It was January 5th, the first Friday of the month. It began to snow around lunchtime, lightly at first; I didn't pay much attention, but by suppertime it was heavy, and driving home was tricky. Why today? Maybe it will quit soon, I thought. After having practised all week I was starting to feel a little disappointed.
I'd no sooner reached home when the phone rang. It was Liz. "I'm sorry," she said, "I'd love to come, but it looks a little dicey out there, maybe next time." She's probably right, I thought as I hung up, but I'll call Paul. "Sure," he said, "you've got new tires, let's give it a try."
I picked up Paul and we headed out of town, driving cautiously. It was only about a fifteen minute ride, and visibility was ok, but the ploughs hadn't been out.
"I don't know," said Paul, "there's not much traffic going our way, it may be a wasted journey."
But we arrived safely, parking in the church lot. The entrance was around the rear of the house. We passed into the backyard through a beautiful mahogany lychgate that Mary Eileen's husband Ted had built. Then into the small barn, and up the stairs. This was it, the Second Story Workshop, Baden, Ontario, a venue for story telling, created by Mary Eileen McClear.
The upper level of the barn has been converted into a kind of large rustic family room, eclectically decorated with theatrical props. It is filled with chairs, all kinds of chairs, highback, lowback, wicker and lawn, maybe fifty in all, arranged in concentric circles. The potbelly stove is stoked up, and the evening is ready to go. We aren't the first, and surprisingly the room soon fills to capacity, snow or no snow. The weather couldn't keep them away. Old friends, new friends, strangers too, but only briefly. Cider is heating on the stove whilst conversations are bubbling away.
At eight sharp Mary Eileen strikes her chime; candles are lit, lights are dimmed, and favourite chairs are quickly taken. A few announcements, then the stories begin, all attention on Mary Eileen, who by custom tells first. She's been telling stories now for nearly twenty years, they come easily, words flow from her lips, she is master of her craft. Outside silence lies on roof and road; inside, the audience is rapt, as images flutter like butterflies, and candles dance to the music from within. This is a place of enchantment. When Mary Eileen finishes there is applause, followed by quiet reflection, then conversation returns. Until a voice says quietly, tentatively, "I have a story to tell," and the room again falls silent.
Story follows story, at some we laugh till it hurts, at others we grip the chair arms tightly, another brings out the kleenex. Ronnie, Marilyn, Diane and Gordon; each one plays on a different emotion. I take my turn and tell my story.
Too soon it seems the evening ends, the candles burnt down, the cider drunk, and farewells are made. In the parking lot windshields are swept furiously, tires spin, voices call out--"Can you give me a push?" "Got any jumper cables?"
We drive home slowly, the roads still not ploughed. "Another magic evening," says Paul. I agree, I had told my story, it was enjoyed by others, they applauded, nodded and smiled in appreciation. Yes, a magic place.
Two years earlier I had never told a story, two years earlier I had never written one.
No comments:
Post a Comment