The story catchers

 The residents here in the retirement community actively contribute to our shared life in many ways. Some serve informally, just by being who they are, outgoing people who check up on their neighbors and run errands when needed, or introverts who serve behind the scenes. And others serve the community by participating in one or more of the many committees.

When we first moved here, I was leery of joining a committee. (See the previous blog.) After all, retirement meant simplifying my life, letting go of possessions and busy work. So I took a year to figure out how I could contribute to life here. I looked into the committees (some 30-40 at the time!) and found a few I might enjoy. The photography club (I’m not a gifted photographer—I just want to be) or the library committee were possibilities.

In the meantime, I was getting to know people—conversing over meals in the dining hall, sitting together in the educational lectures, or walking the canyon trail down by the creek. We were renewing old friendships and forming new ones.

One aspect of all this that especially delighted me with were the stories people told—not just former occupations and how many great-grandchildren they had, but past adventures, challenges, heartbreaks, and just plain funny stories. These people were funny, and they were good story-tellers. Since I listen better than I talk, I soon gathered a good collection of resident stories. I thought it would be good if more people heard (or read) these stories. In the meantime I was looking for a good committee to join. I found it surprising there wasn’t a writers group and thought briefly about beginning one. But then another idea popped into my head.

I remembered an activity in a church that had impressed me. Several members of the West Hills Friends Church had joined forces to publish a community journal. It came out every two months, with church members responding to a specific theme. I thought that since this retirement home with its some 400 members was a gold mine of stories, this might be a good way to share and preserve some of those stories.

I talked to people to see if there might be interest in such a publication. There was. It took a year to gather interested people, discuss and plan the characteristics of the journal and our processes for producing it, write up a proposal, present it to the Residents’ Council, then wait for them to approve it. They did. The council declared us an official committee (although we resisted the “committee” label; we call ourselves “The Story Catchers.”).

In the spring of 2018, we published our first issue. Since that time “The Story Catcher: A Community Journal” has come out every three months, with some 14 stories in each issue. Residents respond to specific themes, such as “When did another person do or say something that made a difference in your life?”, “Tell about a time you experienced a sense of wonder,” or “Tell about a situation where you were involved in an issue of peace or social justice.”

As an example, following is a story from the Spring 2019 issue on the theme, “Tell about a time you were rescued from danger.” The author is Hal Thomas, who just happens to be my husband. (It was easy to get his permission to reprint the story!)

Pariah Dog
Hal Thomas, Manor 5^th Floor

When I was 14 years old, a freshman in Shadle Park High School in Spokane, my band and orchestra director asked me if I would be willing to play the French horn with the local German band in the city. I was already playing with the Junior Symphony and thoroughly enjoyed it. So a week later I took the bus into the center of the city.  Rehearsal began at 7:30 p.m. and ended just before 10:00 when the last bus went to the section of town where I lived. It was wintertime and a sleety cold night.  I found the address was just off the section of town we knew as Skid Row that I had visited various times with my father who often preached and helped in a rescue mission to homeless alcoholic men and women.  It was a dangerous section of town.  I felt fear as I got off the bus, realizing I carried a new and valuable instrument at my side and that I had to find the side street address. 

As I stepped down from the bus, a German Shepherd dog walked up to me and took his place at my side.  He was thin and somewhat scruffy, and I wondered where his owner was, or if he had a person.  He then accompanied me as I walked those streets, keeping his place at my side, occasionally looking up at me. Heavily bundled people on the street veered around me, looking at the dog.  As he kept his distance, one equally unkept man pointed at him and asked if he were my dog. I replied that he wasn’t but had joined me.  The dog stayed beside me, facing the man. We arrived at the address, a dark storefront. As I entered, the dog lay down beside the door. 

I finished the practice, with its interminable after-beats and hundred-measure-rests assigned to the French horn in popular German music. It was late, but as I walked through the door, the dog again joined me and accompanied me through the freezing streets.  At the bus stop, he sat beside me as I waited.  The bus came, and I desperately wanted to take him home with me.  I knew I could not take him on the bus. I also knew that we did not have any place to keep him or even the resources to feed him. I considered walking the three or four miles home just to keep him with me, but I knew I could not do it safely in that stormy cold and that I would arrive after midnight. I boarded the bus. The dog remained sitting in the street, watching me.  As the bus pulled away, I watched from the window as he waited, then turned into the shadows. I felt I had betrayed him and tried to stifle my sobs. I had talked to him, but had never touched him. He had acted like a trained guide dog. 

I thought even then about the protection I knew I needed and that he gave me. I never returned to play with that band because of the practices that ended so late, and the danger of that section of town at night.  I knew God had accompanied me. I wondered if maybe the dog was an angel that vanished in those shadows. Maybe he found a place to shelter himself from the storm and some food. I don’t know, but I still thank God for him.