Storytelling Sunday Two: The Words The Pictures

Welcome to the last Storytelling Sunday of 2012. We've taken it right through the year again, can you believe it? So far we have recorded 473 stories from January to November. Isn't that storytelling to be proud of? Some of you have filed a story for every one of those months, others have enjoyed dropping in when inspiration has struck. I like that: no pressure, just a good yarn when you have one.

Coming Home I said I'd think about for the December edition. And when I decided on that as a Christmas theme, I actually had an entirely different story in mind. But, as some of you know, it's been quiet around here for the last couple of weeks; and, as that husband of mine has made his trips to the Pharmacy and kept us all going, I remembered the first time he looked after me. The first time he brought me home.

Coming Home

We were students. We'd been students for the grand total of six weeks - which means that we'd been a couple for the equally excellent sum of five weeks and a day. Things in the Halls of Residence were fine and dandy. Student life was good. And then I phoned home.

"We know you were planning on coming home for the weekend," they said. "Don't. We've got chicken pox. Stay away from the plague house."

"Oh. Okay," I said. "Um..get well soon.." and I put the phone down.

That ought to have been the end of the story, of course. But, you know, I started thinking..it was half way through my first term, I'd been looking forward to telling them all how I was doing, everyone else was clearing out and I'd be on my own all weekend. Plus, they were sick, they needed my help...

I went home. And you can tell where this is going, can't you? I got back to Halls on Sunday night. By Wednesday i wasn't feeling too good. On Thursday I didn't want to get out of bed; and by Friday it was obvious to all my new student friends: I had chicken pox.

What were we going to do? I couldn't stay in Halls. My boyfriend did the only thing he could think of: he phoned his Dad. And that dear, good man took charge. He had only met me once, for about ten minutes; but he already understood that his son and I meant a lot to each other, and he didn't hesitate. He didn't know me, I didn't know him; but he got straight into his car and drove through the night from his home town to the university and then on to my town, with a sick, feeling-very-sorry-for-herself girl in the back of his car. He delivered me safely to my own recovering family and then he turned round and drove all the way back.

I still think it's one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me. My new boyfriend and his Dad brought me home; and I loved them for it. I got back to Halls after a week, just in time for the Christmas parties and life went on. But that night made a big impression on me and, today, when our two ask for a story about their Grandpa, I'll quite often tell them this one. I reminded that boyfriend about our first Christmas just yesterday. 

"I should have known then," he said, like he always does. "Sometimes you need a bit of looking after. But you always bounce back. Just in time for Christmas party season, too."

Not that year, but the next. Packing up for Christmas, I'm taking a break, looking out the window of my room in  Halls. I see I'm wearing a sweater I knitted myself and  my favourite pair of black ski pants (ski pants?! It was the 80's)

And that's my story for today. Are you going to help us bring the grand total for the year to 500? Oh, let's do it! Write your Storytelling Sunday post, come on over and add your link, drop by on some of the other storytellers..let's make December the best one of the year.