Storyteller

My favorite childhood storyteller: Grandpa
surrounded by his favorite listeners

Sometimes following Sunday dinner, Grandpa would go to the pie safe on the back porch and remove an old cigar box. He would dig through its treasures to find an item for a story. His cache included flint arrowheads, knives, and tomahawks he had picked up in the fields below the house. The box also contained rattles from several rattlesnakes he had killed over the years. That day Grandpa asked me to make a choice for the story. Of course I chose the largest set of rattles.

My sisters and I gathered around eager to hear Grandpa’s story. He told of a large timber rattler he encountered one summer day near a spring. Using a sharpshooter spade, he dug open the spring to fill a jug with its cold water to share with fellow harvesters. As he started walking from the spring, the snake struck but hit the shovel rather than Grandpa’s leg. Surprised and scared, he dropped his jug and tried to retreat, but there was neither space nor time.

Grandpa paused. We watched as he rolled up his sleeves and flexed the muscles of his arms. He said, “That old thing was as big around as my forearm and six feet long, and it was recoiling to strike again.” Grandpa’s arm moved quickly as if to strike us. Of course, we jumped; one sister screamed. He killed that huge serpent with the spade. “I threw the shovel like a spear,” he said, “and then cut off its head, and these.” He held up the rattles. I thrilled at the story and shivered when he shook the rattles, but I always felt safe walking around the fields and pastures with him. I knew Grandpa’s strong arms would keep me from harm.

© 2016 Denver An excerpt from "Milagro" prepared for reading at The Write Age Writers Workshop