The Heart of a Storyteller (JM)

(Joseph MacRae, published in Come to the Table: Recipes for Loving and Serving, edited by Ched Johnson and Nancy Collins-Warner, Monastery of Saint Gertrude, Cottonwood, Idaho, 2021. Originally written October 31, 2020, eve of All Saints' Day, prompted by the Abbey of the Arts retreat Listening at the Threshhold: Voices of Saints and Ancestors)

The Heart of a Storyteller

A rural Oregonian and devotee of Monastery of St. Gertrude's workshops, Joseph MacRae is a former logger-forest tech-fishery-tech-seaman-farmer. His heart has never quite left the primordial Alaskan bush which weaves its way into his poetry. Part bear, he's been known to say, "it's not a table without honey". (Those sticky paw prints through the kitchen though, they're from somebody else.)

I could write about living and working in remote untouched places. Kinfolk who goldmined the outback in our west coastal mountains. One who lived with, learned medicine ways from, the Coeur d'Alenes. I could write about myself working in Alaska, on islands large and small, where the only way in is by boat or small plane. Where wilderness is pristine, God touchable, present in His works. 

I have sat on the beach where the indigenous people once had their fish camp, where one can feel the power of the ancestors. I have sat in a small cove on an island near Haida Camp (an old Haida village) and listened to the 

hum-m-m, the soothing voice, of Earth Mother. The voice coming from her heart. 

I could write about a Legend in Stone, seen from my window while on a train skirting Oregon's Columbia Gorge. Last Ice Age, these basalt cliffs met glaciers turned flood, carving as no artist could.  "Look", I said to the couple next to me, "those stones are the spirits of the ancestors, waiting for the river to be returned." They smiled.

Storytelling is something seeped into these ol' bones, from branches on the family tree where poetry was crafted, legends spun. And seeped into these ears, from childhood nights by fire or table where Mama (Trudy), or Grandma Oza, or (Grandpa) Doc MacRae wove magic to outshine Alladin. 

I could write about grief for the downplay of storytelling today. Shorter attention spans prefer tweets and screens and "reality" TV. But I could write about the heart of the sacred, waiting in these stories we need to tell.

Growing up, I looked forward to the few days a year I was sick. Yes, you read that right. It was great! Home scot free from school, I'd settle down at the kitchen table and watch my Grandmother Oza MacRae's magic. She'd take bread, fry it golden, slather it with butter and honey and put it in a bowl of hot milk. 

Nothing ever tasted so good! "It will soothe your throat", she'd say. And it did! Of course today they tell us differently, that milk makes respiratory issues worse. Glad my grandmother Oza never heared this. Think I'll pretend I didn't hear it either. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some toast on the fry... 

Grandma Oza's Magic Milk Toast

2 slices buttered bread, and two cups milk, preferably whole, mixed with honey to taste. Heat the sweetened milk in a pot until hot. Fry buttered bread in a pan until golden. Divide milk between two bowls and put a slice of the fried bread into each. Let it all soften a moment in magical metamorphosis...and eat! Serves two.