|My Grandma & Me in 1978|
That familiar twinkle always showed up after five simple words, "Grandma, tell me a story!"
"A story?" she'd ask, like she didn't have any up her sleeve. Then, of course, she'd clasp her weathered hands together, tilt her head and say, "Hmm... Let me think."
And the magic would begin.
She would transport me back to the days of her childhood, to the family-owned bakery in a small Midwest town. And somehow, I always felt like I was right there with her.
I never knew which story she was going to tell. It really didn't matter. Even if I had heard it a hundred times, I still hung on every word.
There was the infamous tar bucket story that all of the grandchildren loved to hear. It was the day of family pictures, when Grandma was just three years old. Just before the photo session, she fell into a bucket of tar, which completely coated her arm, with no time to clean it up. She was strategically placed in the photo so the blackened arm was hidden behind her sister.
Another favorite was the chicken story. She had seen her mother kill chickens for dinner, so one day, she decided to help. Much to her mother's horror, she caught a baby chick and promptly lopped off its feet with a butcher knife. Oh my goodness! Grandma must have been an early 1900s version of Junie B. Jones!
After all these years, her stories still echo in my memory. But more importantly, her love and prayers follow me, even though she has been gone for almost 15 years.
My grandma, the storyteller.
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