In the heart of Belhaven stands a little house among all the other mismatched houses. It is framed by flowers and pine trees, and children run through the carpet of green lawn, blowing bubbles and fingers sticky with the melted popsicles they claim as priceless treasures in the heat.
On this porch is a blue wicker rocking chair, and as the summer storm rolls in, it rocks, empty, a glass of sweet tea by its side.
Earlier, before the children were let loose to run like wild banshees, they sat on that same porch and listened to a story or two. This June, every Thursday from 3 to 4 p.m. I have been fortunate enough to read stories in conjunction with the Eudora Welty House for Summer Storytime. Last week, the group of children was so big that we split it up into three separate groups to hear multiple stories before they clamored for popsicles and ran through the sprinkler.
This upcoming Thursday, June 18, we will be reading stories about writing your own story, and what a better place to do this activity than at the Eudora Welty House, the home of an author who made her own stories. We hope you and your children will join us from 3:00 to 4:00 to make a book.
Who can say whether there is or isn’t a certain magic imbued in a place? When the last of the children left, led by the hand by their parents, it was just as if Ms. Welty herself had been there the whole time, smiling as words and stories filled these children, just as they in turn filled her garden.
As I turned to leave, the rocking chair creaked in the wind, and the little house was quiet, the grass worn by the patter of little feet, standing just as it was before with all the other mismatched houses, right in the heart of Jackson.
Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. I suppose it’s an early form of participation in what goes on. Listening children know stories are there. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole.
—Eudora Welty, One Writer’s Beginnings
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