IT was cool that night at the lake front. The boys built a fire with some old boards that had washed up on the shore and begged Daddy for a story.
“Please tell us a story about Indians, Daddy,” said Davey. Bill ran to gather some dry willow twigs to get the fire off to a blazing start.
“I want a bear story,” James insisted. “Mom knows a good one about a big brown bear. It’s a true story, too. She told it to me a long time ago, when I was real little.”
Dad laughed. “It would appear,” he said, “that I’m being ousted as the storyteller of the evening. Janie, run and get your mother.”
Mom was standing on the stepladder tacking paper edging on the cupboard shelves. She had a hammer in one hand and a handful of tacks in the other. “Me?” she asked, gesturing with a hammer. “You’ve got the champion storyteller of McWade county down there right now. Why don’t you have him entertain you?”
“It’s James,” said Jane patiently. “He’s got it into his head that he wants to hear your story about the big brown bear, and I was sent to fetch you.”
“Why,” said Mom. “I’m flattered. I’ll find my sweater and be right with you.”
“Welcome to the powwow,” said Daddy rising and bowing low. “These mighty braves,” he explained, “would like to hear an Indian story and a bear story.”
Mom joined in the play. She wrapped her sweater around her shoulders, making believe it was an Indian blanket, and accepted a cushion near the fire.