The Storyteller

For some years I attended a writing class composed of seniors who wrote autobiographical essays and poems, mostly for the enjoyment of other members of the class. When a criticism was raised that the writers were not progressing in the quality of their writing, I wrote the follow essay in their defense.

The Storyteller

When I was a small child I used to love lying on my Grandma's daybed in her dining room, listening to the tales told by the old pioneers gathered around the wood stove. I llistened, thrilled with their tales of derring-do and watching the warm, flickering flames shining through the isinglass windows of the big stove. They told men's stories, of the old Indian wars, when the pioneers captured the Chippewa chief in the battle of Bad Ax. They told of how the Americans had dragged him through the streets of Prairie Du Chien on a rope behind a horse. They told of hunting bears and rogue wolves, and deadly blizzards and finding our great-grandmother frozen to death in her bed when the fire went out. Warm under my blankets, I listened in fascination until I fell asleep.
The women told their stories, too. At sewing circles and quilting bees, they would tell stories of joy and sadness, marriages and births and deaths. Their stories were about family and friends, about wayward daughters and rebellious sons.They wove the threads of their lives into a rich tapestry of history for the children sprawled on the rug listening.
There have always been storytellers. Primitilve societies have some old person who has learned the stories of the tribe and will train someone to carry on afterward. Usually it is some old crone telling the stories beside the fire , but it could be an old man, squatting in his loincloth before his circle of listeners.
We in our writing class are storytellers as well. Each of our stories is uniquely the story of the writer, and is a little piece of the writer's soul. The contents are richly varied, from hauntingly beautiful poems to wry humor and inspirational essays. Some of us are not above being a bit naughty and once in a while a risque little note will creep in. Joy, sorrow, happy events of everyday life and even now and then the cry of a wounded heart. By reading them to each other, we are bonding just as our other storytellers did. The writing is important but even more important is the sharing of the wonderfully rich experiences we have had over our many years of life.
I hope that someday, after I have passed from this world, my little great-granddaughter April will be sorting through my things and come upon a dusty cardboard box, and opening it, will find my collection of stories. When she begins to read them, she will reflect that once, a long time ago, I too was young. And as she reads, my voice will once again be heard, and I won't be forgotten.