My first storyteller

August 12, 2015

 

Jeg tænker tit på den første fortæller i mit liv - min farmor. Jeg kunne sidde i hendes køkken i timevis og lytte intenst til hendes historier om at være ung pige under 2. verdenskrig. Hvem prægede din barndom med historier? Læs dette blogpost om hvordan min farmor prægede min...

 

My first storyteller

"Hello world!"... this is the default post of a new worldpress blog. A bold statement full of curiosity, purity and joy... very much like a child's approach to the world, and, thus, very much like me, when I encountered the first true storyteller of my life.

 

Encounter may be too big a word, since ... do you really encounter a person, when that person has been a part of your life since you were born? Nonetheless, I choose the word, because my true encounter was when I realised, that this person was, in fact, a storyteller.

 

There is no doubt that the first storyteller in my life was my paternal grandmother. Some of my earliest memories are of me sitting in her kitchen while I watch her go about her daily chores of cooking, cleaning, and washing, and listen to her talking. My grandmother was always talking ... not always about something grand, exiting or dramatic, but just about her thoughts and daily experiences.

 

Once in a while, however, she would zoom in on her youth and her experiences as a young girl in a small town in the midst of Jutland during WWII. Then she would stop her chores and look at me, while telling me about how she helped hide resistance people in an tuberculoses asylum, or about how my grandfather fell in love with her, when he as a young, shy boy saw her in a grocery store and saw her impressive breasts resting on the counter, or about how she was visited by her mother's ghost on the night of her mother's death.

 

 I remember her stories vividly ... they made me see her in a different light, as someone else than an elderly, heavy-set, caring woman who loved me deeply. I would picture a young, brave girl facing life's challenges with courage and a smile. And I, as a little girl, would listen with awe and love her even more intensely for it.

 

I don't know how much of these stories where actually the truth - and to me, it really doesn't matter - it was the act of telling them to me, that made her important to me. Not least because her sharing them with me made me feel important. And, I do believe they haboured elements of truths about who she was, who she had wanted to be, and what life was like back when her dreams were still young. And, most importantly, they made us connected ... part of that brave, young girl is living inside me today. And writing about her makes me miss her even more.

 

 

 

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