Lately I’ve been wanting to create a collection of vignette stories around curious childhood memories. I hesitate, though, because they have no point.

Perhaps that’s why I like them so much.

Most of life has no point, right? It just rolls along, with lots of details and tumbling responses to immediate needs. And in the end, more often than not, the point is simply, “Yup, there goes another day.”

But in writing, whether it be fiction, non-fiction, or something in-between, folks presume you have a point. Otherwise, why clutter up the already noisy stratosphere with more dross?

Here’s why. Because I think a quiet “huh” is a perfectly adequate reaction to a good story.

My dear friend Sandy has followed me around more than one museum, park, or gift shop, and she can always find me simply by listening for the quiet sound of, “…huh…” Apparently that’s a sound I make when I find something interesting, or odd.

Here’s an example: It’s funny what we make of personal storytelling. If I tell you I have kept diaries for much of the last fifty years, that may sound boring, or self-obsessed.

If I tell you I have the diaries of my great-grandmother, beginning in 1862, you might think, “Wow, I’d love to read that!”

Huh. What’s the difference?

Spoiler alert: Rhoda Coleman was no literary genius. Her diary was her way of thinking out loud without risking premature feedback from family or friends. She wrote to keep track of how many quarts of blueberries she canned that day. Or to note that this was the day the neighbor’s boy finally came home. From the war. The Civil War, that is. Or occasionally Rhoda would vent (in a safe, cryptic manner) about her husband Joseph Henry’s irascible nature. Or about how odd it was that the horse escaped the barn only on Sunday mornings, when it was time to hitch up the buggy for church, which was her one weekly escape from farm chores.

Huh.

Rhoda’s stories, and mine, rarely have a point. That’s okay, they still make me smile. These tales don’t follow the prescriptive pattern of exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution. Instead, the story arc is like a visit to one of those calm river-pool moments between the whitewater rapids of life. Like a whispered “huh.”

 I suppose it’s the storytelling version of, “Look at That!”

Welcome to “In the Meantime,” a series of stories about the exhale moments in life. Here’s a sample, the beginning of next week’s tale:

“The weeds and wildflowers at the crest of the hill sway in the breeze, rooted where the stables used to be. A rusty horseshoe nail pokes up through the sand.

The loudest residents now are crickets. It’s safe to come out, now that the humans are gone.”

See you next week.

~~~~

I hope you enjoyed this essay. Click on the “Word Cloud” at the right if you’d like to read more about a specific topic. Feel free to forward any of them to friends and family members who might enjoy them.

Public comments can be posted below. (You may need to click on the title of this essay to access the “Like” and “Comment” areas.)

Private questions or comments will reach me by using the Contact link here.

All three of my books are available on Amazon in eBook and paperback formats.

The newest book, Look at That! – Second Edition, is also available as a beautiful hardcover.

A big thank you to the recent donors to the Tip Jar on this blog. If you find these posts valuable, I hope you will contribute to The Tip Jar. It is my preferred alternative to having this be a subscription website. The Tip Jar is a secure site, and it helps keep this website solvent.

As always, thanks for spend some time with me “aloft.” Happy gazing, sketching, pondering, and storytelling!