Becoming a Storyteller Part 2

We’ve had a lot going on since I last wrote, and I’m sorry I didn’t send a newsletter these past few weeks.

From everything I’ve read from testimonials of the storytellers, they don’t wake one morning and decide to write. They evolve and can begin at a very early age. Writing unreadable letters with crayons on the wall. Pretending to read a book when they can’t. The next few memories I have explains my continued journey to become a storyteller.

I was seven years old when my Aunt Vicky gave me an elephant eraser to go on the end of my pencil. I took the eraser to school. My teacher, whom I later called The Meanie, yelled my name and stomped to my desk. In shock at her scary face, I froze.

She grabbed my pencil and said, “You are playing with that eraser and now I’m keeping it.”

What? I was not playing with it. I was adjusting it on my pencil. That is my first memory of cruelty. I asked her later if I could have it back and leave it at home. She told me it was hers now.

When I was almost nine, we moved to Oregon. We left my dear grandmothers behind in California. I was devastated. I really believed, especially that Nanny, my Robinson grandmother, would come with us.

After the move, I remember lying on my back in the living room with a book above my face. Mom caught me and said, “Jeannie Ann, what are you doing?”

I replied, “I’m reading.”

Mom told me years later the book was upside down, and I was making up a story out loud as I “read” it.

I flunked a grade coming from California to Oregon, all because I hadn’t learned how to read. I was in a phonics program for months, but I was determined and excited to become a reader. Once I learned, the school library was my favorite place, and it was there I discovered the wonder of the Little House on the Prairie books.

Not only did I learn how to read but I could now write.

I began writing letters to Nanny.

I eagerly waited for her to write in return. What happened surprised and delighted me. Not only did Nanny write, but Papa also. Only his letters came as a mix of letters and drawings. I had to guess what he meant for the drawings. For fishing, which he enjoyed, he would write, “I went” . . . and drew a fishing pole.

Our letters back and forth kept my lonely heart for them from breaking. I remember when I received as a gift colored stationary with envelopes. Oh, I was so excited and was certain this was a sign I was growing up!

When I was twelve, Nanny died, and I was indeed broken hearted. But, Papa sent letters with his drawings.

When I was around fifteen I wrote poems.

I continued to write poems and read books like the Nancy Drew mysteries, and the Hardy Boys. Of course my favorite class at school was English. Math? My math teacher gave me a D for effort.

Writing poems and reading good books created a longing within me to one day write my own book. There were many, many years though before I had the time in my busy schedule as wife and mama to open the door and step through the desire of my heart.