I think I’ve always been an aspiring children’s author. Perhaps it was my imaginative and adventurous childhood that first lit the fuse, but the love of a good story has always run deep.

I was blessed to have two beloved grandmothers who were masterful storytellers. One would weave a grand tale from her rocking chair, and the other from the banks of the creek in her backyard. Regardless of the setting or genre, both held me spellbound with their stories.

My Grandma was a soft-spoken, silver-haired lady with the demeanor of an angel. She and her sister, Kat, grew up freely roaming the dusty roads and pasturelands of South Georgia. And while feisty Kat would lead them into some rather colorful circumstances, sweet Annie maintained her demure composure through it all. When Grandma told me her stories, I was motionless, captivated by her narrative and a world long gone.

My MeMe was a bit more spirited. My brother and I spent our summers at her house, mostly outdoors. She was fun and fearless, not at all shy to get dirty and play in the mud with us. I would sit at her feet, hanging on her every word as she told me about her grandfather’s “warrior heart” and humble beginnings. My imagination would wander past the trickling creek and into the woods, and I’d swear I could almost see him hunting beyond the thick trees—just as my MeMe so artfully described.

The art of storytelling is a treasured family trait, passed down through the generations. So stick around, and I’ll spin a few yarns for you… just like my Grandma and MeMe used to do.

– P.E. Shadrick