About Me
Name: Kelly Wolske

Maryland born, Florida raised, and transplanted to the Mojave for the love of my husband. Big Red's wife, Tele's mom, part time student. Child of God, Christ follower, United Methodist in exile. More than anything I strive to hear His voice every single day.

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Overheard at our house yesterday:
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Miscellaneous
Reading: The Pilgrim's Progress
Project: Sewing/ craft corner







Saturday, August 19, 2006
When I was a young girl...
... My parents read to me. A lot.

For my mom, the choices were usually the classics remembered from her childhood. The Little Princess, The Secret Garden, Heidi. Even when I was old enough to read for myself, we continued this ritual. Ostensibly, it was for A and R, being so much younger than I. But I know now that it was just as much for me. I loved that time, sitting there in my nightgown, fresh from a bath. (Snuggled up on the couch was always the best, because then I could smell that Mom smell and rest my head on her shoulder.)

When Dad read to me, it was a whole different ballgame. If anyone here knows my dad, you should know this about him: he is a storyteller. (And if you haven't heard him tell a story, you are missing something.) He drops his voice a little, and his inflection draws the listener in. I love to watch the kids at our home church when Dad gives the children's chat. He seldom uses more than one prop, but every child there is listening, enthralled.

When Dad read to me, it was the poetry which stands out. Ok, so he didn't EVER call it poetry, and most purists would agree with him. Dad read verse. There was the standard Shel Silverstein, but what I really loved was when he would open the big blue book and read Robert W. Service.

This morning, I awakened to hear the song being read, and a flood of memories drove me to the computer. I found a wonderful recording of Johnny Cash reading the Cremation of Sam McGee

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.


This morning, I awakened to hear the song being read, and a flood of memories drove me to the computer. I found a wonderful recording of Johnny Cash reading the Cremation of Sam McGee and I knew I had to share with you guys. It isn't quite the same as listening to Dad, but it is a worth song nevertheless.

If I ever have children of my own, I want them to share my love of stories with them. I want to snuggle up, for however long they will let me, and take them to all the fanciful places my parents carried me-- just on the wings of spoken words. My parents shared their love of stories with me, and I can't wait to get home in a couple of weeks. Maybe I can talk Dad into reading to us that big blue book.

  posted at 6:25 AM  
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