The Same Tales She Told 5/12/2024

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

Lately I have had the pleasure of beginning something with my daughter that my mother began with me when I was close to the same age.  My memories of these times with my mother are faint but there. They float about in the back corridors of my mind like the glowing haze of some distant dream. I can make out some of the elements, but they are soft and indistinct. I can clearly remember the feelings that it gave me though and they ran the gamut. There is nothing quite like your mother reading you a fairytale, and when it is one to the level of grandeur of The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, then it is an experience on a whole other scale. Just recently I have begun this joyous journey with my daughter, and I would be utterly guessing if I told you I knew who was enjoying it more. Though I may know.

I had made an attempt to begin the first book of the series a few years back. I don’t think her attention span had quite matured to the level it needed to be for her to truly enjoy it. Don’t get me wrong, her attention span is still that of a pygmy gnat however, if one can get a well told story in the mix it can inexplicably grow and get lost in the tale at hand. When I proposed it again and she was receptive I was bound and determined to do my absolute best work when presenting these stories to her.  I would be sure to do the appropriate accents. Though, if you know me, you know any excuse I can find to do said accent is more than welcome. And really and truly, if you read these books in a standard American, or in my case standard Southern American it sounds weird at best and downright wrong at worst.  But not only did I plan for accents, but they would need to vary as well as the characters varied. I mean I may not know a great deal about living in a magical world, but it most assuredly seems to me that a centaur, a giant and a beaver should all have distinctly different voices.  You can’t just have them all sounding like they came from the same street in London much less the same hayfield in Alabama. I knew that such discrepancies would just not do. Not to mention, my absolute adoration for Lewis and his work so I had to pay it as much respect as I possibly could and do it as close to justice as possible.

In doing accents and voices and narration when no character was speaking, the feelings of when it was my mother doing the same became somehow clearer. Now, you need to understand that my mother is an absolute virtuoso when it comes to storytelling. Honestly, that woman could read the phone book (you know, if those were still a thing in this day and age) and you would be staring rapt with your chin in your hands before she got to the letter B. I know you think that I am being biased and exaggerating but I assure you I am not and anyone who has heard her tell a story, and there have been many of all ages, would wholeheartedly agree with me and possibly threaten to do bodily harm to anyone who disputed her phenomenal skill.  Her uncanny magic in this respect brought it to life for me when I was a child and, despite my horrific memory blurring the details, I can still feel it.

This was and is a big deal to me. I want to do this well for my daughter. I want to make her become intoxicated with these stories the same way I was and am.  We got started and I put in hard work.  I did my best to intrigue her.  I knew she liked a good story, and I knew I certainly had the content before me so keeping her engrossed would weigh heavily on how I presented this magnificent tale. It may have been silly, but I was indeed putting a good bit of pressure on myself. I just wanted her to love it as much as I loved it.  Not only do I love the story, but I wanted her to love her mother telling her the story. I suppose if I am being honest, I hope to live up to my mother’s storytelling standard and oh, my dear reader, that is a lofty goal for which to aim.

I am happy to report that it seems that my wishes are coming true. It is working.  And while I am working hard to make things as engaging as possible, I don’t really think it’s me at all. I think about 99% of the fact that she is becoming very invested in the story is because it’s just that wonderful of a story. But I do like to think that the other 1 percent is the fact that this agonizingly beautiful yarn is spun at night when she is cuddled up with her mother in the covers. We are surrounded by stuffed unicorns and lions and reading about the adventures of similar magical creatures. She is snuggled against my chest whilst I gesture wildly to show the expanse of a castle or the sweeping slash of a sword. It just occurred to me. While I do love Lewis as well as everything he has written, especially the Chronicles, is it possible that I love this particular experience with him so much because of the blonde head nestled against me sharing it?  The enchanting words in these books, her captivated eyes, the memories of my mother imparting to me this same glorious experience:  it is almost too much beauty to bare.  Happy Mother’s Day to my greatest storyteller and to my favorite audience who made me a mother. I love you both more than the four thrones at Cair Paravel and the fireflowers that grow on the mountains of the Sun.