Mind Your Own Beeswax
The art of storytelling is huge in the Mastroeni
household. Most families have their own problems, but we like to think of ours
as legendary. There are many times when friends and distant relatives tell us
we should “have camera in the house,” or that “this should be reality
television.” Well, I am not the attorney who freed O.J. from trial, nor do my
parents own a famous hotel chain. That being said, we manage to get our points
across through the art of storytelling.
There are many key aspects of telling a good story in my
opinion. I have to be able to know my audience and captivate them. Depending on
who I am speaking to, certain groups of people find certain things funny. A
storyteller almost has to develop a bond with their audience (3 people or 3000
people), and find out what attracts them. This person also has to be flexible.
People don’t always laugh at the punchlines. The storyteller must be flexible
so that somehow, someway the story gets told.
I think I talk a big game. There is one person in the
family that has this storytelling trait down pat… and it’s not me. It’s Mama
Mastroeni. There is something about the way she tells a story that everyone is
so invested in what she has to say. She has them gripping on to every word from
beginning to end. Even stories I hear 10 times or more are still like new. I
think I enjoy the way she tells stories more than the stories themselves. This
is a gift that fascinates me.
There is one that we write off as a family classic. This
story has such an impact on me. I do not remember how old I was when I first
heard “The Bee Story.” Although, we are not really sure it they were bees. We
just know they were bee-like creatures. For the sake of storytelling, we will
call them bees. I just know I grew up with it. This story always comes up for
family gatherings or parties. Since it happened to my mother, and she enjoys
making people laugh, she tells it whenever she is given the opportunity.
I remember one specific time laughing myself into a
headache. We are at the fine arts and crafts festival in Brookdale Park,
Bloomfield, NJ. I walk with my mother down the cement path that is tailored
with white tents covering magnificent pieces of handmade art. As we walk along,
we meet with my friend and her mother who tell us to make a day out of it. We
are blessed with a beautiful day. I look at my phone, 79 degrees. The sun is
shining through the trees that block enough of the sun that I do not have to
put sunglasses on. The four of us walk up and down the fair, stopping as we
please. There is a stand next to a tent that sells handmade belt buckles. My
mother, a connoisseur of accessories, stops and mentions that we have to take a
look. As we admire the hand crafted buckles, a small, yellow jacket arises from
underneath one of the buckles. I watch as my mother screams loud enough for all
of not only Bloomfield, but also all of the greater Essex County area to hear.
She tries to escape from the bee, and I watch in laughter. My friend and her
mother had seen this side of her before. I wait with them as she settles down.
We move off to a safe side of the park. This area is
shadier and there is not a bee in sight. We all stand in the shade and my mom
begins to retell her horror story of why she (and now everyone else after they
hear this story) hates bees.
“You know why I hate them, don’t you?” She asks all of
us. I hear this story all the time but I could not help but wonder if my friend
and her mom have ever heard it.
“I was about five years old when it happened. My
grandfather built a house in the outskirts of Pennsylvania. It was a huge
six-bedroom home with a wrap-around, screened-in porch. It was white with green
trimming, and outside there were wooden steps lined with bushes. We always saw
bees in there. Anyway, they loved hunting and invited their friends and
families to go with him. My father had about two hundred acres of land out
there. As kids, we had no concept of this… until we walked to the neighbor’s
house with my father’s friend Mr. Capata.”
I always appreciate this story told by my mother. Her delivery is
something I try to imitate when telling her stories. It is probably so on point
because she has heard this story from her parents so many times as she grew up.
Five is a young age to remember such a story with great detail. I think she may
have had some help over the years. Still, I remember as a kid, I would tell
people to just have my mom tell them to understand how funny it is. Maybe it is
a skill that I will develop with time.
“My father wanted us to head over to the neighbor’s
house, because my father wanted to talk to him about something… I can’t
remember what exactly. So we walked over these two acres of land and some of it
was in the woods. As we went on - you know my brother Joey? Oh God, what an
instigator. There was a big log in the middle of our path. He jumped over it
and cleared it.”
My Uncle Joey is one of my mother’s older brothers. He
pretty much has a personality of his own. Truly a one of a kind fellow. By one
of a kind, I mean he has all of the qualities and talents that make even the
most patient of people want to rip their hair out.
“So Joey, the pain that he was, turned to me and said,
‘Debbie, I bet you can’t do what I just did.’ I go, ‘shut up Joey, sure I can.’
We went back and forth until my father turned around to tell us to ‘shut the
hell up.’ Then, he told me to do it if I thought I could. I called him a haunt,
and then he stuck his tongue out at me.”
Now comes the part in the story where she described
herself in this situation, I can read her like a book. I know (and still hang
on) every word. I laugh at all the right parts and cringe when one should. I
watch my friend and her mother’s initial reactions: the surprise, the suspense
filled looks, the laughter. I have to admit, my mom is pretty good.
“So the difference between Joey and I was that he was 9.
Four years does a lot to a kid, you know? We were both chunky as kids, but he
was taller and definitely more athletic. I basically just told him I could do
it to shut him up. I should have known that he would try to make me. I was
short and my legs were [and still are] like tree trunks. I dreaded going over
this log. But, I sucked it up; I walked back to give myself a running start,
held my breath, took off, and cleared it!”
Here it comes, the climax of the story. The reason
everyone bursts into laughter. It’s true, I laugh and poke fun, because it is a
comical story. But, somewhere deep down, I am a slave to “The Bee Story.” Who
am I? An active listener? A note taker for my mom? An audience member? I cannot
help but indulge myself in every word from this moment on…
“...yeah, cleared it and landed right into a bush on the
other side of the friggin’ log! I really hurt my back because I fell right on
it. Seconds later, I realized that I landed in a bush that had a bee’s nest in
it! I kid you not, hundreds of them swarmed me. They bit me, they stung me all
over my body. I could not get them away. I swatted and swatted until I couldn’t
feel my arms anymore from all the stings. My father turned around and screamed,
‘Debbie, don’t move!’ I screamed back, bees flying in my mouth, ‘Daddy,
whyyyyy?!’ He and my brother swatted and tried to direct their attention
somewhere else. Mr. Capata was nowhere to be found. But, what the hell? I was
five. How was I supposed to know that?! I figured that he was trying to kill me
off. I was the youngest of four so that made more sense than standing still to
be friggin’ bee food!”
PFFFFT. That’s all I can get out at this point.
Thankfully, the way my mother tells this part of the story, she makes it sound
more hysterical than gruesome. I can’t help but burst into laughter when she
mimics herself with the “Daddy, whyyy?!” comment. This is the part where I play
a role in the art of storytelling. Usually at this point the baton is passed to
me for that comment. I am able to mimic her in a silly way. It’s not a big
role, but it’s one step closer to being a suitable storyteller. I’ll take it.
“The bees finally head out and we walked back to the
house. I think I said ‘Ow’ with every step I took. My father and Joey looked
back at me, stung from head to toe, and they snickered towards each other. When
we finally got back to the house, my mother answered the door. ‘What the hell
happened to you?’ My father told her what happened. We spent the rest of the
afternoon picking stingers out from all over me...such joyful memories.”
I
can imagine the hatred my mother has for bees. She explains it so specifically.
It’s a comedic horror story. It’s filed with everything I think a good story
should be. My favorite part about this story is that she tells this traumatic
experience through comedy. I think that says a lot about her as a person. She
always says laughter is the best medicine… maybe not the best medicine at the
time of the incident, but certainly for coping!
“We finally got all of the stingers out of me and we
counted them; thirty-six. They stung me thirty-six times. That’s why I’m a
little on the heavier side, you know? I’m still swollen from the bites. Anyway,
I went into the living room closet to find the bocce ball set to play with. I
opened it and saw the balls and thought that this would be something nice for
me to do to calm my nerves. I loved bocce ball as a kid, and my oldest brother
Bobby came to the house and told me to set everything up downstairs. He said to
set up the game and that he’d come down soon. All of a sudden, as I put the
first ball down on the floor, I got this annoying itch behind my ear. I took
two fingers on my right hand to scratch it and two dead bees fell out from my
hair behind my ear. I let out a scream like an axe murderer chased me. It was
like the final straw; just when I thought I got rid of the bastards, too! My
brother Bobby ran downstairs when he heard my scream to make sure I was
alright. After all these years, that scream is one of the few family events he
remembered.”
That is when I cringe. The dead bee part gets me every
time. Perhaps part of the reason she is so great at telling this story is
because it is personal experience. Maybe it’s because she’s heard it so many
times. As we walk through the rest of the park, I consider stories about me
that I could tell. I come to the conclusion that I need to develop my own art
of storytelling and my own voice. I’d use hers, but that’s none of my beeswax.
