The Need for Stories

 I have been told I should get back to blogging, so here goes:

I've been thinking a lot lately about this whole business of reading, writing, yearning for stories and knowledge, and what drives it inside of us. Stories have been around since man came along. Our ancestors told stories through folklore and cave paintings. The need to hear and learn about other people, places, adventures is part of being human and having big brains. Our big brain is what separates us from other creatures on earth. Other animals have the capacity to learn. You can teach your dog to fetch or to do his business outside, but humans are unique in having stories in our brains that we retain, enjoy, repeat. (On another note: I would really love for my Sam-cat to tell me a story. The thought of that gives me a smile.) 

I found this need for story when I was a young child. I loved hearing my grandparents tell about their childhoods, or my parents tell about theirs, hearing Daddy's "war stories." Since I was a baby boomer, those war stories abounded in my childhood. I can't think of a single man in my orbit who had not taken part in some way in World War II, so it was still all around me, and I was curious for the details. 

Before I could read I pestered everybody in my house to read for me. My mother once told me I drove them crazy on car trips asking what every sign we passed said. Back then, people didn't expect children to learn to read before they started to school. I think I was probably ready to learn much earlier, but I didn't come from a scholarly family. They were Depression era, hardworking, public-school educated rule-followers. If the rules were that kids learned to read in first grade, then they weren't going to start any sooner, and kindergarten was something unheard of in my world. 

Two weeks before I started first grade, my mother sat me down to the kitchen table with a piece of paper and a pencil and taught me to write my name. She made me memorize our address and phone number, and the address and phone number of my grandparents, since they lived in the same city and could substitute in an emergency. I learned those lessons so well--TE5-0170 and TU2-6926, respectively--that there are still stamped in my brain, 60-plus years later. 

My first grade teacher, Miss Hopper, sat the class in small circles, handed out our primer, See Spot Run, and we learned slowly how to sound out the simple, LARGE print words on the pages. I adored that part of our classes. As far as I was concerned, I could have sat in that circle for the entire day. I couldn't wait to read that whole book to see what happened. I'm sure it was predictable. I didn't care. 

However, I didn't come from a family of readers. We had a set of World Book Encyclopedias and that was about it. Once Daddy went up in the attic and brought down a battered, water-stained children's picture book called Water Babies. He must have known it was up there and climbed up there to find it for me. I read that one book over and over, memorized it backwards and forwards. Mom set me up with a subscription to Highlights for Children. It came once a month, and within a day or two, I had read all the stories, worked all the dot-to-dot puzzles, and colored all the pictures of farm animals, etc. I loved my Highlights! I really think my accountant parents didn't know what to make of this child of theirs with the hunger for books. I'm pretty sure they would have better understand if I had been a math-whiz like they both were, but they did their best for me. The whole family did.

Twice a month, my brother walked me down to the end of the block to the church parking lot where the book mobile stopped. He helped me get my first library card there, and allowed me to check-out three books. He was five years older and thought he knew what was best for me. I thought he knew, too, so I followed his rule, but I was always ready for three more books within a couple of days. 

By third grade, the family was giving me Nancy Drew books every birthday and at Christmas. By the time I outgrew them, I had the whole set. And by the time I was through with all six years at my elementary school, I had read most of the books on the shelves in our tiny library room. By about 5th grade, I started to write my own stories, in a spiral-bound notebook I bought at the drug store. Oh, how I wish I still had all those early writings. Only one has survived--a romanticized version of Ponce De Leon. I was already writing historical fiction, even way back then. 

There is no point to this narrative, other than to come back around to the need people have for story, for the neatness a story gives--beginning, middle, end--to help us make sense of the world we live in, the people we encounter, to escape to places we may never go otherwise, to situations far afield of our own lives. And of course, to learn. The smartest people I know are readers. My dad probably never read an entire book, but he was always reading something, science journals, stock market reports, newspapers and all those magazines he subscribed to. His accountant mind required that he date-stamp the upper right corner of those magazines, and check off the articles in the Table of Contents as he finished them. 

When Dad was in his late 80s he was still learning. We had long backyard conversations over a beer maybe, or a glass of wine, while watching his dogs. We discussed astronomy, foreign wars, foreign places, politics, and the psychology of human nature. Often, he surprised me with his knowledge of current fads and trendy subjects. I remember he watched the entire royal wedding when William married Kate, and talked about it for days afterwards. Another story, understanding the world, and always striving for knowledge. I hope to do the same.

Onward...