My grandfather had a beagle named Major. My mother had given it to him as a present after her mother died, and as a 5-year-old I loved him. He and I were about the same size, and had the same level of exuberance and boundless energy.
My mother was a little less enthusiastic. As far as she was concerned he was increasingly incorrigable. I remember her complaining about his hyper-activity, and blaming him for the fall that broke my grandfather's hip. When my grandfather died, rather than bring Major home, Mom told us that he needed room to roam and that they had sent him to a farm in rural Pennsylvania.
Cut to 20 years later or so: I'm listening to some interview on NPR, and the speaker is talking about how "sent to a farm" is a well-known, cliched euphemism for putting down a pet. That her parents, and others she's known of used to tell their kids that they had sent the dog to live on a farm, rather than admit they euthanized it.
Oh my goodness! I thought. It all fell in to place. My mother hated that dog. The last thing she wanted was to bring it home to our New York City apartment. Of course. She had Major put down.
I was sure of it. So sure that for the last decade or so I have told the story of how my mother put Grandpa's dog down and told us that he was "sent to a farm." Of course that story colored my memory of Major, of our time at Grandpa's place, and, to some - perhaps not insignificant - extent, my relationship with my mother.
Then just last week, I was speaking to my mother about our new puppy. "We almost picked out a lab/beagle mix," I told her, "but as you know, beagles can be a handful."
"Beagles are great!" she replied.
"What?" I said. "You hated Major."
"No, I didn't," she said. "He was a little wild, but be was very smart, and very loyal. Do you remember the story about him? We took him to this farm 150 miles away when Grandpa died, and three weeks later he showed up back at the house."
Well. Knock me over with a feather. My mother never knew the story I had made up in my head, or that I have ever doubted her TRUE version of events. I'm glad of that. I apologize to her, in retrospect, however, and thank her for the lesson - not a new one, but a very, very important one as we craft our stories:
Be careful. Check those assumptions. The stories you create for yourself and for others have great power.
So glad to hear that Major did actually go to a farm! I think that checking out assumptions is an underused and powerful tool both for improv performers and in our lives in general. One thing I've been working on with students is noticing all the rules they make up in their heads when playing an improv game that make things much harder and/or less fun. On stage, checking out an assumption can open the door to whole rich, new kind of story too!
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