Stories are the creative
conversion of life itself into a more
powerful, clearer, more
meaningful experience.
They are the currency of human
contact.
—
Robert McKee
“Once…and once
again”
Crisp, clean pages enclosed in an uncreased
spine that crinkles as the cover cracks open. Inside are words, brand-new yet old,
passed down through ages, across cultures and borders, from mother to child. Pages
steeped in kindness and cruelty, lessons to learn (and some left unlearned), prose
that carries deepest fears and longed-for triumphs; they hold the stuff of dreams
and nightmares, cowardice and courage, tragedy and triumph. Match girls and
mermaids, red hoods and red shoes. From this
day, they all find a home within me.
My heart beat a sudden staccato when I saw it—an
exquisitely illustrated copy of Hans Christian Andersen and Brothers Grimm
fairy tales, just like the one I owned as a child. Lost somewhere in the dim recesses of my past,
but here, among row after row of hand-me-down books I rediscovered it at last—and
remember.
Incandescent yellow light bathes the walls,
washing to a brilliant puddle that reflects it back to me. Bundled into bed,
snug and sheltered, I crack the pages once again and read by the glow of that
nocturnal noon—long after I’m supposed to be sleeping. Safe and warm, I venture
into realms unknown, to illusory lands where life is not safe, and yet malevolence lies vanquished in the end. Alongside
the hero, my heart quickens—whether in fearsome encounters, or menacing forests.
There is magic here that flashes out and
reshapes me.
A musty smell mingles with this living memory
as I comb the book’s contents for best-beloved tales. Just as she had always
been—last on a lengthy list— is The Snow
Queen. I smile, sigh, and settle in to read.
Gerda and Kay. The Snow Queen’s alarming appearance
and Kay’s abduction. A steadfast Gerda intent on liberating her well-loved
playfellow with the sliver of glass lodged in his eye and a ball of ice in his
heart.
Then the story turns. Dark.
Dagger to the throat dark.
Flickering through the leaves of the book, I
find blood, death, terror, and even cannibalistic witches. Cinderella’s sisters
cutting off toes and heels to fit too-large feet into glass slippers in order
to seize the prince for themselves? Children—like Hansel and Gretel, Snow
White, Red Riding Hood—bullied, hunted and threatened by the grownups charged
with their care, or abandoned in dark and daunting forests; seemingly helpless
before the very strangers they are cautioned against? These were the stories I had loved as a child?
How could I disremember
this?
Yet, another memory shimmers before my mind’s
eye.
Lively little girls grab pillows, blankets—and
a tantalizing fairy tale tome. Shushing begins, excited voices fall away, and an
expectant hush fills the room. A single voice begins to speak—strong, sure, and
smiling. All these years later, I can
still hear it. Rich as butter, it drizzles
over me as I sit spellbound by spoken story. Lyric comes to life, splashing vivid
images across mind’s-eye; fright and
delight vie in my heart as I listen. And I—along with every child in the room,
and across the sea, and throughout time—take my place within the chain of the
tale which begins, “Once upon a time…”
In this instant, I realize it: Story sticks.
Despite the machinery of each new generation,
Story has survived the insurrection. Twisted to fit the warp and weft of
culture, she weaves these tales we know and love from childhood into the
texture of our human heritage. Through literary musings over modern meanings,
or “rags to riches” media presentation, Story is constantly plaiting fresh
threads into her continuous cord. Despite their marketable charms, Disney has
not imprisoned the influence of her tales. Her timeless narratives linger still.
~ For Carol
