The Muse

Now that the pump’s been primed, I’ve been taking mental notes on what to write again. One individual came drifting out of past memory who might well have been the person who started it all: Mrs. Satterwhite. I hope she’ll forgive the way in which I remember her, for I was in second or third grade when in her care. I remember her foremost as The Great Storyteller and I am confident that if we were to gather any other now grown school children, they too might have the same memory of her storytelling.  

I recall her in a nearly cartoonish way (again, I hope she’ll forgive me). While not being quite sure of her age, I remember her grandmotherly silhouette. She was a fairly large woman, maybe in her 50’s or 60’s, who wore flowery dresses and heavy shoes. Her legs were stout and covered by that kind of half-stockings that never seemed to stay up. Her hair was shoulder length and kept in the style of an older woman in the early 1970’s. 

During recess, she sat in a chair under the sprawling pecan tree near the rocket slide that is 100% unknown by any of today’s children. It was a three-level monstrosity (or was it four?) scaled from the inside by a series of offset ladders. Once on top, one could defend the galaxy at the helm or slide down safely to the bottom before the self-destruct sequence was complete. Mrs. Satterwhite mothered us all. 

Some days, playtime was better sitting on the ground at the feet of those oversized shoes while she told her stories. I don’t recall that any were made up. Her stories came out of her childhood and I remember most of them were the kind of terrifying that captivated the attention of small children but did not reduce any to tears--in the daytime. She told stories of tornadoes that swept over their farm. She told of hobos who came through their small town and the rash of robberies that occurred in town. I don’t think she ever read books to us, but I remember some now-familiar stories. But it was unfamiliar and personal ones that stand out. We sat and listened until the pecans started to fall. Once they fell, we threw them at each other until Mrs. Satterwhite rounded us all up, sat us down in straight lines, and disallowed us to talk to one another, and deprived us of a story. The only thing we could do was sit and drag our heels back and forth until we dug deep trenches that were later filled in by the grounds crew, or heavy rains (whichever came first). Whoever dug the deepest trench won.

When she told her stories, we were captivated. She took us where she wanted us to go and taught us things like, “and that’s why we don’t talk to strangers,” or “under your bed is the safest place to be,” and so on. 

I’d have to say she’s the one who got me interested in the story, in writing and reading. If I could thank her today, I’d give her a kiss.