A story once told. A memory captured on the page. The people who were once creating the story now gone and never forgotten. Why? Because it is a story once told.
Often it is difficult to pull something out of the air to create a column. So sometimes I need to wait until almost deadline time to find a story that is waiting to be found. Interesting words, right? A story waiting to be found. Now, realize that you are a trove of wonderfulness. No matter what your age, you are full of stories waiting to be found. You might think what I do is difficult, but it is not. You must just open your mind. Look around. Allow the world to touch your soul. Then write it down.
We are nannying for the twins this summer. Most of the days will be filled with camps; however, there are weeks that we will entertain them. Or maybe, they will entertain us. This last week was an eye opener. I am not 30 anymore. Nor am I just a couple decades past. My knees rebel and my energy needs a swift kick in the….well, you know. But what an opportunity. We get to make memories that we hope will last forever. Will they? You and I are the memory banks for so many people, for so many events.
I picked up the kids at 7:30, fed them and then brought them to our house. “MeMe, you have a really cool house,” said Nolan. Making themselves at home, the toys came out of the closet. A bucket was lowered over the upstairs gallery railing with a note for me and pencil and paper for return mail. They finally settled in with freshly made scones and morning TV shows. I settled into my morning computer time. Well, sometimes it is good to look up from what interests you. For when I looked up, the twins had turned Mom and Dad’s old chairs around to see the screen. Emma rocked away in hers while Nolan curled up in his with a raspberry scone still warm from the oven. How could I look away? My thoughts carried me away. Mom and Dad received these precious chairs as a wedding gift. Back then, people often gave away something of their own. The Loxley girls have always cherished the chairs. We played on them, our children sat in them when conversation filled the living room, and when we cleared the house on Neff Road, my sisters had already decided to give me both chairs. Now I was looking at their great grandchildren filling a couple of hearts in Heaven.
Later Nolan walked over to the glass topped cabinet that holds the Native American stones from the farm. Each sister has the same. I opened the top. He picked up a small one. “This was used to shoot birds,” he echoed from a past conversation. “It’s my favorite.” I knew what he was hinting at. Yes, he wanted it to go home with him. It probably will some day, but it is the one and only one I ever picked up in that field that ran along the lane. I am not quite ready to part with it.
Stories surround us. They are waiting to be found. If we don’t pass them on, they will be lost forever along with those people who were and are part of our lives. They are waiting. Each time you find one of them there will be an explosion of other stories that will find you. The stories are waiting.