Stories and Gooseberries

I grew up in a suburb of Richmond, VA. We had all four seasons, a lot of Baptist churches, and the food was always made with extra love.  One of my favorite activities growing up was going to Deep Run Park. Grandmac usually took me, sometimes just the two of us, and sometimes my brother or a cousin or two would join (pictured). We had picnics, played out Grandmac’s stories on the playground (Three Billy Goats Gruff was our favorite game), and played by the creek back in the woods of the park. Grandmac showed me how dried leaves made perfect little boats, and we would pick out our own boat leaves and have a race. She got down in the water with us and helped us build dams out of rocks and sand, and we would often check on how well the dams would hold up.  When I was four, on a particularly rainy autumn day, Grandmac came over to play. She had an extra glimmer in those playful eyes of hers; I could tell she was up to something. She pulled out a new raincoat and boots for me and, ...

Stories and Gooseberries. Stories hold a dear place in my heart. I cannot remember a time when stories were not a prevalent part of my being. Stories were told to me at bedtime, during play time, while I was being disciplined, while I was being taught in the kitchen, at the piano, at my desk, at the kitchen table. Stories were told to me for entertainment, for relaxation, for lessons, life skills, wisdom, advice. Stories were told to me by my mama and my daddy, but mostly by my Grandmac. Most who know me at least know about my Grandmac - Maxine, Mackie, Mac, Aunt Mac to others. She raised me on stories. She raised me to listen and learn through stories and also to communicate through storytelling. She taught me the importance of storytelling - that is, after all, how our ancestors kept their history alive - by telling their children and their children's children stories of their ancestors. She demonstrated how storytelling can be used to teach and pass on wisdom to others ...