The making of a storyteller ( Part 1 )

The biggest influence on my love of reading and stories was my mother. Some of my fondest memories from childhood were on the nights she would read or tell me and my brother a story. My mom grew up the oldest of eight children in a coal mining community. Being the oldest child put her in the unique position of helping to raise her siblings. I’m sure many of the stories she told them at night were also the stories she told us at night.

Of course there were the standards. Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Little Red Riding Hood, Jack and the Beanstalk, and my favorite, and I think her’s as well, Epaminondas and his Auntie. Most stories she told us were recited and not read, but later on we did get a great number of stories read to us from one of my older brother’s school books. As desperately as I’ve tried, I cannot recall the name of the book or any of the names of the stories in the book. One thing I do remember is that when she opened this book to read, I opened my ears to listen.

It is from that book that I developed a love of stories put down on paper. It was almost like some magical spell fell upon me when she read the words from the page that transported me from the comfy covers of our bed to the grassy plains of the Midwest. In that land of buffalo and Indian braves I got to experience an excitement far beyond the reaches of our valley. So it was that I longed for that red book to be opened so I could be once again the hero of the story.

From this love of words it would be reasonable to conclude that I had no problem learning to read. Far be it from the truth. Learning the mechanics of reading somehow eluded me. Not until the fourth and fifth grade did I become comfortable holding a book in my hands and reading the words on the page. That is when I bloomed as a reader and began to use our grade school library to its full advantage.

The first book I can recall reading on my own was Robinson Crusoe. I proudly sat down every evening after dinner and turned the pages eager to see what was to happen to Robinson. Not many days after I started this Everest of words my mother asked if she could read it too. I was happy to allow her to read this book. It would only add to her vast collection of stories. The next day the book remained home as I went to school. That evening after dinner I asked her if she wanted to read the book that night. To my horror she told me she had already finished it. She read in a day what it took me two weeks to accomplish. At first, I felt dejected because it was taking me days to read the book she’d managed to finish in hours. I put down the book determined to let it go unfinished.

When my mother realized I’d stopped reading the book, she questioned me as to what had caused me to abandon the story. I explained to her that it must be too challenging of a book for me since she had read it in a few hours and after days I’d only managed to scratch the surface. She told me that everyone reads at different paces based on their reading expertise and the personal desire to finish the story. This made sense to me, and I rejoined Robinson on the island now content to stroll along the words rather than rush through them making sure to take my time and savor all their meanings.

When next we meet part two. Happy reading.