Jesse Stuart revisited

     Tomorrow is April, still another one, and my thoughts remain on Jesse Stuart, not on him exactly but his writings.  In addition to the poignant "Another April," another of his short stories which I presented to my classes of seventh and eighth graders dealt again with family matters:
      The story centers on the family of a narrator in the persona of a young boy who lives with his parents and his mother's aging father.  As was usual in those days, the father worked hard and wanted suppertime to be peaceful and the conversation, if there was such, to be on his terms.  The family all sat at the supper  table every evening, as was the custom in those days, including in this case the grandfather, here the father's in-law.  The older man, his working days over, yet still yearning for conversation, would recount the happenings of his younger days, the most significant of which was his participation in the great American movement known as "Westering."   All the events and adventures of crossing the plains and opening the west up to settlement were music to the ears of the little boy, but to his father they were anathema.  "We've all heard that story countless times.  You're repeating yourself.  Yes, we know."  These comments the father delivered through clenched teeth, his patience utterly exhausted.  The mother would feel guilty that her father was such an irritant to her husband, but was powerless to remedy the situation.  (The time before nursing homes.)  The boy understands that his father is angry, and his mother upset, by the grandfather's stories, but he is too young to comprehend why---he loves hearing the stories repeated.
      My students liked Stuart's writings, and their comprehension of the literature was more than adequate, as indicated by whatever test measures were in effect at the time.   They undoubtedly sympathized with  the character of the young boy, being themselves only several years older than he.  And I most likely did also, being in my early twenties, with no experience as parent or aged grandparent, and with memories of my childhood still fresh in my mind.  Thus is a  present memory of my past teaching days and of a particular story.  Some of the facts may be clouded by time but past memories remain a quixotic thing;  it is almost as if, though relating most closely to the youngest of the generations involved,  I was storing up sympathies with the older characters:  Act I, Act II, and finally Act III.