In all of her fifty two years she always
enjoyed the magic story telling. She or her children didn’t have many toys
growing up, but they had their imagination. Imagination made for a better toy
than any other anyways. Imagination was just like magic. The worlds you create
through a story are just as real as the one you live in. She, like any good
mother passed on her magic to her children. Story telling helped that family overcome
one of their hardest trials. In 1990 she saw her then Army soldier husband off
on what should have been a routine deployment with his new unit on an ongoing
assignment in Bahrain. He had left her and her three sons to wonder what came
next. Two days later, Iraq invaded Kuwait. The family would not hear from their
husband or dad for 2 weeks, during which time their active imagination was fed
by solely by what the media could provide. Steve would return home safe
after several months but returned to the region several more times. By
then the mission had a name. Desert Storm/Desert Shield and Americans
were dying. One night the oldest son Gabe, who was six at the time, asked
his mother if Daddy was going to die. Her own mind traveled down that
road so her doubts made her heart fall to her stomach. So she told him a story.
She did what any mother would to ease her children’s and her own doubts. She
told him no and went on to tell him the greatest story that she was ever told.
“Once
upon a time, long ago, there lived some children who moved from town to town
quicker than they were able to make friends. With their father traveling
away from the family so often, the children spent much of their time
indoors. Money was tight but they barely noticed for Mother had given
them each the gift of imagination.
One
child in particular used her gift to weave stories. These stories were
woven rather than told because they were constructed as the story went along
and listeners were encouraged to give suggestions to help with the direction of
the fantasy. In the beginning these stories were created on a big, shared
bed, crowded with fluffy blankets and feather pillows. Before long the
bed became too confining for such imagination. Enter Mother and her
Blanket Tent.
The
Blanket Tent was a simple structure that varied from time to time.
Sometimes it was a chenille bedspread with long twirled fringe. Other
times it was a thin sheet in which the moon could be seen through if it was
full enough. But it was always a place of intrigue, of comforting
closeness and bursting with imagination.
The Story Weaver was more or less the middle child. She wasn't the
smartest by any means, but she had a way with words that even drew
the Parents to the door of the bedroom to listen to the progressing tales
that were being told from beneath the blankets and sheets draped over beds,
chairs, sides held up by dresser drawers and anchored by story books that had
lost their appeal. As the years passed, the blanket tents became more
elaborate, and were no longer confined to the bedroom. Occasionally
Mother would turn a blind eye as multiple bedspreads were draped over the
dining table.
The tales never used real names, the characters were fictional, and yet
they were molded by the occupants of the Blanket Tent. The stories were
never the same either, once there was a trip into town in a child-sized car,
which was unheard of in those times. Another time focused on chocolate
chip cookies, which just happened to be the favorite food of the Story
Weaver. Special detail was added when the cookies were described as being
slightly burnt. The Story Weaver preferred her cookies that way.
The first and last batch of cookies made by the Mother were almost always
burned and the Story Weaver had discovered that because the other children
found them distasteful, she would almost always get the first and last batches
to herself. Did I say she wasn't the smartest? Perhaps not, but she
was smart enough. Unbeknown to her at the time, her Mother was not a
careless baker, but often deliberately left a batch in slightly longer than
required to achieve the desired color for the Story Weaver.
The
stories almost always included a very detailed description of a meal. The
food would depend on the family's location at the time. While in Connecticut
the favorite fantasy meal included warm dinner rolls (Mother made them from
scratch) washed down with a bottle of Hostess Cream Soda. In Scotland the
meal was almost always a crusty afternoon roll such as the ones bought from the
bakery a few doors down, slathered with butter and topped with a slab of thick
cheese, washed down with Ginger Beer (Ginger Ale). The audience would
listen to the Story Weaver with big eyes as the meal was described, giggling
when someone's stomach rumbled uncontrollably.
And
outside the walls illuminated by a single flashlight, the Mother stood
silently, with a smile on her small dark face. She knew one day that
there would be no more stories shared beneath the Great Blanket Tent, that the
children would no longer whisper and giggle at shadows cast against its sides.
But she hoped that the Story Weaver would never forget her gift and would someday
weave stories for her own children.
Years later and thousands of miles away from Mother, giggles fill a
darkened house. In the dining room a warm gentle glow illuminated through
the blankets draped over a large wooden table. From within the walls
of the blankets, five pair of eyes peered eagerly at the Story Weaver who held
a single flashlight. The Story Weaver spoke in a soft voice but
it was full of excitement as she described the cool, salty air by the
ocean's edge. The children never took their eyes from her face as they nibbled
on simple, crusty rolls slathered with butter and stuffed with slabs of cheddar
cheese, washed down with small bottles of Coca Cola. Occasionally a child would
make a suggestion which was immediately woven into the story. And the
Story Weaver smiled as she looked back at the young faces before her, flashing
back to an earlier time when it was her brother and sisters’ faces that stared
back at her with anticipation. She wondered as she saw the magic of
imagination play across her children’s faces if any of them would carry on the
legacy of Story Weaving.
Her question was answered when
late one evening when the house was unnaturally quiet. She walked through
the rooms, looking for the children and found them huddled under a lopsided
Blanket Tent, the sides illuminated by the soft glow of a single flashlight,
the voices of her children within taking turns weaving a story.
She stood there for a long while, just smiling. Before the story was
finished, the Mother moved away from the doorway so as not to break the spell.
The children are older now, and there are no more Blanket Tents.
But the Mother is confident that her children will rekindle the magic with their
own children and once again the stories will be woven in the Great Blanket
Tent.”
The story she told was a
true tale. The story applied to her child hood and her children’s. Her three
sons and two daughters were raised well, they were raised with magic. What came
next she could hardly prepare for. In 2004 Gabe joined the Army and upon
completion of basic training he was assigned to a unit in Fort Campbell and
deployed to the Gulf. It was heart breaking to say the least. At
first she thought she could handle it having already dealt with it being the
wife of a soldier it should have been easy. Nothing could be further from
the truth. A mother's fear is so much worse than a wife's fear.
Gabe returned home safely. She had major respect for the soldiers. What they
did to keep the peace was brave. They were warriors of freedom and she had the
pleasure of being close to two of them. Families still are left to face this
same horror that she felt. Don’t think that being the mother or wife of a
soldier isn’t difficult, because it is. The loved ones of soldiers are brave
warriors just the same. The trials at home become more difficult than usual. The
worry never stops. She is a courageous, loving, magic woman that I am glad to
have in my life. And even as you age the blankets might disappear, but the
stories are still woven together. Trials can be overcome if you just look
around. I promise you that the magic is still within you. Anyone who tells you
that magic isn’t real, has obviously never been told a story.
:This story is partial fiction mixed in with a bunch of reality.
Recent Comments