The Little Girl Who Cried Coyote

When I was in first grade, we had a time at the end of each day when we could stand in front of the class and share something about our lives with the rest of the class. Each day a few students stood and told their stories so that the entire class had had a turn by the time the weekend rolled around. We all told about visiting relatives, games we had played, birthday parties and all the other activities and events that six year olds found exciting in the early 60's. I guess you could call it "Show and Tell" except I honestly don't remember any of us bringing many items to school to "show".

One particular day as I sat listening to the various life events of my classmates, I decided to liven things up a bit when it was my turn to talk later in the week.

I had often laid in bed at night and listened to coyotes howl up and down the creek that ran through our farm. The coyotes were particularly vocal when the lonely sound of a train whistle echoed through the valley we lived in. I had also listened to stories my mom told about learning to shoot a rifle when she was a girl. It is also important to know that my dad had recently bought me my first horse and that we had a small herd of cattle on the farm. Add all of these facts together and throw in a few pieces of first grader fiction that blossomed in my fertile imagination and you have my story.

When it was finally my turn to stand in front of the class, I told a wild story about coyotes invading our farm and chasing our cows. My mother was the heroine who quickly saddled my horse, jumped on his back and galloped across the fields with rifle in hand to save the poor bovines. I think Mom must have shot about a dozen of those coyotes as I watched the entire scene unfold from our front porch. Her marksmanship was amazing. I'm sure she held the reins in her teeth a la Rooster Cogburn in True Grit. In fact, the producers of that movie probably got the idea for that scene from my first grade story. Anyway, my story was a big hit.

Not too long after I got home from school that day, the phone began ringing. Most of my classmates lived on little farms like ours and when their parents heard that a mangy crew of coyotes were threatening our farm, they became alarmed. I listened to Mom for a few seconds of the first phone call then I wisely slunk from the house to amuse myself outdoors. After the second or third phone call, my mom yelled out the front door telling me to get in the house. My heart was heavy as I trudged in to accept my fate.

I don't remember everything my mom said. The general gist of it was that it was fine to use my imagination to tell stories, but that I should not pass fiction off as the truth. I remember hearing the words "lies" and "honesty" alot in the lecture I received. I also remember being banished to my bedroom to sit on my bed and think about what I had done until Daddy got home. It was long hour filled with dread. I had caused people to be afraid and to worry. I knew how that felt because I was afraid and worrying myself at this point in time.

Daddy talked to me again about the difference between fact and fiction. I think he pretty much repeated what Mom had said. From an adult perspecitive, I am so thankful that my parents didn't try to curb my imagination. They both supported my creative story telling ability. I learned an important lesson about how one voice can influence many lives. It is a lesson I still remember today and that's the truth.