Being immersed in the love and chaos that is Christmas with children and grandchildren is, perhaps, one of the best gifts of all.
As I write this, snow is falling thick and fast outside, promising a snow-shoveling Sunday.
Toby Keith’s singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” and he’s right.
Only a few days left, a few more dozen cookies to bake and a special order for cinnamon rolls to fill. (The Cinnamon Roll Rule is still in effect).
My husband and the kids keep asking what I want for Christmas. I always tell them the same thing, “I have everything and more.”
Being immersed in the love and chaos that is Christmas with children and grandchildren is, perhaps, one of the best gifts of all.
Still, there is a gift I received as a child that has changed the course of my life more than once.
When I was an awkward, chubby 10-year-old who found many of her friends in books, the grade-school librarian suggested I might like to read stories to younger children when they came in for library time.
Gently, patiently she taught me how to be a storyteller. For the last two years of elementary school, I spent time each day in the library as her “assistant” telling stories to kindergarten and first-grade children.
Through my high school and college years, I did a lot of writing. My career years included a few press releases for Jantzen swimsuits and a lot of correspondence.
No storytelling.
Marriage and children followed. We read a lot of books together. I watched my oldest daughter fall in love with the small library a few blocks from our home in Stanwood long before she had her own library card.
One day, a reporter from The Herald knocked on my door.
I was his second choice, but he was determined to find a “stringer” who’d cover local news.
His first choice suggested since I was the library guild president, I might be able to write.
That’s how it is, I’ve decided, when you’re given a special gift.
You may choose to set it aside for years, even pretend it’s not there, but one day the reminder will come with a message printed on your heart: “I gave you this gift, my child. Why on Earth have you ignored it for so long.”
The Herald paid me 25 cents a column inch for my work.
I covered school board and city council meetings. One day, I wrote a “feature story” about Stanwood’s annual lutefisk dinner.
Interviewing local folks and writing about their lives was a lot more fun than city council meetings. Reporting and writing stories about ordinary people and their life experiences brought me such pleasure that I didn’t mind the other part of the job: seemingly endless hours at public meetings.
I once attended a Stanwood City Council meeting that lasted until 1:30 a.m., followed by an instructional film on planning for streets and sewers. I skipped the movie.
Eventually, The Herald publisher at the time, Robert Best Jr., decided it was cheaper to hire me part-time than pay me by the inch. A few years later, I was a full-time reporter in the newsroom.
During the best and worst times in my life, I had a job I loved, and I worked with talented, extraordinary people who loved the job too.
Twenty-nine years zipped by.
I hated the idea of retirement. Health and other personal reasons made that the sensible decision.
For the most part, I stopped writing in the spring of 1997. After that, there were a few stories for the grandkids and an occasional article for the local weekly newspaper, but not much storytelling.
I spent hours at various volunteer tasks and wrote newsletters. I started a trashy novel. When friends asked, I edited their writing and offered suggestions on story plots.
A decade of retirement with more play than purpose left me wondering if this was how the rest of my life was supposed to be.
And so, one night in prayer, I asked the Gift-giver. “What would you have me do? How am I supposed to use the gift you gave me now?”
Five days later, my telephone rang.
It was Stan Strick, then The Herald’s executive editor, calling because a job applicant had used my name as a reference. I hadn’t talked to Strick in several years. He was asking about a woman I had not seen nor spoken to in 15 years.
Why did she choose my name?
Why was I home on the weekday morning I usually set aside for grocery shopping?
In the course of the conversation, Stan asked if I was writing. “No,” I said, ” but I have a couple of ideas.”
He said if I was interested in writing again, I should send him a few sample columns.
Coincidence?
I never thought for a moment that it was. I went right to work.
Six weeks later, the first Sassy Senior column appeared in The Herald.
On this Christmas Day of my 69th year, you’re reading the 69th column.
It’s probably just a coincidence. Still, I don’t take this privilege for granted.
I’m grateful to be a storyteller. Thanks for “listening.”
Linda Bryant Smith writes about life as a senior citizen and the issues that concern, annoy and often irritate the heck out of her now that she lives in a world where nothing is ever truly fixed but her income. You can e-mail her at ljbryantsmith@yahoo.com.
Talk to us
> Give us your news tips.
> Send us a letter to the editor.
> More Herald contact information.
