This is the beginning of our next book (and first Chapter Book), "The Whisper Stone". Grandpa was a story-teller. He was a fisherman too, and I never met a fisherman who couldn’t tell a good story now and then. Some of his stories were true, and sometimes they were warped by time and emotion. He would also tell me things that were so preposterous there was no way they could be true. He’d say something like, “I think Aliens might have landed in the back pasture last night.” I didn’t believe him, and yet at some point during the day I’d find myself in the back pasture looking for signs of an impending invasion. One just can’t be too careful about the difference between what one knows and what one thinks he knows. “C.C.,” he said, “the truth of a story doesn’t depend on its actuality. Truth can be found in many things that aren’t real, and is sometimes hardest to see in things that are. The best stories and the best memories survive because they tell something beyond the obvious.” And always, there was the small, smooth river stone he kept in his pants pocket. He would pull it out and roll it around in his hand or rub it with his thumb, holding it like it was a part of him.
Posted on: Wed, 24 Jul 2013 20:06:16 +0000