My favorite stories

Before I talk about the stories I loved as a child, I should mention two things: my grandmother, who looked after us because my parents worked, was illiterate and couldn’t read, and the other thing is that my parents never read us bedtime stories. When it was time for bed, they would simply turn off the light, say goodnight, and that was it.
But they did tell us stories orally—folk tales or ones made up from their imagination. There was no set time for storytelling; all we had to do was ask:
“Dad, tell us the story of the savage!”—we’d beg him to tell us that story again, even though we’d heard it a thousand times.

The advantage—or disadvantage—of this way of telling stories was that they never told them the same way twice: sometimes they made them more exciting, other times not quite as interesting. Sometimes they’d forget a part, and we, as loyal listeners, would point out what they’d left out. We knew many of those stories by heart, as if they were written in our minds.

For example, one of the stories I loved hearing the most was about the time the river in the town where my dad lived swelled, and some ghosts helped him cross it. According to my father, when he was very young, my grandfather sent him on an errand to town, and since their house was quite far out, my dad rode there on a donkey. My grandfather told him not to get distracted and to come back soon because rain was coming. However, my dad didn’t listen and stayed behind playing with some friends. The problem was that it started to rain, and in order for my dad to get home, he had to cross the river, which had already swollen. When he saw this, my dad started crying because night was falling and the river wasn’t receding. Suddenly, my dad saw a light appear, and the donkey began to follow it. Inexplicably, the donkey managed to cross the river, and my father arrived home safe and sound. The next day, they woke up to the news that the river had risen so high that it had swept away some animals, and that the spirit of my father’s grandmother had been seen wandering among the rocks.

Just like this story, I remember many others, but among the written ones, there’s one I remember with real fondness—and that’s because my grandmother, even more than I did, always loved it when I read it to her. When I turned 10, I asked my parents to give me a storybook, and in that book was the story of a man who complained about the existence of certain species:
“Why do cockroaches, mosquitoes, and worms exist? God isn’t smart,” he kept saying.

But one time war broke out and the man had to flee from the enemy. One night, after walking, he lay down to rest and fell asleep. Suddenly, a mosquito bit him and woke him up. Just as he was about to curse, he heard the enemy approaching and he was able to hide in a cave. He stayed there all night, waiting. In the morning, he heard that the enemy was outside. Fearfully, he listened as they were about to enter the cave, but suddenly one of the men said to the others:
"Look, there is a spiderweb at the entrance of the cave. If he had gone in there, he would have broken it." With this argument, the enemy continued on their way, and the man who had disparaged the other species, in a single night, was saved by a mosquito and a spider.

And that is the end of this story.

The first image was made in Canva and the others are from my personal gallery. The text was translated with Deepl

Thank you for your support, reading, and comment. Until next time, friend. Regards