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storyteller

Last night or perhaps the night before I was talking with my friend about writing. How when you are grieving, as she is too, it feels good to write. But it feels forced to write. It’s a weird balance. Add me, dramaqueen, into the mix and you’ll get months and months without a single word because I’m busy being dramatic. Point being, I’m trying to force it now. Welcome to the post.

I picked up a copy of an old Our State magazine from my street library. It’s a few years old, but it’s new to me. There was a story about the blizzard of 1960. This was also new to me. I made a mental note to ask my Nan and Pop if they remembered it. (They did: Nan recalled helicopters having to land on the Appalachian State baseball field for… something. Huge snow drifts.)

So the story in the magazine starts talking about a woman determined to get groceries before the storm. She takes a cab into town, the cab driver is warned not to try to drive her home, he tries anyway and has to stop, woman decides to walk the rest of the way. The writer in this article was very good and I was drawn in, waiting on the triumphant ending.

No, though, she died.

Oh okay.

So it made me sad, but then I told my mom about the absolute 180 this story took and she said, “That sounds like a Granny story.”

It does. It sounds like a deadpan matter-of-fact story my Granny would tell. You’d think it was going one way and then all of a sudden, someone dies. She didn’t hold back. Mom and I laughed about it.

This story connected me to my mom and all three grandparents (I never met my fourth). I love connections.

And now, as I sit here telling you this, I’m reminded that stories are vital and it’s vital I keep sharing mine.

Photo by Aditya Vyas on Unsplash

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