A Story Within a Story

A story a story, let it come, let to go...so begins my storytelling shows at schools and with adult groups.  A few weeks ago I had the privilege of sharing my stories with students at Lincoln and Faris Elementary in Hutchinson, KS.  It had been nearly two years since I'd "been on stage" telling stories and I was honestly quite nervous.  Since I'm no longer teaching full time I discovered the pleasure of practicing my stories without the pressure of still teaching.  My mind was clear to visualize the stories, to practice voice, to pretend, to pace, to play with dialogue, and of course, to pull out my frisky puppets and listen for their input.  

Once I began the journey back to storytelling my heart and soul were fluttering with excitement.  Over the last four decades I've learned and forgotten many many folktales, short stories, poems, and humorous dialogue with my puppets.  Now I could truly concentrate on a few stories that would be ideal for children in grades K-2, 3-4, and 5-6.  Somewhere in the timeline after my parents died in 1989 my stories began to develop a more personal approach, my mind would simply, on its on, float back to a childhood memory and a story just flowed  from my inner self.  I smiled and learned to let the stories come as they chose.  

Once upon a time...

Now my stories may include folktales from the Americas to Africa, from Japan around the globe to Russia, or from my own imagination and experience.  We once lived in a home on A st.S.E. in Miami, Oklahoma that had been in a giant flood.  Oh, in my child's mind I could see the flood line and imagine what creatures still lurked in the walls.  My imagination was fueled by "a raw and bloody bones" painting in my attic closest, by the hobos who jumped from the nearby train tracks and begged at our kitchen door for food, and by a lady next door, who had died by hanging herself over the basement!  For one little second grader this was a gold mine of future stories.  Before long we moved to H st. N.E. and new elements entered my life--a bully, and a neighborhood that encompassed blocks upon blocks of kids all nearly the same age, all playing outside in the evenings on those hot muggy summer nights.  We kicked that can, chased that ghost, and forced ourselves through strangle holds in Red Rover Red Rover.   I still have the scars on my knees and arms from falling hard on the asphalt streets, concrete, and gravel driveways!  Tar creek and spring floods also lurked in our lives along with the darkness of tornadoes.  The next thing I knew I was a grown up with a husband named Jack (right out of folktale, I tell you), children, travels, pets, and new memories.  Now they are all a part of everything I do in life.

Future writer and storyteller Jose Saul Torres.

It was some of those stories I shared with the children that day at Lincoln school.  As I peered out to the audience of 5th and 6th graders I took sheer delight in their facial responses to my stories that caused them to jump, scream, laugh, and groan.  Their attention was gift enough for me, but a few days later, I received a truly greater gift.  I was visiting Lincoln to sub for a friend, when another teacher explained that one of his students had something for me.  A sixth grader named, Jose Saul Torres j.r., presented me with a story that he had written.  He said it was gift and thank you for my storytelling.  I was speechless and humbled that a young boy thought enough of the art of storytelling to share his personal story with me.    His story begins, "This is me Jack and my dog named Major...we played tag, soccer, football, anything together...until Major got lost...days later a muddy scratched up dog found his way home...I gave him a nice bath.  He didn't like it because he was bleeding.  After a couple of days he'll be up in no time."  I must go back to Lincoln and have Jose Saul Torres autograph his story and take a picture of us.  I may have met a future Jack London, and all because of stories.  

A story a story, let it come, let it go, take some with you, bring some back.

Miami Memories: College Grocery

Taste and aroma elicit amazing sensory memories for me.  The other day we drove across Broadway street in Newton, KS and passed a tiny store called Gillespie's Meat Market.  I've only been there once, and that was to purchase a "ham loaf" for Thanksgiving.  Now to be honest I'd never heard of a ham loaf fixed like meat loaf, but I became an instant fan of the meal after serving it oozing with juices that soaked up the dipping bread and blended with the new potatoes and green beans.

Another memory, I thought lost until we passed that store, sits in my heart.  Simply put, as a child I lived on fresh ground "ham spread" sandwiches from Bob Hill's Grocery (College Grocery was the official name, but our neighborhood simply called it by the owner's name, Bob Hill.) on the corner of 3rd  and H st. N.E. in Miami, Oklahoma.  I was eight years old when we moved to 209 H. NE and a responsible 4th grader, or so my mother convinced me.  I could walk to the store less than a block away with money in an envelope and buy groceries.  The list was never more than I could carry.  The first step into the store released a sense of fresh air and a wetness in the air when I turned to the left and walked by the fresh fruit and vegetables.  There was just something about the citrus smell of the orange and banana crates that  filled my mind with pictures of palm trees in sunny California or perhaps Brazil. I'd walk by the fruits just to smell them even if they weren't on the list.

My favorite trips were when I carried a dime and a nickel and walked to the back of the store and asked Lon, the butcher, for 15 cents worth of ham spread.  I stood nearly eye level with the butcher case of meats.  Everyday he ground up fresh ham and added relish, mayonnaise, celery, and other spices to the ground ham.  Then he neatly packed it into a long row lined with green paper trimmings to separate  it from the other meats.  Lon towered over the butcher case and peered down at me and asked, "What can I get for you today, little girl?"  I would look up and say, "My name is Letty.  I'm not a little girl."  Then he'd grin really big and laugh and say, "Oh, how could I forget, you've been here before."  It was a game we played and he always made me smile.  I'd look up at his ruddy wrinkled skin, fading blue eyes, curly sandy blond hair and big teeth and say, "I'd like 15 cents worth of ham spread today, please."  Then my grin would spread across my face in anticipation of running home to make my sandwich on white Wonder Bread with heaps of  lettuce.  I would stand and watch with fascination as Lon scooped up the meat, weighed it to the penny, then pulled the  butcher paper off the rack and placed the meat on the slick side of the paper.  Very meticulously (a word I later learned to describe him) he'd fold the paper across the top, roll it, fold one side in, roll it, fold the other side in and roll one last time before he taped it and then in handwritten letters wrote out $.15.

I'd run home, grab the bread and plop the ham spread onto the white bread, tear off a lettuce leaf, the greenest I could find, set it on my sandwich then smash the sides together.  That way I could lick the oozing ham as it drop off the sandwich.  With my glass of milk I could then set up a T.V. tray and walk into the living room to watch T.V. while I ate my sandwich.  Black and white T.V. and sandwiches on white gluey bread, life was good as an eight year old.

My mother used to call those cravings a stage I was going through, and she rested assured thanks to Dr. Spock that I would out grow my desire for ham spread sandwiches and learn to eat other healthier foods.  Of course, my mother and Spock were correct.  I outgrew the ham spread sandwiches, and later the canned spaghetti, and for a few years I outgrew the memories.  Now, I think I'll make a trip to the meat market and buy some ham.  Along the years of growing up I bought an antique meat grinder and secretly learned to make my own ham spread.  It's time to make some more for lunch and perhaps a toast to Lon and all those people at Bob Hill Grocery who made time to smile and recognize a little girl by name.

Letty Stapp Watt
storyteller and historian