The Storyteller

Here’s the deal with special things. The minute they go into regular circulation, they lose some of the special factor. It’s no wonder we reminiscence about special times with a seasoning of melancholy. They didn’t happen enough. Maybe we should be glad of that fact, though, because these moments were so much more than just another breath taken on any old day. Ah, but the sharp sword of a special day, we may think. Yet, it’s that very sword that carved such a memory into the mountainous side of our brains, like our own personal Rushmore of special recollections. I’d like to share one of mine with you.

My father was the storyteller of the family. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had myself a real-life version of Charles Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie. Ted Stilwell believed in the value of a hard day’s work. He believed in the Lord. He believed in being humble and in helping another fella out any time you had the chance. While he neither spared the rod nor spoiled the child, he went about all he did with a smile on his face and a contagious twinkle in his eye. Once the hard work was done and supper was over, nothing suited him better than tickling the ivories for a few songs. It was in those moments, every great once in a while, you could talk him into a bedtime story.

My parents slept in separate beds. I’ve been telling you about this detail for enough years that you can probably picture their large bedroom with the two full-sized beds and matching blue velvet bedspreads, courtesy of the unclaimed freight store in downtown Dallas. Bedtime stories were always told in daddy’s bed. I would be made to understand that I would be returning to my own room, post story, but a magical telling needs a magical space. Blue velvet covers will do that to you. I would get tucked in, temporary though it would be, while daddy would lay on top of the covers in his blue jeans and his pearl snap shirt, his feet cloaked in his favorite socks with the black bodies and the gold toes. I would tuck myself into that space only good fathers have, the built-in pillow of a shoulder where the armpit meets the chest wall. I can almost feel him smell the top of my head. “Alright, DD, I’m going to tell you a little story about Peter Rabbit.”

That rabbit sure had grand adventures. There were tar pits, and mean farmers, and old women with terrifying brooms. Why, Peter almost became stew so many times I wondered how he’d managed to live all these eternities. There were bunny friends and kind little girls and even a wolf named Lobo, which became a spin-off series that rivaled the time Lavern and Shirley got their own show off one appearance on Happy Days. While it saddens me that this experience happened in such a limited fashion that I can count it using just my metatarsals and phalanges, perhaps that’s why it ranks so high on my list of best times ever. The stories were just so special.

You’d think that grandchildren living with you would be amazing. It is, mostly. They don’t tell you that bearing witness to their mistakes means bearing witness to their punishments, just and necessary though they are. It’s hard to watch them get into trouble and reap their foolish sowings. Sometimes, we find ourselves a captive audience to a couple of little grounded munchkins. “Can’t have screens,” is the moan and groan as I walk into the living room. That’s generally followed by the chorus of a song known all o’er the world as “I’m So Bored.” It typically leads to more groaning and extra punishment. Recently, my grandson climbed onto the divan next to me and said, “Didi, do you know any good stories?” Child, you’ve come to the right place.

I graduated from the school of Don’t Mess with Perfection, so a rendition of Peter Rabbit was not going to happen. Besides, I like my stories like I like my coffee, dark and strong. It started with a pact. Next came the glorious fruition of a deal. The ending, unfortunately, includes gut wrenching danger and the horror of potential life-altering loss. Even though it all pans out in the end, I knew I’d laid it on a little thick when the complaints rolled in the next day. “Didi, he couldn’t sleep last night. I don’t know what was in that story, but he woke me up talking about someone’s leg dragging and long, brown fingernails.” Still, it’s become our thing, those grandkids and I. Though they constantly ask for the story, I know better than to put it in regular rotation. This morning, as they were leaving for school, the topic of Halloween costumes came up. My mind thought, sadly, “I don’t think you’ll even be in this country then.” My grandson’s mom asked, “I thought you wanted to be a soldier this year. Isn’t that what you told me?” His response was iconic. “I did, but I changed my mind because Didi tells such good stories. I want to be Rumpelstiltskin now.” Touchè, daddy. You taught me well. May these days be long and plentiful. May the stories spin as lusciously as straw turning into gold. I think I’ll keep them scarce. I want – no, I need – them to remember this forever. The end.