tell me a story

"tell me a story about when you were little, daddy!" even with my eyes in a half-closed state, the result of daily traipsing and being four, i would beg for a tale. night after night, i would never tire of peter rabbit (so many times i had it memorized) or tomes of dad growing up on the farm in canada. as an adult thinking back on it, dad was probably tired from working all day, but he never said so, instead taking the time and energy to permanently animate his adventures into my imagination.

i will never forget my third grade teacher, mrs. gibson, reading to us from madeleine l'engle's "wrinkle in time". when we earned enough points, we even got to spend time in the class time machine. sure, it was cardboard, but to us, it was an intergalactic capsule that served to fuel our love of books.

years later in college, a friend called me long-distance, "lanette, i was wondering if you might read me a poem?" she was lonely, far from friends and family. since i still had a phone with an actual cord on it, i pulled it as far as i could, while running my other hand along the spines of books to find just the right one for her. we settled on seamus heaney, if i remember my irish lyricism correctly and, after i read it, she simply said, "thank you, i really needed that" and we said goodbye.

reading aloud is one of my highest pleasures, as is being read to. who says we have to quit asking just because we get older? tell me a story...