This evening, my son eagerly repeated a story that his Poppa had told him a few nights ago before bedtime...a story that Daddy used to tell me before my bedtime. It brought a tear to my cynical eye.
My dad is a great storyteller. His stories always involve me and my siblings (and now E) and our various pets, and he makes up ridiculous names for us ("E the Wonder Boy", "Lucky Bucky", "Pepper Wepper", "Smokey Lokey", etc.). We take on fantastic powers and undergo the most involved adventures, always after saying goodbye to "Mama Llama" at the house. The stories are dynamic and fluid, changing at a moment's notice or a small child's request ("I wanna fight the bear this time!"). The heroes always save a family member or friend from a horrifying threat (lions and tigers and bears, oh my!!) while remaining calm, collected, and heroic throughout. Everything always turns out well, and in the end, Mama's always waiting for us at home.
I think everyone should tell their kids stories. I remember my dad's stories better than the multitude of books that my parents read me during my childhood. Stories like his stimulate imagination and encourage creativity. We were always encouraged to help our hero selves find ways out of their predicaments. I can't even look back at my childhood without hearing my dad's voice mischievously spinning out nighttime adventures for me and my siblings.
So I'm a huge proponent of storytelling. I just wish I were better at it. I think I'll go practice...
My slightly-insane life and times
1 comment:
Awww... You know, now that I think of it, I don't tell stories to my wuggies. And I really should.
I have such sweet memories of telling my little sister stories after the lights were out, late into the night. But somewhere along the way I guess I've forgotten how.
Would you believe that I just found that comment you left on my blog way back when? I was just thinking about you, too. It's good to get a little glimpse into your life.
Post a Comment