The Storyteller
Somewhere along the line I decided to give prose a try; 1991, in particular, saw many lines put to paper. One of those was titled The Storyteller, and was dedicated to my grandfather who seemed to excel at telling stories. I have long looked back on those stories as a way of connecting family to place and time.
Relating memories of youth
of a distant place
a distant time
the unfamiliar made familiar
the piece of a puzzle put in place
Never for a loss of words
with a voice deliberate
but never demanding
willing to share
with what to young minds
seemed unimportant
but which, years later
is still remembered.
Stories of a swimming hole
in a place called Truro
Iowa corn fields
spread on green rolling hills
Stories told perhaps
a hundred different times
by a hundred different people
with but different places
different faces
this time told for me.
To tell a story is a gift
Indeed the greatest gift
is sharing - the storytellers trade.
A way back at the beginning of February of this year, the blog (which first started life as the Claremont Cyclist) turned the page on its first decade and began a second biggie lap. I was never really happy with the "mission statement" as it was written eight years ago but never really felt compelled to change it, or write a new one. Not that anything has changed, or is expected to change. I still see it primarily as a creative outlet, a view into the life of our two-wheeled community, through my eyes, my lens, photographs and essays, announcements and observations.
Perhaps I should have taken the opportunity, those times it presented itself, to take that backward bend to kiss the Blarney Stone. But I didn't and, unlike my grandfather, I have never had the storytellers gift of gab. I have had to make do with writing and photographs as my way to express thoughts and observations. No promises, no expectations, no pressure - It will go for as long as it goes, as long as I can find a story to tell.
Ride On!
along the rural route somewhere in Iowa
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