Stories

I come from a family of storytellers. Maybe we all do. There were always stories. Stories about past lives, stories about places, magic tales to spark our imaginations and tales of caution to scare the hell out of us. These stories can be lost or recede into the mist of time. But the past, both real and imagined, of my family is not forgotten. Through the tales of our grandmother and our parents, the past lived on.

Now I fear for the fate of stories as much as I fear for the Great Barrier Reef. Their existence is threatened. They have been banished from the tables of family dinners and replaced by phones and television. Blessed bits get passed through WhatsApp and social media but I feel the thread stretching and I fear it will break.

But then I tell myself: ‘Get real, old woman. The word is a different place. Accept it. The young people are amazing in their own way. They find their own ways to connect.’

But, for me, the stories intruded. The stories found me. And I wonder, will stories find them.

Agnes found me. Eventually I told her story with the book,The White Apron.

The girl, who lay awaiting the birth of her baby, on the day that my son Rob was born, found me. Dark Enough for Stars lies in my computer waiting professional editing. I have started to design the cover –it still needs work but I know from past experience, it all takes time.

And Lettie found me. Oh Lettie, do I have the energy to tell your story. Your family have given me permission and now the responsibility weighs heavy. It took me nearly 15 years to research and tell Agnes’s story. Your story is just as amazing but comes from the polar opposite on the social spectrum.

Your story has never been fully told. And it should be.

Any fool can have an idea, I hear my father saying.