We are just back from one week on the road visiting libraries in Miami-Dade and Broward. As always it's a little tiring to be in motion all the time, especially when you have a Walden Pond all your own and do daily meditations in front of it while the herons and eagles fly by or drop in for a chat.
But the beauty of storytelling is that it's one of the best ways we have of touching the smallest members of the tribe. I am thinking of two-year-olds, and on occasion, babies.
Moms are nice too, always in synch with their little ones.
I can't help it: I am all over the place when I tell stories. My face is all over the place. When I see pictures of me telling stories I scare myself.
A little girl raised her hand and said, "Can I ask you a question?"
Then she said, "You have a mustache."
That's the kind of question I like. There are no non-questions in storytelling. And maybe what my small friend was really saying is, "Why do you have a mustache? What does it do for you? Does it feel funny?"
My father had one, and my grandfathers on both sides of the family tree.
I am not sure having a mustache helps me to tell a story: I'm not sure it doesn't.
I know this -- kids don't have them, unless it's Halloween.
In the parking lot after this storytelling, Lorry found a bright shiny dime. I took two steps beyond her dime and found a new minted quarter. And then -- oh, my gosh! -- I saw a mustache.
Now if you're not surprised by seeing a mustache unattached to a face, I would like to know why. We stood there staring at it for a few minutes.
I felt my upper lip. "Not mine," I said.
Lorry laughed. "Nor mine," she said.