My mom’s blog entry has me reflecting on the power of story.
I disagree with the commercial claims that “cotton is the fabric of our lives.” Rather, I believe it is story. We all have stories, some of them are mere wisps of moth-eaten memories but some are stories of whole cloth, fresh and flapping in the breeze.
I am lucky to have a family who came together and took pride in generations telling the stories. I’ve heard my mom tell the story of the braided rug before, but it seems I learn something new every time she tells it. I knew this was the summer my dad met my grandparents for the first time but I’d never heard about the bathrobe contribution by Mr. Allan or his wonderful poem about it.
Lately, there have been interviews on NPR with researchers talking about the power of story telling – couples retelling their courtship stories and the use of story telling with seniors losing their memory. I am thankful my parents enjoy looking through their photo albums and telling me their stories.
I remember that braided rug but my story is less tangible than my mother’s. In my mind’s eye, I can see it spreading across the wooden floor of the Big House, faded but still a hodge-podge of many colored strands. Mostly I remember sitting on it, my fingers poking through the strips, occasionally finding a hole. The room was filled with relatives of every age, their sun browned faces chattering late into the night while moths batted the lamp shades.
Everyone was telling stories of course.