The People’s Art

Hello folks, thanks for dropping by today. It’s a pleasure to host another of our informal get togethers. They do seem to come around quickly, don’t they? Make yourselves comfortable and let’s chat…~smile~

What do you get when two storytellers take to the road for fourteen days straight? Why, stories, of course. The Great Southern Wing and a Prayer Tour stacked ‘em higher than Jack’s Beanstalk.  Like binging word addicts, we listened to yours, told you ours, and used the miles in between to heap up more. “That reminds me of a story” was our constant refrain. We told funny ones and sad ones, and now I know why ones, as the listener worried about losing the story in her head even while enjoying the one holding the floor—knowing full well that any moment might unearth yet another story, as if a giant plow was turning up a field of tales and whatever faded treasure wasn’t grasped was at risk of being lost again for who knows how many seasons.

We collected stories the way other people collect fine art, which seems only fitting as storytelling is often called an art. I believe it is, too, but never forget that it’s art belonging to the masses—not just high priced pieces amassed exclusively by the wealthy. Stories abound for those willing to pan for ‘em. There’s gold in them thar hills. It knows no status and recognizes no degree.

One of my favorite stories came from the man in Waynesville, NC who told about the time, years ago, when friends of his traveled to China, back when that country was more closed than it is now. During their stay they were befriended by a Chinese couple. Later, as they were preparing to leave, knowing their host family was limited in what they could accept, the Americans asked a question. Should they be able to mail them a package upon their return to the states, what did their Chinese friends not have that they would most like to receive? The answer from the diminutive lady— “a book!” Oh, but not just any book. She longed to read “Gone with the Wind.”

A good storyteller could make that up. A fortunate southern storyteller wouldn’t have to!

Hugs,
Shellie