Becoming a Storyteller~Part 1

I have vague memories of this third birthday like my excitement of this life-sized doll given to me by my grandparents, Nanny and Papa. So, I remember snatches of feelings from age three onward.

One of my very first memories was around this third birthday, when my mother, a mere 18 years old, danced in the living room to her music. She wore a white dress with red hearts and a red belt around her waist. She was happy. That made me happy.

Soon after my third birthday, I remember my dad and I were in my Azorean grandparents original homestead house that we would soon move into. My dad and I peered into holes in the floor. My dad cautioned me to stand back as the holes were big. Imagine my surprise when daddy said, “I can patch these holes.”

I puffed with pride that my daddy could fix holes big enough for me to fall through. What I don’t remember is ever actually living in the house.

Next memory was living in the second homestead house of my grandparents. It was a dairy at one time, but I think by the time we moved in that house, it was no longer a dairy. My dad did grow cotton and corn, and we kept chickens, cows, and pigs.

I have many memories there, but I will get to the one which was my first memory of an overactive imagination.

I think I was around six years old. My other grandmother, Nanny, bought an encyclopedia set, and one book was a book of fairy tales. I would stare at the pictures, laying on my belly on the living room floor. One such picture captivated me. At the time, I didn’t know what the creature was called but the little guy was indeed an elf.

I decided I needed my own elf, and he looked just like the elf in the story book. He wore green and red and he smiled. I carried him around in my pocket, and called him Little Man. My mother never said a word against my Little Man. I remember my daddy acting funny about it, pursing his lips as I fed my Little Man bread at the dinner table.

One day, a girl came over to our house as her dad was visiting my dad. I told the girl, “I have a Little Man in my pocket.”

She wrinkled her face at me and said, “That’s dumb. Only babies think they have a pretend man in their pocket. So you’re a baby.”

Oh, I was crushed. I was not a baby! I was the eldest of five children. How could she say such thing? Besides, she was calling me a liar. To prove I was not a baby, I did not let the tears flow because of her harsh words. I saved them for later.

When the girl left, I had to prove whether or not I was a liar. In tears, I ran to my mother and told her what the mean girl said. My mother frowned. Ah, oh. Was she going to say I lied?

She said, “Jeannie Ann, if you think you have a Little Man in your pocket, then you have a Little Man in your pocket.”

I loved my mother even more on that day. She believed in me.

Next Friday, I’ll share my next experiences of growing into a storyteller.

Thank you for reading!