In our world of electronics today, the art of story telling seems to be going by the wayside. We and our children tend to gravitate to the television set, listen to our stereo, or get on our computer for entertainment at home.
There was a time in our society when the only means of passing a tale on was by word of mouth. There were (and still are) people who had a special talent for telling the tales in a way that brought them alive. Storytelling allows one to use one's imagination as the story unfolds. To picture in our minds eye the characters described in the story and the places so vividly detailed....and maybe even embellished upon from time to time.
I hope the stories I have written are entertaining to you. They are stories from real life. Perhaps you would like to read them to your children. As a child I would listen intently to the wonderful stories told to me by my parents and grandparents.
THE PEACE GARDEN
In May 1995, I stood in the Delivery Room and watched my first grandchild enter this world. He clutched my finger in his firm grip and I gazed in awe at the blessing God had bestowed upon our family. Little did I know just how much of a blessing this tiny infant would be to me? At that moment, I vowed to make his childhood as fantastic as my Grandma Purdy had made mine.
That winter, Brandon began to discover the world. He would squeal with delight when birds flew past the window. His eyes sparkled when he saw his first snowfall. He stared in wonder the first time he saw a Christmas tree. When he chortled with delight at each new discovery, my heart soared. I was rediscovering the world through the eyes of my grandson.
Spring arrived. The snow melted. The days grew warmer and the earth dried out under the sun’s gentle coaxing. It was time to plant my flower garden.
One warm Sunday, I took Brandon to Sunday school. Afterwards, we went to my place. On the picnic table were four red and two white geraniums. Brandon squirmed with excitement. He loved flowers of any kind.
After lunch, I took Brandon and the geraniums to the side porch. I showed him how to loosen the dirt with a trowel and add compost and peat moss. Then, I dug three holes in each flower box. I took the geraniums out of their pots and gave them to Brandon after urging him to be gentle. He carefully placed a flower in each of the holes. I covered them with dirt and we watered them.
When Brandon saw the completed work, he was delighted. "We make flowers," he quipped.
I laughed, hugging him tight. "We sure did," I told him.
Time passed. All that year Brandon and I explored the world together. We crunched leaves, stamped in puddles and caught snowflakes on our tongues. We laughed and we bonded.
The next spring we once again planted geraniums. That did not appease the appetite of a two-year-old who loved flowers and nature.
Brandon and I hopped in the car and headed for the local nursery. He picked out marigolds, pansies, petunias, hollyhocks and honeysuckle. When we came to the rose section, Brandon pointed to a beautiful pink rose.
"That one Grandma," he squealed, jumping up and down. "It’s beautiful."
I looked at the rose. A ray of sun beamed down, kissing the delicate petals. The rose seemed to glow.
"It’s more than beautiful," I gasped. "It’s exquisite."
I walked over to the rose and looked at the tag that hung from one of its branches. "It’s a Peace Rose," I said. "Perfect."
Brandon and I returned home. I had mulched and fertilized the flowerbeds in advance. We started planting immediately. I had thought Brandon would tire of the planting task, but when the last annual was planted, he brushed the dirt from his hands, looked at me and said, "Now the rose."
I chuckled. This small boy was a wonder. He wouldn’t be happy until that rose was safely in the ground.
I dug the hole, put some small stones in it for drainage and helped Brandon place the rose in its new home. I feared the thorny branches would pick him, but he held fast to the graph just as I’d shown him.
Once the rose was in place, I separated the roots. Brandon packed the soil around it and gave it some water. We stood back, appraising our hard work. Suddenly, Brandon bent his knees, pulled his elbows down and jumped, face beaming, eyes sparkling.
"We did it! We did it!" he cried. "Grandma, we made a Peace Garden."
For a moment I was taken back by his reaction. This child possessed profound insight. "We sure did," I laughed. "Yes, we made a Peace Garden."
Time has passed. Each year Brandon and his brother, Jordan, help me with the flowerbeds. They both enjoy gardening and I cherish the quality time we share. A bonding occurs in that garden unlike any other - a deep, searing bond that will never be broken.
For the rest of their lives, each time the boys see a Peace Rose, they will think of the happy times spent planting flowers with Grandma, the bonds that were formed, and the love that we shared in the Peace Garden.
Copyright©1999 By Mary M. Alward
THE MAGICAL MORNING GLORIES
The first year I attempted to grown morning glories, they were magnificent. The entire wall of the house was covered with deep, blue blossoms.
The next spring I watched closely for signs of life. None came. The harsh Canadian winter had killed them. Not about to give up, I went to the local garden center. I was ecstatic when I found the same deep blue variety.
Soon after being planted, green shoots began to climb the trellis. I waited patiently for the lovely blue blossoms to appear. Lots of foliage grew, but no blooms. I fertilized, watered, and cared for the plants lovingly. The odd flower began to appear but instead of blooming continuously as they had the previous year, only one or two bloomed at a time.
One day I told my daughter, Michelle, how disappointed I was with the morning glories. My four-year-old grandson, Brandon, came into the kitchen.
"You can have some of ours, Grandma," he said
"No thanks, Sweetie. Grandma really wants the blue ones," I said, knowing that theirs were a bright red variety.
Tears welled. "Please Grandma. Your blue ones are real lonely. That’s why they don’t have any flowers. Besides, Daddy is cutting ours down to make the driveway longer."
"Ok. I’ll take some," I agreed, knowing how much he loved those flowers.
A grin spread across his baby face. His eyes sparkled. "Thanks Grandma. Now I can see my red morning glories when I come to your house."
I took the red morning glories home and planted them beside the blue ones. At least they would grow. They were well-established mature plants. Still, I longed for the deep blue ones of the year before.
Within two weeks the plants I had inherited were sending green vines shooting up the trellis. Already a few, small red flowers were appearing. Brandon would be ecstatic. His morning glories were going to be fine.
By the third week, I noticed the vines had an abundance of blue flowers as well. Had Brandon, in his innocence, been right? Maybe the blue morning glories had been lonely. Maybe all the young plant had needed was a boost from a mature plant of its own kind. Was such a thing possible? I shook my head. Maybe I was loosing it. Then again, stranger things had happened.
One morning as I passed the trellis, I glanced at the morning glories. I stopped. My jaw dropped. At the very top of the trellis were three mauve morning glories. I had never seen anything so beautiful. How could this have happened?
The next time Brandon came to visit, the trellis was covered with twisting, green foliage and mauve flowers. Brandon got out of the car and started for the house. He stopped.
He stared at the plant. He turned to me, his eyes filled with tears.
"Where did you get the purple morning glories?" he asked. I gave you red ones."
He flew to me, his arms encircling my legs. He sobbed deep, wracking sobs.
I crouched down to his level, turned his face and looked him in the eye.
"Brandon, Grandma didn’t buy purple morning glories. I brought the red ones from your house and planted them with my blue ones. I have no idea why they are mauve."
"Mauve is the same as purple only different, right?"
"That’s right," I told him, choking back a sob. "Do you understand?"
Brandon cocked his head and looked at me, swiping away a tear. Suddenly, a smile spread across his face. His eyes sparkled. He bent his knees, drew down his elbows and jumped into the air squealing, "I know! I know!"
Baffled, I asked, "What do you know?"
"I know why the flowers are purple," he cried.
"And why is that?"
"Cause we mixed up God’s colors. Blue and red make purple."
"That’s a good reason," I laughed, swiping a tear from my own cheek. "And you’re right. Red and blue do make purple."
Brandon took my hand and we walked toward the house. Two hearts at peace with the blessing that God had given them.
Copyright © 2000 by Mary M. Alward
GRANDMA’S ANGEL
My two-year-old Grandson, Jordan, is the daredevil of the family. While Brandon, aged four, has always been a child you can reason with, Jordan is the exact opposite. Since the time he learned to crawl, he has been constantly into one thing after another.
Jordan will be the death of me, I am sure. At fifteen months, he could drag his rocking zebra anywhere in the house. When he had it positioned to his satisfaction, he would stand on its back to reach heights that no child of such a young age should even be aware of. Upon being rescued, he would scream and kick in protest.
Being the boys’ main caregiver while their parents’ work, I feel I must instill in them the difference between right and wrong and also make certain they are never in any danger. Brandon is an easy child to care for much of the time. He is Grandma’s boy. Jordan is quite a different matter. He has a definite stubborn streak. I can’t imagine where it came from.
One day while we were out walking, Jordan, fast as lightning, tore his hand from mine and dashed into the street between two parked cars. A swift glance told me a car was speeding down upon him. Visions of his broken, lifeless body flashed through my mind.
I yelled for Brandon to stay where he was and tore into the street screaming and waving my hands for the lady to stop. Luckily, she was obeying the speed limit and was able to brake in time.
I snatched Jordan from the road, held him to my trembling body and hurried back to the sidewalk. Brandon still stood in the exact spot he’d been in when Jordan ran into the street. His eyes were wide, a horrified expression on his face.
By this time, Jordan had recouped from his scare and was screaming hysterically. I held him tight and murmured soothing words of comfort. On the other hand, I felt that his behavior called for severe punishment. How do you punish a child for scaring ten years off your life?
As Jordan quieted down, I looked at Brandon. The expression on his face had changed from one of shock to one of fury. He ran toward us, put his face close to his brother’s and yelled, "Bad Baby! Don’t ever do that again."
Jordan began to scream. I was stunned. The attack was so out of character for Brandon. It was then that I realized his heart must be thumping erratically as well. He was scared to death.
I scolded Jordan, set him on his feet and we headed for home. When we got there, I sat down in the rocking chair and calmly explained to Jordan that if he ever ran into the road
Again, we would not be taking anymore walks. He laid his head on my shoulder. Silent sobs wracked his tiny body. I held him close and talked to him in a calm, soothing voice. Soon, he was fast asleep.
I carried him upstairs, laid him gently in his bed and pulled a light, cotton sheet over him. He took a long, convulsive breath, turned on his side and lay peacefully. I stood for a moment and watched him sleep; giving thanks that he had not been hurt. He looked like an angel lying there, so quiet and peaceful. At this thought, I chuckled. Jordan an angel? Of course. Grandma’s angel.
GRAPHICS COPYRIGHT©2000 - C. S. BECKETT