My grandmother is one of the best storytellers I know. With her it's not about the stories themselves, it's about the delivery. She might be telling you about a phone call she made, or a trip to the grocery store, but the way she frames it - with interesting character anecdotes and an intuitive sense of plot and 'conflict,' you find yourself glued to the narrative, anxiously awaiting what's going to happen next. Will she dial the phone or hang up? I must know! Even stories you've heard before seem fresh. You enjoy listening to them the same way you might enjoy seeing a good movie a second time.

But my grandmother's knack for telling good stories wouldn't ever put her on the best-seller list, because with her it's not about the written word. In fact, you wouldn't really want to ask her to write these stories down, because they wouldn't be the same. Her tools don't include pen and paper, or keyboard for that matter. No, this is old-school story telling, where the image is painted with strokes of sound and mannerism. The brush is the spoken word. If my grandmother were a techie, and 60 years younger, I think she'd probably make a great podcaster.

There's a certain magic in storytelling. It's like casting a spell. And, in that sense, my grandmother - and my grandfather, too, when he was alive - have always been sort of like magicians to me. I can remember as a small child during holidays or family get-togethers sitting at the kitchen table at my grandparent's house with the rest of the family and listening to both my grandparents tell stories and even though I was too young to understand the point behind most of them, I always felt there was a little voodoo in the air, a bit of the hocus-pocus. It was alluring, and a little scary.

Yesterday, I spent the day with my grandmother. She told stories and I listened. I told a few myself. I drove her downtown to look at the cherry blossoms at the tidal basin. It was too cold and windy to spend too much time outdoors, but it was fun nonetheless. I loaned her my jacket and hat. We laughed because we thought we looked funny, in April, bundled in winter clothing. Then we ate Chinese food at PF Changs in White Flint and did some shopping at Target. It was a wonderfully ordinary day. And yet there was a touch of the magical about it. And when I'm 84, it will be something I can tell my grandkids about. If I'm lucky, I'll be able to tell it with a bit of voodoo.

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