The Story Teller

            There was a wonderful, sweet, caring old man in town. Whatever his real name was didn’t  matter much because everyone called him The Storyteller.

            For as long as anyone could remember, the people in town would go to him and he would tell them a story. People who are now grandparents went to him, as did their children and grandchildren, and he always told each child, or group of children, a new and original story so that they felt the story told to them was their very own. He never repeated himself. It wasn’t his way. He couldn’t do that. He felt that wasn’t fair to the children, that each child, or group of children, should hear a new story, no matter how many times they came back to him. And come back they did – hundreds of times, from early childhood, right through their teenage years and into early adulthood, and sometimes even beyond that.

            The adults in town would read to their children, and sometimes even tell them a story, but they knew, and the children knew, that the best stories – the ones that were the most fun, the most exciting, the ones that made the kids learn, and most importantly, feel – were told by the  Storyteller. Sometimes a story would start with the words “Once upon a time.....,” and sometimes with “There was a bird....,” or “Melvin’s bedroom slippers didn’t fit, so he.....” The stories were about anything and everything – sometimes long, sometimes short, sometimes silly, sometimes serious.

            The child, or children, would sit by the Storyteller’s feet and he would rock silently in his rocking chair until a beginning of a story would start to form in his mind. Sometimes that beginning would only be a word or two....and then he would start telling a story.

            It was a wonderful feeling to know the Storyteller was there; it kept the people in town feeling good about things – especially themselves and each other. Sure the people would get angry at things – things at work, things at home – but, knowing the storyteller was there made it “all right with the world.”

            One evening a little boy sat at the Storyteller’s feet. The old man smiled. He had the warmest smile. His eyes would open wide, his cheeks would crinkle, and the air would get warm and comfortable. The little boy sat. The old man rocked back and forth and back and forth and started, “Once upon a time....”  There was a pause. He smiled at the little boy and began again, “Once upon a time.....” And he rocked. A look of concern started to cross his face.  “A time...once upon a.....” He started to rock faster. His eyes started to squint. One corner of his mouth curled downward. He scratched one hand with the other....and kept scratching harder. “Once upon a time...” and he rocked faster and faster, but the words wouldn’t come. They just wouldn’t come. Where were they? Where was a story? Suddenly the chair stopped rocking. He sat still. He stared straight ahead. His face was expressionless. He sat totally quiet, silent.

And then he stopped staring. His eyes focused on nothing in particular. The smile was gone, replaced by just a little grin. Nothing moved.

            The little boy said, “Storyteller, tell me a story, please.” But the Storyteller just sat there. “Please,” pleaded the  little boy, scared, confused, hurt. “Please.” Nothing. The little boy tugged at the old man’s hand. Nothing. “Please.” And then, bewildered, crying, the little boy ran home to his parents.

            “The storyteller wouldn’t tell me a story. He started, but stopped at the beginning. He won’t say anything,” the little boy said. “He won’t tell me a story.” And his parents held him close to comfort him.

            By the next morning word spread through town... “Something’s wrong with the Storyteller.” A doctor went to see the old man and examined him. His findings: “There is nothing physically wrong with him.”  “Then what’s happened?” asked the little boy. The doctor shrugged and said, “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He probably just needs a rest.”

            And the people let him rest. They went about their business – but it was not long before things started to change in town. People were short with each other, yelling at each other if the line in the supermarket didn’t move quickly, or if someone cut in front of someone else for a parking spot, or if one kid didn’t get a base hit in a Little League game.

            Nighttime was the worst. Parents seemed impatient with one another and especially with their kids. The town, the adults and the children, were not happy anymore.

            And one day in school a little girl suddenly stood up and said, “Maybe he ran out of stories.” The teacher and the other kids looked at her. Some kids started to laugh, but others didn’t, nor did the teacher. Later that day everybody in town was talking about it. “Maybe he ran out of stories,” everyone was saying. “After all, he’s told hundreds, thousands of stories.” “That can’t be why he’s silent,” someone said. And a few moments later an elderly woman said, “That has to be why. He simply ran out of stories.”

            And it got worse in town. Where once everyone was friendly, where once problems were solved in a peaceful, orderly manner, now things had turned ugly. Little problems were turned into big problems. Doors were slammed, windows shut tight. The sun came out, of course, like it always does, but that didn’t matter anymore – the town was dark.

            Weeks went by, and then one evening the little boy, the very little boy who had been the first to see the old man turn silent, sat up in bed. He then quickly dressed, walked quietly past his parents’ room, went down the stairs and out the front door.

            He hurried to the old man’s house and went inside. The old man sat silently, quietly, in his rocking chair.

           

“Hi, how are you?” asked the little boy. The Storyteller didn’t respond. “Is it okay if I sit down?” the boy asked. No response. The boy sat at the old man’s feet. He sat for a few minutes watching the old man and then asked, “Would you tell me a story, please?” There was no response. The boy sat for a few more minutes. And then he straightened his back, folded his hands, looked at the old man and began, “Once upon a time there was a cat....” He paused, thought, and continued, “.....who knew how to spell. She really did. See, when her owner, a little girl named Molly, couldn’t find a word in the dictionary, the cat would turn the pages. Well, one day....” As he talked he kept looking at the old man, and slowly the old man began to smile and his eyes began to brighten. The little boy continued, and the old man’s eyes got bigger and his smile got bigger and he began to rock – at first slowly, then faster. He didn’t say anything, but his face, his body, was alive for the first time since that night that he stopped telling stories. When the boy finished his story the Storyteller put out his hand and gently, warmly, tousled the boy’s hair. The old man then nodded his head. The little boy could tell that the Storyteller was saying “Thank you.”

The next day the little boy didn’t say anything to his parents or anyone  else, but that evening he went back to the old man’s house and told him another story and the old man listened and smiled and rocked.

The following day the little boy did tell his parents, and his teacher and his classmates, what had happened. One little girl asked, “Could I go with you and tell the Storyteller a story?” And the little boy said, “Yes.”

That evening, with the little boy by her side, the little girl told the old man a story and he loved it. He smiled and nodded and rocked.

And the next evening another child came to tell a story to the Storyteller, and soon more children came – and then some parents, and more parents, and grandparents.

And the town started to come alive again. People stopped arguing, stopped turning small problems into big problems, started to have patience with each other, smiled at each other. The darkness went away and there was a bright, happy light under the sun.

They had relied on the Storyteller. They had all relied on him. He had kept them all calm and caring and happy. And when he stopped, they stopped. Now it was their turn to keep him happy – happily alive. It was the least they could do. They owed it to him. They owed it to themselves.

And so in this town to this day, children, parents and grandparents sit at the feet of the Storyteller and tell him stories – stories about anything and everything. Sometimes a story might start with the words, “Joanne bought a hair ribbon for her friend...,” or “The team went swimming in the lake by Daniel’s Crossing....,” and sometimes the stories just start with “Once upon a time......”