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.

Hot Bookish Summers

"No more pencils! No more books! No more teacher's dirty looks!"

We all chanted it as we erupted out of the school building, final grades clutched in our sweaty hands, and into the sunshine on the last day of school. Summer spread before us like an unsullied sheet of Goldenrod paper, an adventure story yet to be written. But reading, writing, and Goldenrod paper were far from our minds as we escaped the building.

I spent most of my elementary school days living in a cramped three-room apartment on the third floor of an old building at the corner of Broad and Fourteenth streets--one of the two main intersections of my hometown. The nearest other child lived two blocks away. We never had a telephone, and I was in fifth grade before we got a television set, a boxy Philco console--used, of course.

Hey, don't feel sorry for me. Two blocks from that little flat was the New Castle-Henry County Public Library. And I had my very own borrower's card. The library opened at 8 a.m., so at 7:45 on the first full day of summer vacation I showed up, waiting impatiently under the mulberry tree
 for that click that would indicate the unlocking of the door.

"I want to join the book club," I said to Miz Catherine Day, the children's librarian.

"Of course, you do, Sharon. Do you think you can read 20 books this summer?" She struggled to keep her round face from splitting into a grin. "That's how many segments are on the bookworm."

I think I rolled my eyes. Discreetly. Of course.

In those simpler days, they didn't have "summer reading programs" with lots of prizes, refreshments, jugglers, and face painting. No fancy themes, either. They had books, and that was enough. Miz Day handed me a sheet of paper on which was printed a smiling, cheesy-looking bookworm.

"Every time you read a book at or above your grade level, you get to lick and stick on a segment of the worm."

"I know."

"I know you know." She smiled ever so slightly. "Be sure you read them, because I'll question you about them."

"I know."

"I know you know. I just have to tell everyone that."

By week's end, scores of papers just like mine were displayed behind the circulation desk. Apparently there were a lot of kids from all over Henry County, Indiana, who liked to read. I was a competitive little cuss, so I kept a close eye on the other bookworms.

At least once a day throughout the summer, I went to the library, lugging towers of books--orange Bobbs-Merrill biographies, Andrew Lang's color fairytale books, The Black Stallion and its sequels, the Bobbsey Twins series, books about different countries and cultures, and more. I completed my bookworm quickly.

One summer, Miz Day departed from the bookworm idea. We collected author cards, instead. I liked that better than the larvae because once I had all the cards, I could play the game. Further, I learned about some of my favorite writers.

Miz Day has been in the presence of the Lord for many years now. (I hope she's not trying to categorize the glories of Heaven according to Dewey.) Those hot bookish summer days live as sweet memories to this writer and raconteur.

How I would love it if one of these days some child would walk up to a children's librarian somewhere and say, "I read Up the Rutted Road. Can I put a sticker on my sheet?"

I would hope that the librarian would ask some questions:

"Who is the author?"

"Sharon Kirk Clifton."

"Good. What terrible thing happens to the girl in the book that causes her to run off into the mountains?"

"Oh, that's easy. Her--" Shhhhhh, child. Don't give it away.

[Gentle reader, what are your memories about summer reading? What whetted your appetite for books? What were some of your favorites from childhood? How have the books you read then influenced your life now? Please click on "Comments" and share your answers.]