This week I’ve been working on a story about a blacksmith and his wife who invited my family to a farewell dinner when we moved away from Calgary, Alberta. They served us a strange and wonderful meal. The story is for a program I’m doing on May 1oth with Betty Cassidy, another Saratoga storyteller, of stories about the 1950s and 60s. It occurred to me, as I thought about that bizarre meal and my parents’ unexpected response to it, that some of my notions about my parents must have been wrong. My parents would not have been friends with this couple if they had been as uptight as I remember them. They would not have handled the situation with such (relative) aplomb.
Maybe it’s time for me to adjust my reality yet again. I’m pretty comfortable with a few solid facts. 2 + 2 most always equals 4. Gravity still seems to be in working order. Probably. But most everything else seems forever to shift depending on my point of view. The older I get, the more I’m convinced that I’m sure of nothing. And the more comfortable I am with this uncertainty. Oh well.
In this blog, I’ll write mostly about my storytelling, which I love with a passion. And because my storytelling is always about my trying to figure out the people in my life and this shifting thing we call reality, I’ll write about them too.