Storytelling

On Thursday I went down to Anaheim to see L who is here for the American Library Association's Annual Conference. The County and I both seem to have too many budget constraints to afford the full registration for me. So the happy compromise is that I will pay for gas down there and the County ponied up for exhibitor pass to see the exhibitions. But the main thing is for me to catch up with L whom I haven't seen since my 40th birthday in Vegas.

L also has family in Southern California so on Thursday night we had dinner with her cousin and his family. Of course, I was the tag along, but it was a wonderful evening. Stories whirled and swirled throughout the night. Stories of New York blizzards, orphanages in Kyrgyzstan, panhandlers in Vancouver and more. Friday was dinner with L's courtesy niece and more stories. The stories gently settled down on my soul and I realized that perhaps this is one of the reasons that I love traveling so much. Not only do I make my own stories but also I am enliven by the stories of others. I love hearing stories and I retell mine as well as others.

I have long thought that the stories I collect are a vital part of me. I always loved to hear the stories of my elder relatives. A story that I often reflect upon is Aunt Virgie's story. She and her sisters--also my great aunts--spent one summer picking cotton. In the hot dusty Oklahoma heat they picked till their fingers bled and picked until they thought they could pick no more but still there was more cotton. The fruits of their labors was 15 cents that they could keep for themselves. With their fifteen cents they bought lengths of calico fabric. In my mind I see a blue calico, I am not sure if I added that detail or if it was also Aunt Virgie's. My great grandmother, sewed the girls identical calico dresses. Aunt Virgie remarked that she could not have been more proud of a piece of clothing than she was of her simple, but extremely hard earned, calico dress. Thirty years later and twenty five after Aunt Virgie could share no more stories, I feel her with me whenever I see simple cotton dresses or a bole of cotton.

Stories are important to everyone but I wonder if for some of us they have more importance than others. I often feel that I should collect not only my stories and those of my family but also all the stories that make an impression on me. Perhaps, if I were not a pack mule in a past live, I was a storyteller. Maybe even I storytelling pack mule--who better to have stories after all?