 Have you ever noticed that some people have a certain knack for telling stories? Is it a special gift? Is it part of the DNA? Or it is something learned that takes years and years of practice? Perhaps it’s a combination of all these things. But if you ask someone around here, they’d probably tell you a story about telling stories. And then maybe another story. And maybe even another.
From hypnotizing yarns with nail-biting climaxes to little ditties about nothing in particular. All passed down from our mothers and fathers, who lived for the evenings, huddled around the wood stove, recounting the events of the day, drinking mugs of tea and dunking slabs of bread into hearty moose stew. Adding generous dashes of embellishment.
Pure entertainment, some might say, right down to the hand gestures and crinkled faces. Stories to live by, from the ways we fish to the ways we learn to laugh in the face of Old Man Winter. Stories in the form of songs and dances. Stories in the way we hang our clothes to dry. And sometimes, stories in the form of a house, right down to the colour of the clapboard that greets each sunrise.
And year after year, these stories have evolved, but not as much as one might think, which is a very rare thing indeed. They are, after all, what we believe in.
These stories, if you’re so inclined, can be heard first-hand at story-telling festivals across the land by the masters of story-telling themselves. The wildly creative and passionate people who were given a very special gift. The very folk who live to tell a story, whether it’s been passed down through the ages or one that was born yesterday. |
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