The Story Chair’s Adventure

Sally's Stories for Andres.html

It was bedtime in the big pink house on Toulouse Street. Andrés was wearing his pajamas and waiting patiently for story time. Usually, this was the Story Chair’s favorite hour, but tonight, when Daddy sat down on him, the Story Chair sighed. “Every night I listen to stories, but I’ve never seen the places Daddy tells about,” he thought. “I’ve spent my whole life in this little room. I want to see the world.”

So in the morning, when Daddy took Andrés off to school, the Story Chair snuck out behind them, past the hibiscus bush and into the yard. He wanted to look there for Hoppy, but he didn’t have time since Daddy was just about to slam the gate shut. The Story Chair made it by the paint of his seat, and off he went to see the world.

The first thing he saw was the garbage can that the bad Christmas tree had been stuffed into. “So that’s where it happened!” the Story Chair thought. A few more steps and he came upon the banana tree. He poked his head in the clump of leaves, but no brown dog was hiding there. Up ahead he could make out Andrés, honking the horn outside Kiddie Korner’s gate. “I’d better hurry,” the Story Chair thought. “I want to see Miss Ashley, the way Zuma did when that poor boy’s balloon went up to the sky.”

He’s lucky he made it. The Story Chair didn’t know about cars or looking both ways before crossing a street. Luckily, a woman driving a garbage truck stopped, and the Story Chair waved as he hurried by. The woman gave him a friendly beep. Then before he knew it, the Story Chair was peeking through the Kiddie Korner fence. He saw a teacher with apples on a plate. “Sit down for snack time,” he heard her say. “That must be Miss Ashley!” the Story Chair thought. “She looks really nice.”

Up ahead the Story Chair could see a stand of oak trees and bridges over water. “That must be City Park,” he thought, remembering how Milton won that race. Before you knew it he was crossing a bridge and walking onto a wide green lawn. “This is it,” he said to himself. “The grassy place where the babies rolled.” He could almost see Milton blazing to the finish line and Doug digging up that clump of grass.

Next, he wandered over an old stone bridge and threw some acorns into the water. Then he stopped for a minute and closed his eyes. “It’s true,” he said. “I can hear the splashing of the dinosaur friends on the day the T-Rex learned to swim.”

He could also hear the sound of children and music and birds and cars. He followed his ears, and there they were: children sitting in little chairs that moved through the air. “Those must be swings!” the Story Chair cried.

But there was one thing he’d never heard of in any story that Daddy told. It was long and low and made for sitting, just like him. “Are you a Story Chair?” the Story Chair asked. “No, I’m a Park Bench,” the strange thing replied. “What’s a Story Chair?”

“I’m a Story Chair,” the Story Chair answered. “You sit on me at bedtime and make up stories to help your children fall asleep.” “How wonderful,” the Park Bench said. “I’ve never heard a story before.”

“But you live here,” said the Story Chair, “where every day is different; every day is new.” “Well,” said the Park Bench. “It may sound like fun to you, but it’s lonely out here. The nights are long, and the rain is cold, and stinging caterpillars fall from the trees. Look, it’s getting dark now. All the children will leave, and I’ll be left alone.”

“Shall I tell you some stories?” the Story Chair asked. “Would you really?” the Park Bench replied.

So in his best voice as the darkness grew, the Story Chair told all the stories he knew. The Park Bench listened without making a sound. He learned about Hoppy and the bad Christmas tree. He heard about the Paw Patrol at the store and the time the balloon went up to the sky. Then right in the middle of “The Dog That Liked to Hide,” the Story Chair heard a snoring sound and realized the Park Bench was fast asleep. He finished the story just the same, as the dark got darker and the wind began to blow.

“Good-bye,” he whispered, so as not to wake up the sleeping bench. Then the Story Chair ran as fast as he could. “I’m missing story time,” he realized. And the sadness seemed to sit on him. He missed the hum of the humidifier and the quiet breathing sounds of Andrés asleep. He missed the company of Andrés by his side.

Luckily the gate wasn’t locked when the Story Chair reached the big pink house. He hurried on in and knocked on the door. Mommy opened it and said with a smile, “The Story Chair’s back!” “And just in time,” said Daddy. “I thought I would have to sit on the floor!”

The story that night was “Ryder Lost His Voice.” “Next time I’ll tell that to the Park Bench,” thought the Story Chair. But he knew this adventure would be his last. This room was his home; this boy was his friend. And just as he was thinking this, he heard Andrés ask, “Are you still here?” The Story Chair knew Andrés was talking to Daddy, but he answered just the same. “Go to sleep, Andrés. I’m right here.”