Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Telling the Story

When did I know I was a storyteller? Why do I care about the past? Why do I love antiques? What is it that draws me to the 'old'? Why do I hold on to it all?

A family comes from the same roots, but they are all different. One might be a singer and one creative with needle and yarn. One might be an artist and another a writer. One might be a jock and another a ballet dancer. We are all different. No one can plant those differences in us.

Against the wall sits a pile of books. Old photo albums of people I don't know. Notebooks full of daily writings. Tintypes, black and whites, old wrinkled pictures of other times. Why do I care? In all honesty, I have no idea, but I could no more turn off this desire to embrace the past as I could stop eating.

As I have said before, I know that I am the storyteller. I know that this desire to keep the memories is a gift....a treasured gift. As far back as I can remember, I sat in a variety of homes listening to adult conversation, reminiscings of the past and stories of the present. Didn't know it at the time, but those times were history. I care. That's all there is to it.

I write a new story now. I sit in my living room with you passing on history waiting for a new storyteller, someone who feels that desire to know just as I do.When you find this history, think of us sitting in the living room sharing another time, then tell the story well.

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