In the heart of a lush, old cottage by Dodge Lake, lived Grandma Cooper, a master of tall tales and whimsical yarns. To us kids, she was more than a storyteller; she was a weaver of worlds, blending reality and fantasy so intricately that the lines often blurred. Two of her favorite yarns, spun during long summer evenings on her porch, remain vivid in my memory. These were not just stories, but lessons wrapped in the guise of mythical creatures.
The first was about the Loch Ness Gator, affectionately dubbed Bessie by Grandma. According to her, Bessie was a gargantuan creature rumored to lurk in the depths of Dodge Lake. The lake itself, nestled near Dodge City, was a scenic locale that held many such stories, but none as thrilling as that of Bessie. Grandma recounted sightings by credible adults who, while standing on the sandy shores, observed a strange form in the water. It resembled a log or perhaps an upturned boat, but soon began to writhe and churn the water into a frenzy. With movements slow at first, then hastening, Bessie would roll and plunge, her body like that of a massive alligator, the lake water bubbling around her like a witch’s cauldron. Onlookers described the scene as uncanny, for the waves she created upon her disappearance could rival those of a passing steamer. Grandma hinted that Bessie’s appearances were a lesson to the children: misbehave, especially near the water, and you might just meet the Loch Ness Gator. Of course, every sighting suspiciously coincided with some youthful disobedience.
The second yarn was no less enthralling and featured Big Foot, or as Grandma called him, the Hairy Man. Described as a colossal giant with unruly, shaggy hair that covered him from head to toe, this creature was both a guardian and a warning. He roamed the dense woods surrounding our cottage, ostensibly protecting us by eating animals that could pose a threat. Yet, his footprints, as large as 24 inches, served as a stern reminder not to venture out after dusk. Big Foot, Grandma insisted, was particularly unappetizing of children who ignored their parents’ words. Like Bessie, the lesson was clear: always behave.
What was funny to us kids back then—and not so clear—was the similarity in the morals of Grandma’s tales. Each story, though wild and imaginative, echoed the same underlying theme of obedience and respect.
Years later, I once asked Grandma if Bessie and the Hairy Man were indeed real. Her eyes twinkled as she delivered her classic response: “Absolutely! If they weren’t real, then pigs could fly!” We all laughed, the adults knowingly, as we later understood that “When pigs fly” meant something was an impossibility. It was much later in life that I appreciated the craft of her storytelling, where imagination adorned the fabric of reality, teaching us lessons larger than life itself.
Grandma Cooper may have passed, but her stories—her yarns—live on, as does the wisdom they subtly imparted. As I tell these tales to my own children, I chuckle at the thought of flying pigs and wonder if, perhaps in some way, Grandma’s mythical creatures were real after all.
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