I’m not particularly a fan of Aesop’s fables, but it seems that Aesop had a thing about Larks. There are at least three of the fables that feature larks. The Fable of the Lark and Her Young Ones is probably the most common and perhaps the longest. The moral of that one is “self-help is the best help.” The Fowler and the Lark is a short parable about foolishness. One of the little-known parables is one called The Lark and Her Crest. It is a pretty strange story. In it, the lark was the first bird to be created. It was around even before the earth existed. When the lark’s father became sick and died, there was no earth to bury him. On the fifth day that his body had been lying with no place to be put, the frustrated lark, not knowing what else to do, buried her father in her own head. And that is why the bird has a crest of feathers. A quick Internet search of the story reveals that, like many other fables attributed to Aesop, it didn’t originate with Aesop, who was primarily a collector of stories. The Ancient Greek Playwright and poet Aristophanes wrote about the crested lark and used the story to explain the crest. Aristophanes was known as a comic playwright, and sometimes is referred to as the father of comedy, so perhaps the whole story is a joke.

Somehow, however, the story came to my mind this weekend as I was thinking about the simple fact that my father died before any of our grandchildren were born. They know him primarily through the stories about him that I tell them. Without the rather macabre imagery of a bird burying her father in her head, there is a sense in which my father very much lives in my head. Instead of a crest, however, I have a memory. And as I share the stories from my memory with our grandchildren, a bit of my father continues to dwell within them.

Our thirteen year old grandson knows why we have a World War II reserve parachute. It was the reserve chute that my father was wearing when he was forced to bail out of a disabled plane over the Arizona desert. The reserve chute did not need to be deployed as the main chute saved his life. However, both chutes were retired after he used them. The main chute was never repacked and I don’t know if it was left in the desert. More likely it was picked up by the crew that was sent to recover the wreckage and transport it to a military bone yard after the accident. The plane was headed to the bone yard in the first place. It just didn’t have enough flying left in it after a brief but intense career in the Pacific Theatre of the war to make it from San Diego where it was unloaded from the ship to Arizona where it was supposed to be retired.
Our grandson can tell a credible version of that story and did so in a brief YouTube video that he made.

I think that several of our grandchildren could tell you that both my mother and my father were pilots and that my father was also a John Deere dealer for part of his life.

Having our grandson from South Carolina visiting and being together with our grandchildren and tomorrow meeting with two of our great nieces as well, somehow got me to thinking about what stories they might tell. Our grandchildren will probably remember playing in the snow in July and I hope they will remember that they played int he ocean the very next day. I also hope that they remember walks through the old growth forest and stories bout grandmother trees and about mycorrhizal fungi that connect trees in the forest.

Who knows what stories they will remember and what stories they will tell to their grandchildren. It is possible that they might even tell a story about their somewhat silly grandfather who seems to be full of dad and granddad jokes and who really, really enjoys being with his grandchildren. It is not for me to choose or even for me to know which stories will carry the most meaning for them as the years go by.

Our faith teaches us that love never dies. And I certainly love those grandchildren and I’m certain that they know that I love them.

In my head are stories of many others as well. I know stories about Susan’s parents that I’m sure I have told to our grandchildren. And I have stories of some really incredible teachers and of my sisters and brother who never had the opportunity to know our grandchildren. Our son met a pair of the greatest teachers of my life when he was just 2 years old. They gave him a collection of A.A. Milne stories about Pooh. I don’t know if he remembers that time of meeting, but he knows that his middle name came from one of those teachers. And perhaps he or I will one day tell his children how he got his middle name. And perhaps that story will dwell in their memories long enough for them to tell others the story.

Like the incredibly complex ecology of the forest and the ocean, we live in incredible ecologies of spirit. Who I am is a network of relationships, some minor and every day, some major and life-changing. I have been shaped by the people I have met and by the people who have loved me. When I show my love to others it is a reflection of the love that has been passed down from generation to generation for as long as humans have inhabited this planet.

I suppose it is possible that one day I will randomly tell the story of how the lark got her crest to one or more of our grandchildren, but I don’t feel inclined to do so at this time. The bit about her burying her father in her head is a bit too graphic for the kind of story I like to tell our grandchildren. Then again, I told the story of how their great grandfather became a member of the silkworm club at the end of a huge war that shaped generations and still is part of our national story.

Some stories live on for a long time and become sacred to our people. It is a privilege to pass them on.