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In the beginning was a story filled with wonderful words. Years later I made the connection between „spinning a story“ and „weaving a tale“ with actual spinning and weaving. And so the story begins....
When I was nine years old summer seemed hot and endless and winter was cold and deep.
In both seasons I would visit with Papa, my mother’s father, who lived in rural Kentucky.
I don’t remember daylight savings as part of the picture so night came on its own schedule and so did my bedtime. I often slept in a room that was above the living room. It had a floor grate that during winter shared heat from the wood stove in the room below. In all seasons it let me see and hear the adult world. If it was dark enough I could catch the glow from the kerosene lanterns.
All agreed that my grandfather was a wonderful story teller. In his special way he spun the story and wove the tale punctuated with contagious laughter and knee slapping.
I remember none of the stories. My memory is one of being safe, rocked to sleep in a web of gentle light, laughter, and words strung together like beads. Stories in each of our lives compound until eventually we create a warp into which we weave colors, textures, and patterns of our own choosing ... each of us a living tapestry.