A Legend Before His Own Time

 

        Willie was perched way up on top of the old upright piano. From there he could see further out into the backyard, just in case of trouble, and he could look down at his highly excitable sister, Suzy. He had the advantage, as he saw it.
        “How do I look?”
        “What do you mean?” said Suzy, “you look fat.”
        “That’s a matter of opinion Suzio. I feel epic,” said Willie. “I feel legendary! Do you know how to make a legend sister dear?”
        “Does it help to be fat Willie?’
        “Be serious. Do you have any idea what makes a legend?”
        “Well, allegedly, a legend is a true story about some heroic type. Think Daniel Boone, or Davy Crockett. People, those who remember such characters, call them legends,” said Suzy. “Not you!”
        “What about The Legend of Sleepy Hollow Suzy? You can’t pretend that’s a true story,” interjected Willie.
        “That’s just the name of the shop Willie. In other words Washington Irving just called the story that for added gloss!” Suzy is not the kind of cat who ever shows her belly, she didn’t now either. She just sighed and looked into the middle distance thoughtfully.
        “Of course,” said she, “the term has gotten generalized clear out of focus. Now people use it to mean any notorious character or even a happening. I swear people have called some football games legendary.”
        “So, if someone says I am legendary, why, I must be, to them anyhow,” Willie purred agreeably.
        “The only one who said that was you,” with just a trace of sororal scorn.
        Willie stretched to his full height, languorously, with a grin on his face.
        “Okay, Suzy, you win this time. I think. Maybe.” And he hopped down to the keyboard level. Fortunately it was shut. There would be no Phillip Glass compositions tonight!
        From his new perch, he continued his explorations.
        “Sometimes in the middle of the night, when I’m lying on her pillow and she is fidgeting and keeping me awake I worry about other matters. One of the things they have been talking about are myths. Such a big deal! My goodness! It seems like lots of people really believe and treasure some of these myths. Like Santa Claus. Then of course, there are all the old ones, classical literary myths. Some people assume a myth is basically a fancy lie, or just a made up story. But I think there is more to it, don’t you?”
        “Well now,” said Suzy. “That’s a whole different deal. Take Santa Claus. Apparently there was a character who gave away dowries way back in history and somehow his story got mixed up with the celebration of Christmas. These days, he is a character told to children to augment their fun at Christmas. A lot of them are like that. I think the Easter Bunny is an even older story, a hangover from spring fertility stuff.”
        “Yeah, I know about those, but what about myth in general. Is it fair to consider myths to be just pleasant lies?” said Willie.
        “I look at it this way,” said Suzy. “Say you could look back over centuries and centuries of time and of the topography of history all that could be seen was the very tips of the mountains, so to speak. Because looking back at history is like that. I think sometimes people took those mountain tops and created a narrative to explain them. In other words they were an artificial construct. Not literally historically true, but maybe poetically true, never the less. I’m trying to think of an example.”
        “Well, there are special American myths that don’t quite comport to literal history. That bit with Washington and the cherry tree. Maybe some of this touches on propaganda,” said Willie. “A story made up to exemplify Washington’s character, even as child. I have a sneaking sensation that a lot of what we hear could be called myth or propaganda. Are we helpless in the face of this myth making?” asked Willie anxiously.’
        “Ah dear brother, what is truth? Isn’t that the crux of the question? And what kind of truth? I think we must accept that there is literal historical truth, but that there is also the truth of poetry. Such truth is older and more basic to the soul. In concert with fable, to some extent, it teaches deeply human lessons. We would do well to attend to myth, and to judge these stories by means of a greater truth, which we have not covered here. Does the myth comport with Truth with a capital T?”
        “Suzy, it’s no wonder you are so darn jumpy. Your head isn’t big enough for those questions. I think you should take a break and look for a mouse, or maybe a spider.”
        “Now that you mention it Willie, I do hear a whiskery whisper out there under the fridge,” said Suzy, instantly distracted. She wandered off to crouch down by the appliance and just wait for some reckless rodent to pop out.
        Willie himself took this opportunity to descend to the floor and to wander out to the kitchen to check out the buffet, his very favorite thing to do.
        Secretly, he still felt like a legend and no one could talk him out of it.