The Story Garden with Mrs. Sandoz

The “King” is dead.    We got home from vacation to discover the disturbing news that Elvis, our rooster, was savagely taken by a coyote.   All that remained of him was a few drops of blood and a pile of his beautiful tail feathers.   We were all in denial.   We walked our property calling for him.   We tried luring him with food scraps.   We waited to see if he would make his way into the coop for the night.   He never did.    That night, as we toasted to my husband’s 40 th Birthday with sparkling cider,  Thing 1 calls out, “And to Elvis, the bravest rooster alive...or dead. I guess, " and we had a moment of silence for the sacrifice he made for his hens.  All of us knew what kind of rooster he was.   He was big and regal.   He had gorgeous, clean white feathers with a bit of silver around his neck and in his tail.   He reminded us of “The King of Rock' n Roll” in his famous white and silver jumpsuit, henc...

10 Years Later Note: Rereading this after ten years brings back such sweet memories. I’m so glad I now have a class full of littles who don’t mind my singing. I dusted off this version of Puff the Magic Dragon that I created and shared it with them—it was a big hit. Now I just need to learn to play the ukulele, because that would really seal the deal! Thing 3 is now two. He has a love-hate relationship with dragons. He gets scared when he sees them, but still asks me to sing songs about them. His favorite right now is, of course, “Puff the Magic Dragon.” “Sing dragon, Mommy. Back, back,” he says, asking me to sing the Puff song while rubbing his back. I LOVE this. I could do it forever—if my back didn’t get tired, if my other boys didn’t need the same kind of attention, and if the dishes weren’t also calling to me. Actually… forget the dishes. We don’t really need them anyway. When Thing 1 was about four years old, I sang “Puff” to him and he cried. I guess I sang it a little too d...

2026 Note: My dad passed away 12 years ago this month.  My mom passed away just last month.  This story feels more important to me now than ever.  It also reminds me of the picture book "The Hardest Word: A Yom Kippur Story" that I will definitely be busting out to read with my students next year.  The story I share below demonstrates just how hard the words "I'm sorry" can be for some people.  I only remember my dad apologizing to me two times in my life, and they were profound moments for me.  He was a big, strong Marine who rarely saw the need.  But I can tell you, as a parent with 2 adult children and 1 middle schooler, that practicing the art of apologizing has only strengthened my relationship with my kids and modeled this skill to them.  If this is not something you are adept at as a parent, I highly recommend you start practicing. Kristen

A new year is well underway! I am so excited to be in 2014. This year, I want to laugh more with my boys, get fit, write more consistently, and speak about storytelling. These goals sound simple enough—but when I really think about what it will take to follow through, I feel a little terrified. The voices creep in: You can’t write. No one wants to hear what you have to say. You’re not a warm, fuzzy mom. You’re lazy. You don’t have time. Your body is too far gone. Your spelling makes you look incompetent. You aren’t fun or entertaining. Maybe something is wrong with you. It’s the past that haunts me most. As a storyteller, every time someone finds a mistake in my writing, I feel pulled back to childhood—sitting in a classroom, being corrected in front of everyone, feeling small and incapable. I remember thinking my sister was the writer, the funny one, the entertainer. And as a mother, I replay my own shortcomings like a film I can’t turn off. But this is a new year. And in 2014, I am...

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, and even though we haven’t even had Thanksgiving yet, the truth is that before Thanksgiving is the time to start prepping for the Advent season. Especially since this year it begins on Sunday, December 1st—just a couple of days after Thanksgiving. With Thanksgiving and Black Friday, I tend to forget about preparing for Advent. Do yourself a favor this year: sit down now and gather whatever you need to prepare your family for the greatest story of them all—the Christmas story! Don’t make it elaborate. Think simple. Choose something you can do easily every day. Something that won’t take you hours to put together. This is what my family does. We read an Advent storybook every night. This year, it is Tabitha’s Travels . This story is so good that it really could be the only thing we do for Advent. It is full of suspense, wonder, action, and heart challenge. It has something for all ages.  However, it can be a little intense for younge...

Chapter 11 Dragon’s Tongue & Hag’s Feet By Kristen S. Sandoz 2013 Let us take a trip to a much happier story than the one of Little John I last told. Of course, this means we must head back to the Witch Hazel’s cottage—incidentally called Butterbrick Cottage . Why is it called Butterbrick, you ask? Well, that is because their sweet Jersey cow made the most fabulous sweet cream butter, which Pearl would store in crocks all throughout the year. This butter was of such high quality that it aged beautifully, becoming—over time—the most delicious butter you could ever imagine. These days, the butter you find in little boxes at the store, with its pale, lifeless yellow color, does not even begin to compare. Pearl would sell her butter in tidy little bricks from the front step of the cottage—bright, rich, deep yellow, and tasting like heaven itself. And so, the cottage came to be known as Butterbrick. The name may not come from an exciting tale, but I imagine you wish you could h...

One day, I walked into an antique store in Hailey, Idaho. The only thing I really remember from that visit is a painting. It was tucked high up in a peaked rafter—easy to miss—but it caught my eye. It was of a small child crying. I fell in love with it. I’m sure my newly awakened mother’s heart had something to do with it—Thing 1 was only 18 months old at the time. But we were broke, so I left the store without it. Six months later, I unwrapped that very same painting for my birthday. It was no small feat for my sweet and thoughtful husband to get it, especially since we were living in the Willamette Valley—nearly 13 hours away. When I opened it, I cried. That painting has hung in various places in our home for the past eight years. At first, I put it in our dining room, not realizing what a conversation piece it would become. Almost everyone who sat at our table asked the same question: “What do you think she’s crying about?” (As it turns out, it was a little girl—but from th...