A time-traveling elephant named Hubert Cumberdale. A teleporting oak tree and a prized German chocolate cake.
A city spared by aliens from a worldwide pandemic using magic stones, then destroyed because of human greed and power.
A slave who saves his master to gain freedom from natives on an island south of Iceland.
Sound interesting? It is. And it happens every Wednesday night in front of the fireplace at my house. Each Wednesday one member of my family is on point to tell a story. Next week, I’m in the spotlight.
My children were never into athletics or board games growing up. Instead, our family sport was storytelling. At bedtime, after reading a book, our boys would congregate in one of their rooms for what we called “adventure stories.” My husband and I took turns telling the story each night using three random items given to us by our children. As my kids grew, they joined in the game and began telling the stories, too.
Now, years later, our young adult children have come back around on Wednesday nights to break bread and tell stories. Apparently, my husband and I weren’t the only ones who missed the creative family bonding time we enjoyed during their first 18 years.
We never wrote down any of the stories. We never will. They will simply continue to feed our imaginations and fill our souls using a treasured family oral tradition. Attempting to write them down would turn joy into work. The stories are simply shared and the chuckles and smiles in the remembering are more precious to me than the stories themselves.