Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [27]
That was something that constantly amazed me about people—how they formed little universes around a common interest. As a museum curator and not an actual participant in any of the arts I presented to the public, I often felt like an outsider, albeit a welcome one. I sometimes envied the artist’s all-consuming obsession. But despite my lack of esprit de corps with the artists, I appreciated the glimpse into mini-societies closed to most people.
I looked over the notes I’d gleaned from the four books Elvia found for me and one I’d borrowed from the library. I had decided to open my welcome speech with a short history of storytelling and my own personal definition of the art.
Storytelling is a form of oral artistry whose sole purpose is to preserve and communicate ideas, images, experiences, and emotions common to all people.
Oral artistry. I liked the sound of that. Painting a picture with the spoken word.
We are all characters in the stories of our individual lives, making choices and living with the results of those choices. Consciously and unconsciously we pattern those choices after someone we admire and want to be like, and often that someone is first shown to us in a story.
I thought about the many people who’d read or told stories to me throughout my life—public school teachers, Sunday school teachers, aunts and uncles, my father and Dove. Much of who I am was formed by the stories passed on to me or, as storytellers liked to emphasize, through me. Because, as many of them pointed out, stories were a living thing and like an unplayed symphony, useless until heard.
I picked up my pencil and added, Telling a story is a way of moving closer to another human being. It is a sharing of the heart and soul and intellect. It says you and I, we’re alike in this one particular thing.
I had started making notes on how during the Middle Ages troubadours and minstrels were often the only means of relaying information from one community to another when the front door opened. A gust of cool evening air rushed into the living room, bringing Rita and Sam with it. Heads close together, they laughed loudly at a shared joke.
“Hey, you guys,” I said, putting a finger over my lips. If Gabe had fallen asleep, the last thing I wanted was him waking up to the happy sounds of his capricious son and my cousin Rita.
“Sorry,” Sam said, grinning at me and untangling Rita’s arm from his. “So, madrastra, is mi padre safely locked away, or should I sleep with one eye open tonight?” A loud giggle erupted from Rita. I shot her a fierce look.
I tightened my lips, irritated for the first time at his care-free manner. Didn’t he understand how upset his father was?
“I need to get to bed,” I said. “We need to discuss the sleeping arrangements because there is only one guest room.”
“It’s got a queen-size bed,” Sam piped up, his dark eyes dancing.
“Which only one of you will occupy. Rita, you can sleep in the guest room, and I’ll make up the sofa for Sam.”
“Why does she get the bed?” Sam whined. “I was here first.”
“Because I said so.” There was a very good reason for my decision. Though I didn’t relish the idea of Gabe having to walk past his sleeping son on his way to work the next morning, I had lived with Rita and knew what sort of Frederick’s of Hollywood outfits she slept in. I gave Rita a stern look. “It’s too late to go into it now, but tomorrow we’re going to talk.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, rolling her eyes. She blew a kiss to Sam. “See you tomorrow, surfer boy.” He gave her a goofy smile.
After everyone was situated, I took a shower, standing under the stream until the water ran cool. Gabe lay asleep on the bed in front of the flickering television set. An old Laverne & Shirley was playing. I gently pried the controller out