Cold
weather does not agree with me. My joints ache, my sense of humor
become morbid, and all I want to do is just curl up inside a pillow
fort.
Surprisingly,
I am fond of dark winter evenings. To me, it is time to recenter
myself and remember precious times.
I
won't deny the dark is 'unsettling' and sometimes genuinely
dangerous. (Try driving down an unlit highway during skunk season.)
However, in my childhood, it was the perfect setting for story-time.
When
it was too cold to be outside, sleeping bags were pulled into the
living room, furniture and laps claimed, then Dad would read aloud.
It started with fairytales and the Little Golden Books. Poetry and
short stories soon made appearances. Finally, deep, multi-chapters
novels, like the Chronicles of Narnia and the Jungle Book.
The
most popular request was the Hobbit. Daniel, Lisa, and I would wait
patiently through weeks of reading for Dad to get to the dragon,
Smaug. The evil dragon's deep gravely voice set us diving for the
safety of Mom's chair or pulling up blanket shields to ward off his
magic eye.
Those times are what I think off when I hear the word 'storytelling.' It's not a
passive activity where you sit still while a reader drones through a
narrative. It's a guided tour to another place and time.
Winter
nights built my love of stories, and how I tell them. Year after
year, I listened and unknowingly learned plot rhythms, formal and
informal styles, and the difference between a vibrate or flat
character.
I do not have formal education in literature, or entertainment. I have a simple standard, "Is is worth reading aloud with family?"
In
Oklahoma, the December sun sets before 6pm. Bedtime isn't until 10pm.
The quiet dark begs me to gather my family close, and open a book.
