Penny Wagers

My friend Dave is often quick to bring up that stories have two sides to them: the story, and the story of the storyteller.

Well, with this one, I’m sharing both with you, terribly unflattering though it is to do so. “We do real,” the house sign says down below, and so I’m trying to do likewise. Please do peruse these photos and then listen to the story.

I’d also love to hear what came to your mind when you listened to it. Where did it leave you? What images stuck in your mind? And hey, if you’re feeling up to it, what’s been your hardest day of the year thus far?

As Fenian Cycle stories go, this one has many versions, but I hope you enjoy my attempt at bringing a few of them together.

It’s a good story to share this time of year, when seasons are on the tilt and we get reminders about the depth of the world’s strangeness. (I can’t help but hope we get some heavy fog some time before Halloween.)

The most fun and interesting part of sharing this for me, though, is hearing what you thought of the story. If any of the images struck you as particularly vivid, or if you were reminded of a few stories or memories of your own, I’d love to hear about them if you’re willing to share.

I’m quite glad we’ve had a Pope Francis in our lifetime; I believe he did a lot to bring his namesake’s values and perspective more into public consciousness. I also can’t help but think that Il Poverello makes us all a little uncomfortable if we’re honest about it. A good thing, too, in my opinion.

This story has a lot of exile and exoneration, fear and faith coming together throughout—plenty to chew over if you’ll forgive the pun. I’d love to hear what came to your mind as you listened to it, and which parts you found yourself sitting with.

As always, thanks a ton for taking the time to listen, and I hope to hear from you in the comments.

Happy fall to all y’all!

We’re always the last to get the changing leaves, so I’ll have to watch online as everyone else’s pretty photos roll in. To round out the previous season, though, here’s one last summer story. It’s short, but I think it has more to show us than the most obvious stuff.

What stuck with you when you listened to it? I always learn a lot when you all share with me what you see in a story, so I’d love to hear what you thought of this one, too.

This story’s a fun one, and I’d be interested to hear what you all thought about some of the details. There are a few versions floating around out there, and the modern ones have a very different tone than their predecessors, so I tried for a bit of a middle ground with this one. (Also, you’ll get to hear a dumb college story I still think about some twenty years on.)

Labor Day weekend came in strong and fast with a heavy fever, all but obliterating my holiday plans. But, now is roughly the time of year that coincides with this particular story, so I figured I’d share it once I was well enough to give it a go. Hope you enjoy it, and let me know what sticks out to you the most as you listen.

I hope you enjoy this particular story. For a handful of reasons that I get into here, I’ve quite an affinity toward it.

I also hope you don’t mind, but the “writing” portion is now in an audio format. This is because I now record this part in much the same way as the story itself: with no writing to read aloud and no notes. It’s my hope it makes the whole experience a little more personal, but let me know how you like it and what you thought of the story.

Apologies for the sound quality; best that could be done on such short notice.

All in all, the day’s events were wondrous and spectacular. I shared a ride to the venue with a pair of Morris dancers, some traditional African musicians and a guy with one sweet guitar.

As a highlight, my daughter and I got to ride on the carousel together. Thing is, it’s an original: a real, 1921 Dentzel menagerie; the only surviving ride from the site’s amusement park. It features 52 hand-carved animals, all original and maintained by the national park service. There are very few of its kind.

Beyond grateful for you lot here, and the folks who invited me to participate. As perfect days go, I can say I’ve had at least one.

Fear not, friends, both the story and the accompanying essay are in the audio for this week’s post. I’m just on the road yet again, so while all is accounted for, it’s just found in the recording.

Here’s something I’d love to hear from you about, though, if you can spare a comment: what are the knights like as you encounter them in the story? How do they look to you, and what are they like to be around? I’ve my own thoughts about that, but I’d love to hear from you.

I did a very strange thing some years back.

I was still a kid if we’re being honest; about two years into my third office job. It was in a K street high-rise, or what passes for such in downtown D.C. The place screamed “beige open office layout,” and the journey home consisted of a crowded 45-minute metro ride followed by a 20-minute drive from the station. Usually, I’d sleep during the metro leg of the trip. But then The Feeling started creeping in.

No real way to describe it other than to say I had ants in my pants. Some generalized anxiety that I had to DO something, and I had to do it NOW.

Every afternoon on the metro, The Feeling would return. In a few days, I couldn’t even sit down while on the train. After about a week, I’d shuffle in place because the unclassified discomfort became unbearable.

So here’s what I did:

I started taking my lunch breaks in the building’s basement, in an old storage room its rusty door couldn’t keep me out of. I went down there because it was quiet, no one could hear me, and I still had cell reception. Then I went through the directory I put together of every single bike shop in the city. I called up a fair many before I found one that was still hiring for the season.

This particular one wasn’t ideal. For one, it was located on the opposite end of town. Shifts also started at 3pm, which meant I’d have to leave at 2 to get there on time. But, it was a flagship store. And for reasons I couldn’t articulate, it’s what I needed to do. So I applied and started working.

My new routine was a delicate operation. On days I worked in the shop, I would have to sneak out the side entrance of my office building with a gym bag. The side entrance sat near a Starbucks, which provided a bathroom to change out of, along with a seldom-used elevator down to the metro station. I’d be able to change into my alter ego and catch a train with minimal worry about being discovered by my office colleagues.

There was still the problem of what would happen if anyone came looking for me between 2 and 5pm, but this was during the Great Recession and journalism’s total implosion. It was commonplace to visit the offices of co-workers and find their stuff had been cleared out. Those looking for me might just figure I, too, had been laid off. It was also likely to happen for real by the odds of it, so what was there to lose?

Nine to two Monday to Friday, I was in my office. Afternoons, nights, weekends and holidays, I was working in the shop. It was a grueling schedule, but I saw some things. There’s a guy whose latest movie you likely saw this month who also got sized up by me for some shoes and pedals. Also helped a handful of Senators’ aides get kitted up so they wouldn’t get dropped by their bosses. One particular afternoon, my boss showed up in the store van, which we never used. He tells me to help him unload the back. I was thinking surplus tires or something.

“You’re going to want to be very careful with what you pull out of there,” he said.

The only thing back there was a bike. But it had the Presidential Seal on it. (The urge to ride it was overwhelming, but I never did.)

Distance and understanding

Part of the reason fairy stories no longer speak to us like they once did is because we insist on distancing ourselves from them. It’s hard not to do.

If our great-grandparents heard about young Hans in the forest, they could feel the bugs buzz their ear as they followed the fisherman’s son into the shady dark. They’d smell the bear droppings that told them danger was closer than they’d wish. Today, we say, “oh yes, oh yes, the quintessential Call to Adventure, indicative of the western Hero’s Journey motif.” We think the distance provides understanding, but I happen to think it cheapens the experience. It prevents us from taking it seriously. Others might simply consider Hans and his journey a nonsense way to pass the time before the world was smart enough to invent Hulu. Either way, we’re loathe to leave the lecture hall or living room.

There’s a lot Hans could tell us, though, if only we took him at face value and walked the woods with him awhile.

For a start, he’s hungry, right? Hungry on a one-way trip to the wild elsewhere with no support. Passing up a meal when all future meals aren’t guaranteed isn’t a plot conceit. It’s taking a massive risk.

Eating the fish would have been more than reasonable, given his circumstances. I notice, too, that no one applauded his conservation efforts after he threw back his catch. No pat on the back from his brothers, no thank-you letter from the World Wildlife Fund. No one even saw him do it. It’s seldom anyone witnesses the act of kindness that can help change everything.

Speaking of his brothers, I’m way too much like the oldest than I’d feel comfortable admitting to. Petrified by questions I couldn’t possibly answer that keep me where I’m at. Oh yeah, I’ve had analysis paralysis alright. Our good friends Google and Siri make it easier than ever to slide into that. I also don’t think it’s a coincidence that LLMs end their output by asking you more questions.

What do you make of the bird outside the abandoned castle? And how about the princess’s gift? Why was it so important that Hans keep it to himself?

One of the reasons I love stories like these is because you could fill whole books ruminating on the images. I’d love to hear what you saw in it, or about your own jaunts through your particular forest. If you’ve had one or two yourself, let me know where they took you.