reflection
I love this story for several reasons. First, it offers me a glimpse into a side of my mother (her writing ability) I never got the chance to explore. Second, it offers me a glimpse of a great-uncle I never got the chance to meet.
But also, speaking as a Progressive Christian minister, I love the way this story illustrates something about our relationship with Spirit.
I grew up in a church where it was common to hear stories of splashy, dramatic spiritual experiences… bright lights, intense feelings, divine visitations. They sounded so wonderful to me.
I coveted those experiences. What's wrong with me? I thought. Why has nothing like that ever happened to me?
But as I found out more about Spirit, especially as I practiced Listening for Guidance and developed my own, everyday relationship with the Divine, my jealousy faded. I discovered the regular, everyday Presence is just as real, just as loving, just as important to my life as the Dramatic Almighty would have been.
There is no need to be covetous of dramatic experiences. The everyday Spirit is right here with you, if only you open your eyes to see Them, and open your ears to hear Their messages for you.
What’s Your Takeaway?
What part of this story-in-a-story resonates most with you? Please share in the comments.
Happy Juneteenth!
** Fun fact:
, called “the Godfather” of creative nonfiction, founded the creative nonfiction program—and the first MFA degree in the genre—at the University of Pittsburgh. Go Pitt!