Katecey Harrell

From bedtime tales to writing critiques, my lessons in storytelling and life came from my dad.

I got my start writing at a young age — in fourth grade to be exact, although it likely began earlier — with story time with Dad.

“Who wrote this book?” he’d ask, as we snuggled up for bedtime reading.

“Marc Brown,” I’d reply, and to this day, he’ll sometimes randomly ask, “Who wrote this book?” and I know exactly who and what he’s recalling — even after 20-plus years.

My dad would read to me, and later, his parental involvement extended to writing.

I can remember how he’d critique my sentences, not necessarily to improve the content, but one memory sticks out: he stressed taking my words all the way to the red margin lines — 1 inch on all sides of the notebook paper.

Another memory that stands out is one of punishment.

I’m not sure he had planned it, or what I did to upset Mom that night, but it was Dad’s turn to discipline me. He took me to their bedroom, looked down at my undoubtedly tearful eyes, and told me to cry loud and sound distressed before he clapped his hands together — pretending to discipline me — but really, we were reading together.

At the time, I thought we were real slick, fooling Mom like that, but of course, there’s no way she believed our blundered performance. I was never physically disciplined as a child, and while some may disagree, I think those moments taught me a lot more about how to behave.

Chief Petty Officer Harrell would rise before the sun, ready to take on the daily tasks on the farm long before Mom or the children rose, while dew still clung to the St. Augustine in the yard. I’d later find out my younger sister was often inclined to go with him, claiming the tractor’s buddy seat – a different type of lesson.

I regret sleeping in all those years and declining to rake the chicken coop or learn the intricacies of crop planning. Now, as a solar farm surrounds the Blacklands and encroaches uncomfortably close to my childhood home, those lessons seem more important than ever.

As age, time and wear and tear inch closer to my loved ones who worked it for decades, at least making mud pies, cotton season lunches, backroad adventures and long past lake days will be good stories one day.

Growing older, I recognize how deeply those early lessons shaped my view of work and life.

In the poetry he shares with me, I now know Dad’s lessons were learned on warships, in the tributaries of southeast Georgia and through labor. All that’s left are the stories we tell – often only to ourselves.

I’m a writer now telling stories to all of you, but I hope you stop to tell yours to the youngins.

The pain of discipline is short-lived, but the impression you leave lasts forever — as long as the story is told. A lesson we often forget today.