Work in Progress 1st Chapter, Grandfather's Stories

Below is the first chapter of a work in progress, currently titled Grandfather's Stories.

Yes, dear ones, I was once even smaller than you. And when I was that small, I loved to visit my Grandfather also. What was his house like? Well, I don’t remember the color of the roof, or that of the door, or what the windows were like, or even the number of rooms, but I can tell you all about it just the same.

It was warm, and not just because he had a fireplace just like this one, always glowing and crackling with hardwood. It was warm because in the evenings after he came in from the fields and we had finished the last of Grandmother’s blackberry buckle, Grandfather would sit in the chair and your Great Aunt and I would climb into his lap, and spend our evening there with his great arms wrapped around us, just like this. We would root into the nooks of his elbows and inhale deeply, savoring the musk of his warm flannel work shirt, the bouquet of berries, the aroma steaming from his mug of mint tea, and another fragrance that brought memories of well-worn saddles and ancient scrolls.

You see, just like this room, Grandfather’s house was filled with the scent of these old leather, cloth, and paper books. Here, both of you choose one. Now flip the pages near your face. Go ahead… breathe in the years.

Grandfather read books all the time, and often he read his favorites to us, but he closed them when he told us stories. Grandfather said that reading and storytelling were two different arts, and that sometimes when you read, you lost the words in the midst of all the letters and the stories between the words.

He also told us about the importance of hickory smoke. Grandfather said an oak fire was stately, and cherry was perfect to fill the house with perfume after a morning of cooking, but for storytelling, one must use hickory. It not only soothed the body, but also opened the mind, the heart, and the soul.

And so, the two of us would curl up in his lap, wrapped in his arms like a blanket, and Grandfather would lean back and close his eyes, and as we watched yellow gazelles, red valkyries, and orange tigers chase each other over and through and around the log, he would tell us stories.

What stories, you ask? Oh, wonderful stories about distant worlds, and others right next door. Mythical beasts, heroes, knights and damsels, animals, people famous and obscure, family members, planets, and trees. He once told about a river, a story with nothing living in it except the water’s own movement, enchanting us for hours with the twisting storyline. Another time I was so caught up in his tale of a mountain climber that I was afraid to look down from his lap, knowing that if I did, I would be looking not at the hearth but into a bottomless gorge. When he stopped from weaving his yarns into a tapestry, perhaps pausing to take a sip of tea, we would stare at his lips, wishing them to move again. Inevitably, when the story was finished, only the glow of embers remained in the fireplace to light our path to our bedroom.

So, you’d like to hear one of these stories? Perhaps I could tell one, if Grandmother wouldn’t mind filling my mug. My old throat is so dry.