Dear Lyla,
I wonder if, when you are older, you will recognize that the most significant information passed from one human to another almost always comes in the form of a narrative. I suppose the simple act of storytelling is what makes us human and has the ability to connect one generation to another; the reason why ancestral characters can transcend time and space to become fixtures in family lore. It is both peculiar and comforting that, while we may have long forgotten the specific events of a finely woven tale, the feeling of contentment that comes from being satiated by a good story can stay with us forever. The notion that memories of stories told in the distant past serve as an emotional anchor for the present is the impetus for today’s musings. When I was little, about the same age you are now, grandma Jo and Bumpa moved our whole family from Portland, Oregon to Ottertail Lake, Minnesota. Bumpa had worked for the gas company for a good many years and he and grandma had saved enough money to buy a little resort on the north shore of a darling little lake. My understanding is the resort needed a lot of tender loving care when grandma and Bumpa took over; so much so that grandma needed help to watch me and my sister Patti during the summer when the tourists were visiting. They hired a girl from a local high school to come and live with us that summer, her name was Penney. I was so excited to meet someone with the same name as me (even though she spelled it differently). I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and she was so friendly. Penney took us on picnics, swimming in the lake and would play tons of games with us. Even though all of these activities are the stuff that 5 year old dreams are made of, Penney had one other unforgettable quality; she could tell stories. Patti and I would get washed up and ready for bed, slip under the covers and wait for the magic of the day to begin when Penney would settle in to tell us a story. I am sure that she must have read to us from story books, but I don’t remember that at all. What I remember is that Penney would spin stories out of thin air for our nightly pleasure and the most frequent hero in her daily fables was “Fido the Flying Dog.” Fido was no any ordinary canine belonging to the general mongrel variety (although the physical description was suspiciously similar to that of our dog at the time, Muggsey). Fido was a super dog and could fly with extraordinary grace and speed to save the day at a moment’s notice. There was always a moral at the end of the story (most likely inspired by whatever mischief we had managed that day). I remember no specific plot lines, settings or outcomes of any of the many yarns that were spun for us that first summer at the lake, I truly wish I did. What I do remember is that we would wait with hungry anticipation for Penney to begin her nightly ritual. There was comfort in the soft tones of her voice, certainty of the hero’s valor and the promise of the sandman’s imminent visit. After all of these years I can still see her so vividly in my mind’s eye sitting on the edge of the bed willing me to succumb to sleep through the melodious tones of her narrative. So you see little one, the joy in the story sometimes lies solely with the connection made between the storyteller and the listener. Throughout our lives there will be thousands of tales to both share and receive; the trick my love, is to recognize the gift of the story when it is given.
Letters To Lyla 