“Story, as it turns out, was crucial to our evolution -- more so than opposable thumbs. Opposable thumbs let us hang on; story told us what to hang on to.” - Lisa Cron, Wired for Story

Greetings Dear Ones!

An amazing and wonderful thing happened to me the other day. Some children came to visit Hermit Hollow. They weren’t just any children—they were sweet, old-fashioned, Magical children! (“Like the kind YOU were before video games were invented,” says Prudence.) They knew how to cup their hands to make fine china for make-believe tea; they knew how to take a blanket and throw it over a chair and make a palace or a cave; and they knew how to transform instantly into any kind of creature from pigs to kitty-cats, complete with authentic sound effects. I crawled into their Shanty Blanket town and fell in love. I was supposed to be “getting a lot done” on my day off from the tailoring shop. I was supposed to be doing office work and laundry and spinning wool into yarn I can sell, as well as a myriad of other useful, Boring things. Grudgingly, I pulled out the spinning wheel first, thinking it might entertain the children while their father talked with the other men of Hermit Hollow about Serious Grown-up Things.

“Do you know the story of Rumplestiltskin?” I asked. They did.

“And Sleeping Beauty?” They nodded. They were up on their fairy tales.

“We’ve heard them all,” insisted the five-year-old politely. Her name is Ruby Rose and she wasn’t being cheeky—it was the truth. Her parents had read every last one, multiple times, to her and her brother Toddle-thump, who was only just two. They had also read a good bit of the Red Wall books by Jacques and other classics like My Side of the Mountain and Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle—so many of my favorites! Instantly, we had a common language. I was thrilled. Prudence finds it so depressing when youngsters today have no idea who is Rumplestiltskin!

“We live in a cabin in the woods,” said Ruby Rose, “just like Hansel and Gretel. And every day they read to us,” jerking her head vaguely in the direction of her father. It turns out that this family, sired by an ex-marine who has seen multiple tours of duty around the world, lives off grid and goes to bed with the sun and stories every night. There is no such thing as T.V., electronics of any kind, or even indoor plumbing. These little ones have known no other life than the one of a pump-handle well and bulk barrels of beans and rice. They play outside in all weather. Inside is where you go if you are sick or need to sleep. Prudence was enchanted.

These Magical children lay on the floor by my smallest traveler’s wheel, passively watching it whir around and around as we discussed the merits of flax vs. wool and how much work Cinderella really had to do. They liked feeling the wool with their hands and helping me treadle with their stubby little feet along side of mine, all of us barefoot.

After we had done a bobbin’s worth of spinning and chatting, I asked if they had ever played a real harp--harps being the original instruments of storytelling. I was not surprised to learn that Ruby Rose already had her own tiny Celtic harp. When I dragged mine out of its enormous, padded case, her eyes widened to the size of hens eggs. “It’s HUGE!” she squealed, clapping both hands to her cheeks. It towered over both children. The two-year-old looked up at it longingly.

“Peas?” he said imploringly.

“He means ‘please may we touch?’” Ruby informed me in that tone big sisters have when they have to serve as translator-diplomats for younger siblings.

“Yes! Of course!” I said. “I only bring out the toys I want to share. You are so good at knowing how to touch things gently, I felt sure you could do a great job with my harp. I’ve only had it a little while now and I can’t really play it yet. But isn’t it Lovely?”

Ruby Rose looked at me and wrinkled her brow and button nose in confusion. “What do you mean you don’t know how to play it??” she queried. “All you have to do is go like this!” She swept her hands across the strings, making them tremble with sounds, back and forth, back and forth, like the sound of the waves or wind. “See? Easy!” She looked at me reprovingly. I nodded. I love how most five-year-olds are such excellent problem solvers. There was no point in trying to explain about hand positions and scales and whatnot. The way to play a harp is simply to play it. Just like that. Easy. We all laughed at my silliness.

“Want to see my favorite way to play it?” I asked. They nodded.

“I like to make up sounds to go with stories. Maybe you can help me—what do you think the Giant’s voice might sound like?” They picked among the strings until they settled at the bass strings—the longest, deepest sounding ones. They came up with scary sounds and rhythms that sounded like the rumblings of a discontented giant—or a stomach that should not have eaten mystery food of indiscernable sell-by date from the fridge.

“And where are the fairy voices?” I asked next. They made their way to shorter strings and more cheerful melodies. “How about the wind? How about the storm? How about tiny raindrops?” On and on we went, exploring the ways we could make sounds on the harp. Finally, we were complete with that.

“Good!” I announced. “We have found all the things we need to tell the BEST Story EVER.” They started hopping up and down with glowing eyes. It was like I had just announced we were having ice-cream for lunch.

“Once Upon A Time…” I began, as they plopped down on the ground and attempted to twist their legs into pretzels, “There were two Adorable Children…”

“Named Ruby Rose and Toddle-thump!!!” piped Ruby Rose excitedly, as if she could not wait a moment longer for me to say that part of the introduction. She was wiggling all over and patting her own chest and Toddle-thump’s head proudly and expectantly. (If the Audience cannot expect to see itself in the story, why listen?)

“Yes,” I continued. “However did you Guess? They were called Ruby Rose and Toddle-thump! How did you know that? Have you heard this story before?” They looked at me wide-eyed and shook their heads.

“Well, Ruby Rose and Toddle-thump lived in a beautiful cabin in the middle of the woods, just like you two, and just like Hansel and Gretel, and they were the bestly behaved children anyone had ever seen. They loved to go into the woods and hear the sound of the wind singing through the branches…” I motioned to the harp and they jumped up to help make the sound of the wind singing in the branches.

“One day, it started to rain,” announced Ruby Rose in a Theatrical Voice, switching to rain sounds. “And Storm!” roared Toddle-thump going for the bass strings. There was the equivalent of a Nor-Easter on the harp for several moments.

“Shall I continue with my story now? Is it safe? Has the storm passed?” I wanted to know. Ruby Rose held up a hand to stop me. “I’ll take the story from here,” she said, dismissing me as if this were a horse only she knew how to ride.

Now, I’ve been a “Professional Story-teller” for nearly thirty years—telling tales in libraries, schools, festivals, and birthday parties all over New England. I’m always on the look-out for great stories or new ways of telling old stories. One of the Best things about working as a seamstress in the tailoring shop is that every single customer is a Character and every single article of clothing they drag in there is a Problem with a Deadline. What is a Character with a Problem? I’ll tell you what—it’s the making of a Story! As you might surmise from scanning this blog, there is simply No End to the Stories in my corner of the Shire. That’s because the two Most Human things we do, the things that separate us fundamentally from every other creature on this planet, are Tell Stories and Wear Clothing. (Sometimes I like to do them both at the same time!) For as long as people wear clothes and need them fixed, I will have stories to tell. Some of the stories are boring and tiresome but most are not. It depends on who is listening.

You might think that I would be insulted to be pushed aside so readily by a Five-year-old who had not done her time at the feet of Duncan Williamson or David Campbell years ago in Scotland, or spent her college days devouring the works of Joseph Campbell and the ancient Greeks. Frankly, I was relieved—she was going to do the heavy lifting and I could just rest. I was tired. I was also Curious. What does she know of setting, plot, and rising action, pivotal moments, or satisfactory resolutions?

Well, Everything, it turns out. Five-year-olds who have been read to consistently from birth are some of the Best storytellers in the world. They use complex words like “incidentally” and “regrettably” (which almost always improve any story) and their plot twists are real zingers, especially if they sense the listener glazing over! I listened to her with my eyes and ears and whole skin and suddenly realized she was teaching me a Wonderful New Thing about Storytelling that I have always partially felt but never really thought about cognitively until today. This little girl reminded me that the most important thing about any story is not the Teller, nor even the story itself: It’s the Audience. Masterfully, she kept checking in with me to see if I was engaged—was I listening or distracted? Was I overacting my reactions? Was I, heaven forbid, paying too much attention to the little brother? How her “audience” responded shaped her telling visibly, audibly, continually.

There is a holy Trinity between Performer, Craft, and Audience, in every art form—whether one is performing fiddle tunes, writing for the Tightwad Gazette or staging an Opera. Even hemming a wedding gown. The Rules are universal—the audience must know it is Valued. The circle cannot be completed without achieving some sort of capacity to Receive, engage, ignite or delight. You can strike flint on steel all day long but without some form of tinder to catch it, there’s no fire. If you are performing because you want it to be all about “you,” so that You can be loved, then you may wind up very sad. If you are sharing something you love so that others might love it too, you might get a few more takers. But to really hit the big time, you have to love your listeners. Ruby Rose showed me that a good storyteller loves her stories. A GREAT storyteller loves her audience. I could tell because we all got “squgged” at the end. (A squg is a squeeze + hug, she explained.)

I’m so glad these wee teachers came to visit! I’m so glad I “got nothing done”— Sometimes, what I lose in forward motion, I gain in depth by sitting still and Listening. And remembering the truth about Stories is probably the most valuable thing I have done in weeks. It’s all about YOU, dear readers. If you cannot see yourselves in these tales, and remember who it is we are deciding to love by doing our Best Work, then I’d better go back to mending socks and making anonymous thunderstorms on a harp. Or laundry… Yuck. Who wants to do that?

Be well, my Darlings! And be on the lookout for good stories! They are all around us, like pumpkins and mums this time of year. We need them now, more than ever (stories, that is, not pumpkins and mums!), as the nights begin to gnaw away the margins of the day and we must seek Sunlight Substitute by the hearth. Stories not only bond us to other humans, they are the most human thing we can create, besides a pair of jeans that don’t fit. I wish you warm and merry, with many fond tales to tell and listeners to hear your love. I love you sew much.

Yours aye, incidentally, with a big tight “squg”,

Nancy