The Eve of Storytelling

I remember sitting on the cold floor of the gym, cringing at the lingering stench of cafeteria food and sweaty kids eagerly waiting for the hour to be over. Assemblies never meant much to me except a sore bum and time away from the creative processing I managed at my desk. This happened to be when I had questionable eyesight and came in as third shortest in my second grade class. I couldn’t see over the other kids’ heads so the presentations held my attention for about three minutes.

One speaker stood out, a Native American who sat in a chair and related creation stories passed down from her tribe. She became the most beautiful woman I couldn’t see. Her melodic chanting voice lulling me along as the sun scorched the silly coyote. At that moment I hoped to be a great storyteller. But maybe I didn’t need outside inspiration, storytelling is in the blood.

Gathered in the kitchen for Christmas Eve chili I received the warm teasing of the visiting child from Gramps.

“Now let me tell you something Breanna,” he started. “Where did you get that dark black hair in a family full of dishwater blondes?”

I fought the urge to point out that he asked me a question and told me nothing. He proceeded to tell me that it came from him and pointed to an old black-and-white high school photo. His hair appeared black. This sparked the evening’s entertainment. We read through the book of transcription to an interview my aunt held with him.

At each pause when while we passed the book over for the next grandchild’s turn, Gramps raised to his full height punctuating the stories with sweeping arm movements. His deep voice projecting and his bright blue eyes dancing mischievously looking younger than his weathered wrinkles he turned to each audience member.

Watching him I realized I’d inherited his skill as an orator (explaining the speech awards and maybe even the blog) and I finally found a common trait with the family patriarch.