As I was putting my girl to bed recently, she grabbed my hand, held it tightly and said, “Don’t go yet, mama. Tell me a story, mama. Tell me a story about when you were little.”
And so I did.
I told her of growing up in an Irish-Catholic neighborhood that spewed children like water from a fountain. Where the kids ran amok on summer nights, sloshing through mulberries and muddy alleys and into and out of each other’s houses. We sat in front of fans on days when the Midwest heat lurched well into the 90s and there was no central air so we pulled in the warm, metal fan air with greedy gulps and then quickly dashed back outside.
We played games of tag in the relentless afternoon sun and spin the bottle as dusk settled and kids’ names were called home one by one (or six by six).
I remember the question, “What should we do now?” and silence as the answer because — well, because it was too hot to talk. And so we waited for an idea, sucking on bomb pops and fanning ourselves with sticky, stained hands.
One summer someone decided that the appliance store within walking distance was a Mecca of “fort-building tools” — namely, the boxes that the appliances arrived in. When one kid discovers a goldmine, all hell breaks loose. Word spreads like wildfire. Suddenly there were droves of children trekking down to that store — filthy knees poking from cut-off jean shorts as plans were formulated.
When a shipment came in (refrigerator boxes were like winning some kind of kid lottery), the neighborhood would be abuzz. I remember building forts so elaborate, so intricate — with paintings on the wall and furniture fashioned from cardboard — that even the adults were impressed. And back then, that was a feat.
Not like today, when we’re amazed when our kids (and, yes, I’m guilty, too) eat a bite of food or walk across the floor. We made stools and tables, added wilted flowers and doilies. And then we baked in the heat of our own creations, grinning from ear to ear in our secret worlds of cardboard and tape. We were hot and happy.
Until the wars broke out. Suddenly, forts were being attacked, alliances made, pacts created. It was like some kind of spontaneous psychology experiment gone “Lord of the Rings.” It was a hoot.
And then … it rained. A Midwestern storm left our forts looking like a cartoon battlefield, soaked and sagging. Bits and pieces of cardboard were strewn about yards like errant children. And so we moved on. We trudged on through that summer until the dreaded first day of school in September.
As I told the story, my daughter whispered “Don’t stop, mama. Tell me another one,” even as her eyes began to waver and her hand fell loosely out of mine. Tomorrow night, I promised, tomorrow night I’ll tell you another one.
And that is the power of a story. We are storytellers — and story collectors — all of us. We search for them in the break rooms of our offices and around our dinner tables at night. Children swap stories on the playground just as adults trade stories at happy hour. We flock to movie theaters and flip on our TVs searching for tales that will keep our attention, spark a passion, take us somewhere we’ve never been or show us a point of view we’ve rarely considered.
As my daughter’s eyelids fluttered and her breathing slowed, I knew we were lucky. We had stories to tell. The question is: How many can we make and share before our time runs out?
Siobhan Sprecace lives in Englewood. Colorado Voices is an annual column-writing contest.
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