As A story teller

 As a storyteller, age has become my greatest ally. Growing up in a different era, I witnessed a time when people seemed to care more, and life revolved around family. I remember reading about the Roaring Twenties, with jazz bands playing the night away in smoke-filled bars. My grandpa would share tales of Prohibition and speakeasies, recounting how he ran bootleg whiskey through the mountains without ever getting caught.

My mom would spend hours telling me stories of hard times when food was rationed, clothes were passed down, and a new shirt required a year of saving. This upbringing instilled a sense of thriftiness in people, even during better times. I recall a jar she kept filled with pennies, reminding me that we might need them someday. There was also a box filled with scraps of material that she claimed she would eventually turn into a beautiful dress to wear at a ball.

All these memories have stayed with me over the years, providing rich material for my writing. Of course, I often added what I call “fillers” to make the stories more interesting. The most enjoyable part was inserting myself into various scenarios, like a gangster wannabe standing on the running board of a 1932 coupe, Tommy guns blazing, or as a drummer in a blues band performing in the dim light of a smoke-filled room.

I could weave myself into the narrative during a time when not all good guys wore white hats and not all bad guys wore black. In my stories, I became the sheriff who always captured his man—and his woman, who was always stunning. It felt as if I was sharing my life with the masses, allowing them to connect with every word and sentence. Yet, I always reminded my readers that it was just a story.

I’ve shared countless tales with my kids and grandkids, hoping they would remember them and pass them down. This way, the stories will never die; they will preserve the memories gifted to them by their ancestors and keep the tales alive. So, what will my next story be about, you ask? Perhaps a runaway train with me as the engineer, or a tale of a man so down on his luck that his shoes are taped together to avoid frostbite. I can vividly picture those scenarios, and I know a story needs to be written. 

Mike, 2025                                          As a storyteller, age has become my greatest ally. Growing up in a different era, I witnessed a time when people seemed to care more, and life revolved around family. I remember reading about the Roaring Twenties, with jazz bands playing the night away in smoke-filled bars. My grandpa would share tales of Prohibition and speakeasies, recounting how he ran bootleg whiskey through the mountains without ever getting caught.

My mom would spend hours telling me stories of hard times when food was rationed, clothes were passed down, and a new shirt required a year of saving. This upbringing instilled a sense of thriftiness in people, even during better times. I recall a jar she kept filled with pennies, reminding me that we might need them someday. There was also a box filled with scraps of material that she claimed she would eventually turn into a beautiful dress to wear at a ball.

All these memories have stayed with me over the years, providing rich material for my writing. Of course, I often added what I call “fillers” to make the stories more interesting. The most enjoyable part was inserting myself into various scenarios, like a gangster wannabe standing on the running board of a 1932 coupe, Tommy guns blazing, or as a drummer in a blues band performing in the dim light of a smoke-filled room.

I could weave myself into the narrative during a time when not all good guys wore white hats and not all bad guys wore black. In my stories, I became the sheriff who always captured his man—and his woman, who was always stunning. It felt as if I was sharing my life with the masses, allowing them to connect with every word and sentence. Yet, I always reminded my readers that it was just a story.

I’ve shared countless tales with my kids and grandkids, hoping they would remember them and pass them down. This way, the stories will never die; they will preserve the memories gifted to them by their ancestors and keep the tales alive. So, what will my next story be about, you ask? Perhaps a runaway train with me as the engineer, or a tale of a man so down on his luck that his shoes are taped together to avoid frostbite. I can vividly picture those scenarios, and I know a story needs to be written. 

Mike, 2025