The Art of Storytelling: A Family Tradition

Q: Why Do You Tell Stories?

A: I had no choice.

I come from a long line of story tellers. Joining them was a matter of survival.

My dad told jokes for as far back as I can remember. My brothers and sisters followed in his footsteps, and these days family dinners often finish with a marathon of jokes. As soon as one punch line is delivered someone will say, "And that reminds me of the one…” 

Way back when, my older sister and I (the girls), along with the next two younger brothers (the boys), were expected to do the dishes. We hated it. Maybe the intense dislike came from the fact that my parents picked this time to retire to the living room where they watched TV along with my youngest sister and brother (the babies). We’d dilly a bit, then turn to dallying. I think we could make the ten minute task last more than an hour. To help pass the time my sister and I would take turns telling stories. Often it was a fairy tale, which may have been significantly altered if we really didn’t know the actual story. 

All six of the siblings viewed dinner time as an opportunity to grab everyone’s attention for a few minutes. We’d stand in the spot light telling the tales of our days. We generally concurred the stories were better if they were funny, and the competition was fierce and hilarity reigned. I suggested we could have a TV show called “Dinner with the Schooleys”.

We’d get our material from any source, and we weren’t too proud to copy. Sometimes when my babysitting jobs lasted later into the night The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson would come on. I’d memorize the standup routines of comedians. If the family particularly liked one bit of shtick they’d request it again and again. The one I remember being asked to perform again and gain was a Richard Pryor version of a fairy tale. It was complete with sound effects and actions like galloping, and cupping one’s ear for close listening, all of which I faithfully replicated. The best line was, “Hark! I hear someone coming. Perhaps I’ll hide behind a rock or a tree.” Following a little later, line was, “Here I am, hiding behind a rock or a tree.” My mother would collapse in laughter. Some years later she told me it was because he didn’t know if he was behind the rock or if it was a tree. All that time I didn’t get the get the punch line.

Why Do I Write?

As a kid I liked to read. I read everything I could get my hands on, from science fiction to romance, fantasy to fairy tales, even cookbooks. Lucky me, I had to walk pass the public library on my way home from school. I’d stop in, read a bit, then grab four books (the most they would let you check out at one time) and rush home to read. I’d lose myself in the plot, daydream about the story line and imagine what the hero or heroine would do if they had my life. 

Truth be told, I had to sneak around a bit to get my reading fix. Long after I was supposed to be asleep Mom and Dad would see the light under my bedroom door and tell me to turn it off. After a bit of thinking I figured out I could place a rolled up bath towel on the inside of the door. That way I hid the light and read on, and on, and on. On Saturday mornings my books seemed to call my name. I’d slip up the stairs and curl up on my bed reading the hours away, until someone noticed I wasn’t around and they’d catch me in the act. 

It became a real issue. Finally, Mom told me if I stopped at the library I was not to bring any books home. Even that didn’t stop me. I discovered I could slip a couple of library books in with my school books. I hid them under my mattress. It was a full blown addiction, and I couldn’t quit.

I started babysitting when I was ten or eleven. This became a windfall of time to spend on my reading craze. Once the kids were in bed I’d dive into my book. If I was really lucky, the parents wouldn’t come home until Midnight, or even later!

My mother ran a nursery school while I was growing up. Every day after school it was my job to coordinate game time. I’d usually build in running, jumping and other large muscle activities. When everyone began to tire I’d round the kids up and head them into the den for story time. Mom’s collection of books was massive. In fact, think she had every book Dr. Seuss published. The way Mom taught me to read to the kids was to seat them all on the four long steps that were built into one wall. Then I’d push a chair in front of the assembly, hold the book so they could see the pictures, and I’d read away. After a while, I’d memorized my favorite books, which proved to be a real advantage for adding dramatic flourishes – and keeping an eye on any trouble makers.

I think I was drawn to writing as a way of sharing with others the pleasure of reading a story, of being transported to another time, to another place,

I loved to read, and still do. Today I’m just as apt to get lost in a book as I was as a ten year old, and now I found out I’m not the only one. My dad is retired and often indulges in reading marathons. What a great role model.

How the Puzzle Box Came into Being

A few years ago a friend told me for his entire life all he ever wanted was “to be of use”. The youngest of five children, his older sisters and brother constantly said he was too young, too small, too weak or not smart enough to handle just about anything he was interested in doing. He spent years thinking up ways to show them he was smart enough, and big enough. 

Being a bigger sister, my friend’s perspective fascinated me. I thought about how a kid might prove them wrong, and what lessons he might learn in the process. I thought it would be cool if some mysterious member of the family gave him something to help accomplish the job. Maybe that person would just show up on the kid’s birthday with this really incredible gift. Maybe it would have some great stuff inside. I figured it also needed to have some intrigue – it couldn’t be just a shoebox full of stuff. I remembered a puzzle ring someone gave me many years ago, and that gave me the idea of a puzzle box.

It seemed likely the kid wouldn’t know how to use his gift and get everything right the first time, but if he was someplace besides home he could practice a few times before he proved his siblings wrong. It seemed like he ought to be close enough to home that he could walk there. Then I got the idea that if he ran away from the older, teasing and taunting siblings he could take all the time he needed to practice and develop his skills.

I loved C.S. Lewis’s books that included fantasy with the common everyday aspects. I thought if my character went through a portal he’d be out his siblings’ sight. I decided to write the story with some magical creatures; I didn’t know what or who they would be when I started. The only character I knew from the start turned out to be a minor character, Sirod.

For me, it seemed it would be easier to write a believable story if the setting was in the past. I chose the 1940’s. 

Next, I needed to imagine a place where my kid would live. Once I lived near York in southern Pennsylvania. We rented a small house on what our landlord called an estate. Their large stone home edged the Mason-Dixon Line; built on land that had been deeded to the family by William Penn. It was surrounded by carefully tended gardens and a spacious lawn that swept down the hill to a pond. On the north side of the pond was a spring house. A large weeping willow tree anchored the side opposite the house. In my imagination, this is where I thought my character should live.

When I first started writing the story I called my hero by a different name. One of my early readers had the same name and it soon became apparent that it would be easier if my kid found a new name. This is how he became Michael, my buddy and my pal.

I never plotted out what was going to happen, I simply started telling the tale. Sometimes I’d take a break from writing. After a few days, in the dark shadowy hours before sleep, or just before dawn, Michael would whisper to me about a new adventure. I’d turn it around in my mind, solving a few technical difficulties. Like yeast causing the bread to rise, those thoughts would grow until I felt I needed to put it down on paper, so I could print it out, and share it with my writing group.

Other times I’d find I’d written myself into a corner and it looked like Michael was a goner. I’d walk away from writing and let it simmer on the back burner of my mind. Soon enough I’d wake up some morning and I’d know what smidgeon of magic would give us enough boost to save the day.

It’s been a joy to share time with Michael and his old pal Laddie. So much fun, in fact, that before I finished “The Gift of the Puzzle Box” I knew there would be another Michael story. Shortly after, I attended the first Wisconsin Writers Association’s Bookcamp and I decided to give Michael the chance to tell us about one year of his life. I plan to write four books, each taking place in one season, and always on the night of a full moon when Laddie’s magic would help transport Michael to Kroy, the opposite of his home in York. Miz Bates became a central figure in the series when she told Michael about a character her father described. He is called The Nightwinder. These are tales about bringing order to times of confusion, and touched with evil. The Nightwinder calls out for a hero to set things to right. In these tales Michael does his best to respond, with a little help from his friends.