"Once..and once again"

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