I wrote letters when I was growing up. Mom insisted. Dad had escaped the Midwest with all of us in tow, so all our relatives were 2,500 miles away, wanting to know how we were and what we were up to. Especially Mom’s two older sisters, Sis and Dorrie, authentic maiden aunts who lived with their mother all her life, and together all of theirs.
Strangely enough, they were not crazy cat ladies. In fact, their living situation didn’t seem the least bit peculiar to me.
Many thanks to Lindsay Nell of Home, Hugs and Huskies for nominating me to take part in the 3 Day Quote Challenge. (What’s a community without a chain letter or two?)
Storytelling has been part of humanity since the beginning of language. From oral histories handed down before the development of written language (still a big part of most families around the world), to scary tales around a campfire, to scifi and fantasy, fables and fairy tales, romance, adventure, and mysteries, we seem to have a genetic need for stories.
Each kind of story has its own purpose. Some end with a moral, some with a twist, some with an inspiration or call to action. We’re happy if they just entertain us, but if they touch us more deeply, they become part of who we are.
There is a different attitude here. Commenters are kind. Not everybody comments; even I don’t comment on every post I read — there simply isn’t time. But apparently there’s time for a little magic. This is a story about being saved by that magic.
“Can you say your little poem for me?” Grandma Ranscht, Grandma Jenkins, Aunt Sis, and Aunt Dorrie at least twice each. In the last hour.
Of course I could say my little poem for them. Did they think I was stupid? Hadn’t I been saying my little poem on command for the last week? Just because I was only two-and-a-half, didn’t mean I didn’t know what was at stake here.
Isn’t it cute? A vintage 1950’s Tommee Tippee sipper cup exactly like the one my mother said was mine. Not my older sister’s. Not my baby sister’s. Mine. The one I drank from even after I didn’t use the mouthpiece anymore. The only one Mom ever offered me.
The one I couldn’t look at because it scared me to death.
By the time I was in high school, I believed I would never have children. Why? No idea. But by the time I entered college (an era when over-population of the planet was a growing and alarming concern) I had decided I would never have children.
I trundled through life for the next 10 years content with my career, independence, and unencumbered lifestyle. I had friends, relationships, wine and cheese tasting parties… what more could I possibly need?