It’s All in the Family, by Kait Carson

People sometimes ask when I knew I wanted to be a writer. The honest answer was I couldn’t remember ever wanting to be anything else. It’s only recently that I’ve given that answer more than knee jerk thought and realize it’s not quite true. Becoming a writer was an adult embellishment of my childhood desire to be a storyteller. In my family, storytelling was a natural consequence of family and holiday dinners.

I’m a child of the 1950s. In those faraway days, families still lived close to each other and for those that didn’t, the Interstate Highway System a gift of the Eisenhower years made travel easier than the old over the river and through the woods access of song. Gas rationing was gone, the baby boom in full swing and in five easy hours the Upstate New York and the New Jersey components of our family could be sitting around a holiday table.

Our family often spilled out of the dining room into the living room and depending which family hosted, into the kitchen. Multiple tables pushed together to form a giant jigsaw puzzle with joints concealed by the best table cloths provided enough room to seat twenty or more adults. Children were scattered at nearby card tables. What did all those people do when they got together? Eat of course, and swap stories.

Children who wanted to be heard, and find me one who doesn’t, learned the mechanics of storytelling at family dinners. A strong hook to catch adult attention, an exciting middle to hold their focus, and finally, a satisfying ending that drew all the story strands together. Success was measured by positive comments. It was a short step from learning to tell a good story to writing one.

In the recent run-up to Easter, my cousin and I were revisiting some of our family stories. There were some doozies. It’s only now that the original tellers have left us that we are beginning to wonder how many of them are true. At the time of the telling, they were breathtaking glimpses into a life we never would know. My personal jury is still out on my cousin Junior’s race through the forest of upstate New York being chased by bigfoot. I’m thinking it’s much more likely it was a Forest Ranger. Still, stranger things have happened in the Adirondacks, and there are still mysteries to be answered.

How about you, readers and writers, where did you learn to tell your stories?