The Art of Story Telling

Today, I don't have a lot to say. My dad liked to tell what is likely an apocryphal story about me when I was a toddler. This is the way it goes: when I was 2 years old, he found me talking to the wall. I was saying "All everyone used to say is 'I can't wait until Marta talks, I can't wait until Marta talks', but now all I hear is 'Shut up Marta, shut up Marta'." My dad loved to tell this and other stories. Likely I got my love of hearing and telling stories from him. But then again, my mother was a fantastic story teller, in her own right. Where my dad told stories to get a laugh, Mom told stories that gave a sense of wonder and connection. When my older brother and I were of bed-time-story ages, Mom would take us on adventures. She would summon Night Mare once we were tucked into bed. We would climb on Night Mare's back and gallop into Nappy Town were we would wander around and see literary characters come to life. Over there was the Owl and the Pussy Cat in their pea-green boat sailing down the river. And the Calico Cat and Gingerbread Dog could always be trusted to create a ruckus and send down a spray of gumdrops and lollipops from their tree. We would scurry and pick them up and put them in our pockets for later. The visit always ended with a visit to the Wise Old Owl and where we could ask him any question over milk and cookies. Then there was the Easter Bunny and the broken eggs story that I retell each and every year without fail. I cannot see a red sky in the evening without being transported back to rural Oklahoma looking out across the pasture to the brilliant red sky and my mother telling me and my brothers that that light in the sky was really the glow from Santa Workshop.

Well, maybe I had a few more words than I initially wanted to say. I thought I would say something about this photo. But that is not where this post went. One of the most interesting thing Ifind about writing is that stories don't always end up going according to plan. Maybe I feel that it is through stories that we learn love and compassion. After all, it is language that separates man and it is a tool that we can use to either bring people together or drive them apart. I think what I learned from both my mom and dad is that it is far better to give someone a sense of wonder, a sense of hope or lighten the moment with a good laugh, than it is to sharpen words into weapons.