“Oh, he’s just telling stories,” someone commented.

I was shocked; why had this person spoken so? Was it jealousy of the attention it drew to the storyteller, an inability to understand what was being said or the relevance it had, in a small way, to help one understand a bit more of this complicated life we live or derive pleasure simply in the tale itself?

The comment seemed a mean one, thoughtless perhaps, even destructive, lessening the enjoyment of a listener who was thoroughly entertained, the thoughtless words suddenly casting a shadow over what was bright and happy.

What are we but a never-ending series of stories? Stories from our childhood, teenage years, courtship and marriage, children, work, vacations. Stories are what formed us, modeled us, defined us and ultimately what we have become.

Stories, indeed! They are the very fabric of life.

I cannot remember any details of what happened so long ago, but I do remember my mother grabbing my arm and dragging me up the stairs after a swift swat on my butt.

“How would you like it if someone treated you like that?” Mother scolded.

Through my anger and embarrassment the realization struck me that I wouldn’t like it all. The thought that the other person had feelings too was a revelation. Two sides to the story. Unfortunately, it took years and years before it was possible for me to incorporate that truth into my life totally. Selfishness comes so easily to the human race.

THE APRIL SKY was overcast, cold and rainy. Dad had gone native brook trout fishing an, being so young and wearing a full-length steel brace, I’d been left home. It took some walking to reach productive sections of the stream, which was impossible for me at the time.

Oh, how desperately I’d wanted to accompany him. When Dad’s car pulled in, I was waiting expectantly at the door; in fact, the door pushed me back in my excitement, like a little puppy I’d left no room for it to swing open.

At the kitchen sink Dad reached in the back of his green fishing vest and pulled out a Wonder Bread bag filled with green, damp grass. Wrapped in the grass were eight native brookies from 7 to 9 inches in length. They were dark on top, almost black, their sides lightening to a yellowish green with big red spots set on a slightly larger round, blue background. Their white, black and orange striped fins over a white belly made them incredibly beautiful to me and at that time they appeared to be huge in size.

I was so mesmerized by the sight that Dad had to finally shoo me off the chair by the sink so he could put the trout in the refrigerator. Fresh brookies fried in butter and served with eggs and toast the next morning was a real treat.

The next spring we went together and made our way to a smaller, less noticeable stream where despite never ending snags, tangled lines, overhanging limbs and low-lying brush I managed to catch my first legal brookie. It was barely 6 inches long but he looked like a tarpon to me and the pride felt in my accomplishment was indescribable.

Fishing wise, I’ve never looked back.

AT FIRST DEER HUNTING was very difficult for me. The rifles were too large for my small size and to say I caught buck fever at the sight of a whitetail is a bit of an understatement. Grandad, a master hunter, was frustrated and Dad shook his head over my missed opportunities.

I was a disappointment to be sure.

But what was lacking in skill was made up for in enthusiasm. Finally, I was given a cutdown rifle with a light trigger and bagged a buck the first morning, the only hunter in camp to do so. The jinx was broken and my reception at camp was overwhelming; I even received a beer, for heaven’s sake!

In a deer hunting family bagging your first buck is a coming-of-age event. You suddenly took on a new status and were accepted by the fraternity of hunters. I never looked at myself the same after that and realize now that such events hold a pivotable part in a young man’s growing up.

OH, SO MANY stories — dating, first car, graduations, college, work, kids. Each story builds up experience leading to other fascinating adventures and, of course, the stories surrounding them. The climb through the intricacies of life, the joys, trials, sickness, loss of loved ones and the results of their passing. Of our many mistakes and what was hopefully learned from them.

The slowly dawning acceptance of how flawed you really are and how to combat those character defects so they won’t hurt or destroy those around us for our actions are truly pebbles in a pond, their effects radiating out to the world and people surrounding us.

A life without stories would be no life at all. For stories bind us — do they not? — one to each other, we, the living to the dead, people to the animals in our lives and those surrounding us, to the hills, valleys, streams, lakes and rivers from which we are made. Stories are the sinews of our past, present and future. Without them our lives would be an empty book.

Yes, stories are our past, present and future, the magic carpet rides of our existence.