Once my grown children left home, we were left with an extra room. I claimed it as my Story Room. At last! A place for all my books, paints, beads, card stock and other stuff too numerous to mention. (Much of it is hidden somewhere and I can’t mention it because I forget what it is.)
My desk is an old plank table from my parents’ house. We called it the paint table. It was where the old house-paint cans stood and the brushes which had carefully been cleaned. My mom painted it blue. Although now it is chipped and I can see that she also painted it yellow and then red. There are two rung chairs to match. On the bottom of each seat reads, ‘TOWNHALLE WATERLOO.’ My suspicion is that there is a story to those chairs, but no one is talking. It may be there is no one left to talk since my Grandpa Byers had a hand in procuring them and he’s been dead 53 years.
There are 3 matching bookcases that look really nice; 2 matching that are alright; and 3 matching that are really stupid looking. I keep meaning to replace those, but it really doesn’t matter. It’s the books that are important.
I have an eclectic mix of those. Picture books, folk tale collections, about storytelling, authors’ series, reference books, song books. Every once in awhile I part with some, though not easily. If I give them away to other storytellers, that makes me happy.
When I run out of room on the bookshelves, some of them wind their way downstairs to my bedside table. Yesterday some of them fell off because they lost their balance atop “Two Bad Mice,” by Beatrix Potter. And there is a pile in the sitting room. And a few on the dining room table.
When I walk by, it’s as though old friends are sitting around the house.
Back to the Story Room. This week it will move over to a bigger space. Am I thinking about all the room I will have? No. I’m thinking about all the extra stuff I can put in it.
Wish me luck.