Of Storytelling and Storyteller Dolls - Barbara Jean Hicks

It's been a very emotional week. Yesterday a new owner closed on my mom and dad's house, a one-story house my dad had built for my mom fourteen years ago when she could no longer easily climb stairs, a house that has been my home for the last year and a half since my dad passed away and my mom has been in assisted living. A house that holds many stories, even though its bones are relatively young.

Except for the large furniture, I did most of the moving myself, taking many trips back and forth between Mom's house and the house I'm moving into. Many precious objects--precious because imbued with emotion and memories--have passed through my hands in the last few weeks. One of those is a doll, a sitting ceramic figurine, mouth open, with seven tiny figures sitting in its lap and draped across its shoulders--a Puebo Storyteller Doll.

The first Storyteller Doll was created in 1964 in honor of the artist's grandfather, who was a gifted storyteller and devoted much of his life to preserving the traditions of his native Cochiti culture. My Storyteller Doll was a gift from my father, given to me on a memorable cross-country road trip the summer after I graduated from college. We were in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and I remember that he wanted to buy me something valuable--a piece of jewelry, if memory serves.

I don't wear much jewelry. I didn't want that from my father. So he bowed to my wishes and let me pick out what I wanted: a book with instructions for building an adobe house (a still unaccomplished goal) and a Storyteller Doll--an adult figure with seven smaller figures climbing over it, which represented to me my father, me and my six siblings. The doll came with a book by Mark Bahti, Pueblo Stories and Storytellers, illustrated with many storyteller figures from various artisans, explaining the origin of the dolls and including a traditional story from each Pueblo tribe.

Growing up, I don't remember my father telling many personal stories. He was a quiet, self-effacing man who spoke little of his history and even less of his inner life. But my father read to us. Through him I met the Swiss Family Robinson, Long John Silver, the Five Little Peppers, Robinson Crusoe, Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz, Heidi, Mowgli and many more. What greater legacy could a future writer of children's books have than hearing these stories read aloud?

I think it may be time--after I've settled into my new home and found just the right spot for each of my precious, memory-imbued objects, of course--to re-read some of those children's classics my father read to me when I was a child. And when I do, I expect to hear those stories, word for word, in his voice.

I'm thankful to my father for the many gifts he gave me over the years--and most especially for the legacy of storytelling.