We are story tellers and we always have been from the moment we developed language. Take the TV and stereo away and people start telling stories. It's automatic.
I suppose that much of our folklore comes from the journeys people made.. a natural exercise to pass time during the slow modes of travel, walking, riding, paddling, at least when things were going according to plan. And when things went awry, well those tales got put together as well. Places acquired legends and names that fit the imagination or the reality. If the story was told enough, the legend and place name became common to all that mattered.
When we got around to putting names on paper, some of them stuck and some of them disappeared, some replaced by honorifics for people that for some reason or another were momentarily popular. Sometimes, it is best to put the map away and return to the origin. This comes to me as I pass Plastic Owl Point.
We lose our greatest tales when we lose our wonder. When we become the biggest and baddest most dominate force over nature, we lose ourselves. The great stories come from the great forests and rivers, the inaccessible mountains and caves, and the enormous spaces of the deserts and oceans. They come from people being lost and finding their way back. They come from people disappearing into that landscape never to be seen again. When there is no wild, the stories fade away. If you can't get lost, you can't be found.
|a very real muskrat back in the Elf Forest.|
Where: Selden Channel of the Connecticut River and thereabouts