"Children remember departures from the norm, breaks in the routine, disruptions."
Mother was having one of her "spells."
I was old enough to know it meant
she was somehow sick but not enough
to wonder or to ask. I knew
that's why I'd come to stay awhile
with Ruth, my aunt, and Uncle Roy
and their four girls. All but the oldest,
Ellen, would perch, before we went to bed,
like birds on branches, listening to the stories
he concocted every night. I knew
they weren't true, but didn't care.
He made us laugh, then shiver. I could tell he
enjoyed when we would beg for just one more.
That's all tonight, he'd say and whisk us off to bed.
I can't remember that I worried.
That came later.
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Thank you so very much for the poem about our dad and his story telling!!! Just LOVE it!! Cousin Alice
ReplyDeleteHi, Cousin Ken!
ReplyDeleteI'm actually a granddaughter of a cousin, but I remember Roy's stories (my great-grandpa). He would sit in his big chair and smell like smoke - right under the schoolhouse painting. And he would tell stories. I would sit half-under the coffee table and listen, and I knew the stories were true. Even the ones about Alsesta Goopridge.
- Candace
Hi Ken
ReplyDeleteOur family is thoroughly enjoying your blog about Daddy telling his famous stories!
Margy