An Audience of One

I do wish artists would sign their work legibly so proper credit could be given. If you know who painted this lovely, please let me know.

 

 



My first storytelling audience had only one member. Mama. Her vision weakened through the years, beginning when I was in elementary school. Cataracts dimmed her sight so that she couldn't read even with her tortoise-shell reading glasses.

 

(Though I certainly didn't want her to lose her vision, I didn't like the glasses. She looked so stern with them, especially if they slipped down her nose a bit. I made sure I behaved very well when she wore them. In truth, she probably was squinting to see even with them on.)

 

Once I learned to read--and that's another story for another day--I read voraciously, devouring books like Cookie Monster gobbles cookies, except that I let no morsels fall to the floor. "When you come to a street corner," Mama said almost daily, "stop, look, and listen before you cross." I usually remembered her warning, but as soon as I deemed it safe to cross, my nose would go back into the book I was reading.

 

Of course, I always signed up for the Bookworm Club at the local public library, smiling smugly when I noticed the "worm" had only 25 segments to it's body. Long before summer was over, I'd have 25 segment stickers carefully applied to the sheet that said Sharon Kay Kirk at the top. "May I fill two?" The librarian would give me her longsuffering look over her glasses and tell me she expected no less.

 

I read. Mama couldn't. I knew she missed reading, since she used to do it a lot. So I became a storyteller, reading a portion of the book, then telling it to her. I certainly didn't want her to get bored, so, like Jo in Little Women, I did the voices. At points of great excitement, I acted out the action. Mama was not an emotional woman. If the story was funny, she'd laugh. Perhaps at a poignant scene, she'd smile and nod. I don't recall that she ever shed a tear for a story. That was fine. I wept enough for both of us.

 

Getting through Black Beauty was a challenge, once I reached the scenes of his brutal mistreatment. I couldn't tell it without tears coursing down my cheeks.

 

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Sharon," Mama said. "It's just a story."

 

I was never quite sure that was true. If a story was really good, if it stirred the reader at some deep level, didn't there, wouldn't there have to be, elements of truth? Wouldn't Anna Sewell have had to know of such cruelty--perhaps not to a horse named Black Beauty, but to another? It seemed to me that where there was no truth, there was no story.

 

Mama went with me through my various phases of reading. She heard the stories of every horse novel in the children's department of the library, every Bobbs-Merrill biography, every Bobbsey Twins adventure, and nearly every story in Andrew Lang's colored fairy books. Together we journeyed through childhood classics, including all of Louisa May Alcott's books, Heidi, Robin Hood, and favorite Bible stories. My storytelling was our main entertainments.

 

Gentle reader, you may ask, "Why didn't you just read the books to her. Why tell them?" The answer is simple. I had already read the books or book scenes. I didn't want to read them over. Storytelling was a more concise way to get through the books. And it was fun! Don't misunderstand. I love oral reading! My one daughter and her family are missionaries on the other side of the planet. When Skype is working well enough to allow it, I read to my grandtreasures for an hour or so. At such times, I have to call a stop when my voice begins to tire. We are a read-aloud family, even when it's long-distance. But it is great fun to hear a story well-told, also.

 

Thus, I am a writer and raconteur (storyteller).

 

Write on and read on!

Because of Christ,

Sharon

 

Your turn: (Please leave a comment.) How important was reading in your home growing up? Did you ever including storytelling? Feel free to comment on any other aspect of this post.

Thank you for stopping by my blog.

'Bye-'Bye, Borders

I'm sitting on a chair at a tiny table in the entryway of the Greenwood, Indiana Borders because this is the only seat left in the place. I feel as though I'm in the scene from You've Got Mail where the Shop Around the Corner is going out of business.

I know. I know. That little privately-owned children's bookstore had fallen victim to the big, bad chain store. My sympathies are with the small neighborhood shops, but since I've never lived near such a spot, except in my writer's vivid imagination, I am feeling sentimental about Borders' closings. Many pleasant, bookish, coffee-scented memories revolve around Borders--so many, in fact, I can almost forget Borders is a super chain. Or was.

My history with Borders goes back nearly a decade. My younger daughter, Dawna, introduced me to the joys that awaited just through those heavy red double doors. Before she went to South Korea to teach for a year, before she met and married a man from Nepal, before she had wee ones we would head for Borders, arriving around noon and staying until they ran us out so they could lock up for the night. Since that was pre-knee-surgery, she'd ask me what I wanted to look at. I'd dictate my wish list, and, while she went off to gather what she could, I'd order some scrumptious coffee and a sweet treat or an asiago-and-spinach-filled soft pretzel, warmed, of course. She'd return with a stack of books and magazines about writing, quilting, the arts, poetry, cooking, and literature. Once my nest was made, she'd go seeking after her own interests--arts, crafts, international cooking, travel, Chris Van Allsburg books (she's an illustrator and loves his work), and other miscellany. Then here she would come with a stack so high she could barely carry it, let alone see over it. And we'd stay for nine or ten hours, camping out while reading, sharing, drinking coffee, watching people, writing, and drinking more coffee.

When she married, we continued our Borders visits. Since her husband worked nights, we didn't have to hurry home. And of course, I never could leave without a few purchases. I suppose we should have paid rent on the table, too.

Sometimes I didn't read; I just wrote and wrote for those hours. It was at Borders that I discovered the guilty pleasure of writing in Moleskine notebooks such as the one I'm using to pen these words. From their eye-pleasing pale green paper and thin lines to the natural cardboard covers and their sewn construction I love them.

Dawna continued to be my Borders companion, even as the children came along--one, two, three--though the visits became shorter of necessity and less frequent. Now, just as the children are reaching an age when they enjoy browsing and finding a cozy corner to peruse a good book, Borders closes those magical red doors.

Don't hit me with the old line, "It's not personal. It's business." While I'm quoting You've Got Mail, I may as well add, "It's personal to a lot of people." I don't want to get into a conversation about the economy. Nor do I want to discuss the things I didn't like about Borders. I just want to bid the chain adieu. Something will come along to take its place. Hopefully.

The table I rest my elbows on is for sale for $75. The two chairs, $50 each. They're sturdy. Everything is for sale. Every bookcase, display rack, coffeemaker, counter, shelf ladder, and peg board hook. Every rug and every mug. From my vantage spot, I watch the constant flow of customers entering empty handed and leaving with bags full of bargains. Those shoppers, what are their memories, I wonder. Are they the least bit sentimental about the passing of this icon? Are you?

Because of Christ,
Sharon

Two More Weeks

That's right. A ragtag remnant of this academic year is all that remains. Then I can get back to the business of writing. I can hardly wait!

If I sound eager for the school year to end, it's because I am. However, I know that I have been smack-dab in the exact place God wanted me for these seven months--immersed in the lives, minds, imaginations and hearts of middle-grade/YA readers. That's my genre of choice right now.  I've witnessed a passion for reading ignite in a few. At least one eighth-grader proved herself to be a gifted writer. A reluctant sophomore discovered a love for reading plays and acting. Several others demonstrated that they are accomplished  documentary producers.

God was with me through every circumstance, and I pray that He will continue to guide me as I shift back into high gear as a writer and raconteur. I'll try not to inundate this blog with multiple entries all at once. Please check back in June to see what I've been mentally incubating over the past seven months.



Soon. Very soon. Meanwhile . . .

Write on!


Because of Christ,
Sharon

Review: RUBY HOLLER by Sharon Creech

Published by:  Joanna Cotler Books, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers, New York, NY, 2002
310 pages

First line:  Dallas leaned far out of the window, his eyes fixed on a bird flying lazily in the distance.

From now on, I will include the first sentence of any book I review. We are told as writers that the job of that first sentence is to hook the reader so that they have no choice but to continue reading. By the time the reader finishes the first page, the hook should be deeply embedded in the gristle of the reader's jaw. That just didn't happen with this book.

As a child, I found myself reading a lot of first pages before tossing the books aside when those first pages failed to tantalize. At some point around junior high, I decided that was unfair and began reading the first one hundred pages before deciding whether or not to continue. So I did with this book.

Ruby Holler is a book of characters. I hear you. You're saying, "Sharon, all novels have characters." That's not what I mean. These people--on and all--are, to quote Merriam-Webster Online, people "marked by notable or conspicuous traits."

The protagonists are a set of orphaned twins, Dallas and Florida, who were abandoned as infants, left in a box on the steps of an orphanage operated by a couple named Trepid (think Miss Hannigan, Carol Burnett's character, in Annie). The Trepids treated all children in their care cruelly, but they especially disliked Dallas and his sister Florida, whom the Trepids called "the trouble twins."

If a line can be drawn between sympathy and pity, I drew that line, for I felt sorry for the twins, but it took awhile to truly sympathize with them. They were unlikable children who seemed bent on destroying everything around them that could be destroyed.

When Tiller and Sairy Morey, a couple of "old people," arrange for the trouble twins to spend the summer with them, Dallas and Florida expect more of the same treatment. They're astounded that the Moreys seem prepared to forgive any mischief they do.

Usually the foster parents (all of them quite bizarre)--and certainly the Trepids--dole out cruel punishments for misbehavior: hours of solitary confinement in dank, dark cellars with nothing for company but hairy spider, lizards, snakes, and "putrid" rats; scant rations of tasteless, meatless food; and days of back-breaking, heavy labor such as well-digging. The kids are baffled by the love the Moreys give them. There seems to be no limit to forgiveness, even when the children break two precious, hand-carved objects, split the railing of the front porch, cut down Tiller's favorite maple tree, and hack a "window" hole in the barn "to let in more light."

Love and forgiveness are streams that run through Ruby Holler. Though no one ever says, "I love you," it is expressed by the things the residents do for one another, even the trouble twins.

The book ends leaving a lot of questions unanswered, inviting a sequel. For example, who is Z, a character who jumps in and out of the story, gaining prominence toward the end? Are his suspicions about Dallas and Florida correct? Where is the twins' mother? Why did she desert them?

Ruby Holler can be understood on several levels, making it an excellent choice for multi-generational book discussion groups. In my days as a classroom teacher and gifted/talented facilitator, I often lead such groups that were made up of both the students and their parents.

Sharon Creech is the author of the Newbery Medal winner Walk Two Moons and the Newbery Honor winner The Wanderer.  Ruby Holler was a Young Hoosier Book Award winner in 2005. Creech has written many other books, as well.