Tag: memory

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Tales of Southern Minnesota: The Power of Storytelling

It was evening. We were in a hotel room in Minnesota, my daughters tucked into bed after a long day. My husband settled in for the night. I quietly opened the door and left the room, heading for the lobby where I knew I would find some other members of my family. There were my aunts, uncles and my dad, seated around a table. I quietly joined them. Words swirled around me; cadences rose and fell, soft laughter filled the air. I soaked in tales of Southern Minnesota; listened to the challenges of life without running water. Like Jack and Jill, my uncles and aunts walked up the hill to the relatives’ house to fetch drinking water. Cistern water was used to wash dishes and to bathe. Words continued to flow and the current changed. Stories of schoolhouse bullies emerged and flying snowballs filled the room; the twins banded together to defeat those who picked on them. Storytelling continued late into the night, and I sat, listening.

Some of these stories I had heard before, some were new to me. I had emerged from my hotel room expecting to join my elders and hear tales that would transport me to their youth. That day, the day we buried my mother, was full of pain and sorrow. Listening to their stories soothed my body and soul.

 The field behind our hotel in Minnesota
If one of those oxen was blue, would you look for Paul Bunyan?

Long, long ago, this is how stories were told. Can’t you picture a fire in the middle of a tipi, with Native Americans gathered around to listen to their elders? Or a log cabin, fireplace burning, stories spinning around the room to while the evening away?

Oral traditions have preserved wonderful stories. Without them, Disney would have no material to draw on. Mother Goose would have no rhymes to lull babes to sleep. Our past would seem dull and uninviting without these stories to share. We laud the efforts of the brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Anderson and others who recorded those stories for us. Even now authors retell those favorite tales from long ago.

In the age of information and technology, we still love to tell and to listen to stories. My sisters and I will tell each other about the exciting or irritating things that happen to us. My daughters demand both stories that are ancient, such as The Three Little Pigs, and newer stories from my own past, like the one where I was stung by a bee when I was three. My husband tells stories about “Little Squirrel,” and my specialty is telling “Little Goose” stories. We all tell each other about our day. When do we find the time? A few minutes here and a few minutes there. On walks to the park, or when we are stuck in traffic. During dinner time, and right before bed time.

What is the last story you told? Tell me!

Record the stories of your own youth; visit Mommy’s Piggy Tales to find out how!

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What was probably only a couple of hours seemed like an eternity

When I was in sixth grade, my parents found a slip of paper in the weekly circular that was delivered to our door. It said, “Paperboy Wanted.” And so Mom and Dad, in the interest of teaching my sister and me the value of hard work, got us hired for our first job.

My eleven year old sister and I were now required to take a stack of advertising fliers, roll each up into a cylinder, slip on a rubber band, and deliver these papers door-to-door in our small town of eight hundred. My sister walked one half of town, and I walked the other. Fortunately, instead of getting up at the break of dawn to deliver these papers, we were able to deliver them after school. I also thanked my lucky stars that since these were advertisements, I didn’t have to go door-to-door asking for payment. Unfortunately, every house got a paper and the time it took delivering a circular to each and every house seemed endless. Once a week, my sister and I walked home from school to start rolling papers for a strenuous job that paid very little.

One day, as I was trudging along the main street to deliver my load of tightly bound cylinders, the wind began to pick up. I looked up at the trees. Branches were waving back and forth, and the leaves were twirling around in the air. The sky was turning dark. A dog at the next house started barking. I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I wanted to turn back and go home; my house was only a couple of blocks away. But no, the lesson of working hard had already stuck. I kept on, looping rubber bands around doorknobs. It started to sprinkle. Big, fat drops hit the sidewalk. Then, the storm hit. Rain began pouring out of the sky.

Dad pulled up next to me in the car. He had come out searching for me on one side of town and my sister on the other. He helped us finish our route. In the drenching rain, we dashed out of the car to hang the paper from people’s doors, since that was what we were paid to do.

What a relief when our bags were empty and the papers were all delivered! Dad took us home. Mom placed two drenched, shivering girls into a warm bath and fed us dinner. I’ll never forget that feeling of coziness and comfort of finally being home and being taken care of.

To this day, if the wind starts whipping tree branches around, I feel uneasy. When I hear the sound of leaves rustling wildly in the trees, I shiver a little bit, even on a warm day.

Mama's Losin' It



Even though this session of Mommy’s Piggy Tales is over, I’m still writing about my growing up years! If you are interesting in writing about your youth, another session of Mommy’s Piggy TALES is beginning on Thursday, October 7. Don’t want to remember that far back? I’ll be guest hosting “My Young Adult Years” at Mommy’s Piggy TALES starting Monday, October 11. I hope you’ll join us!