I came across something the other day that was so appalling to me I have to tell you about it. They’re called Smart PJs, and an advertisement for these high-tech “jammies” tells parents their children now can slip into the “world’s first and only interactive pajamas.

“This remarkable sleepwear combines comfy jammies, classic children’s storybooks and smart technology into one amazing pajama, bringing bedtime storytelling into the 21st century,” the ad continues.

Smart PJs have polka-dot designs that reveal up to 90 bedtime stories when scanned with an iPad, iPhone or other smart device.

Here’s where I shake my head and begin to rant. I can’t believe any parent would find talking pajamas an adequate substitute for the bond that’s formed when parents read or tell a story — in person — to their child before bedtime. To delegate storytelling to technology is just wrong, even if it’s touted as the latest best thing.

Maybe this upsets me so much because I come from a long line of storytellers.

My grandfather, who emigrated from Norway as a young man and lived with us when I was growing up, was forever telling stories at the dinner table about his homeland. He would describe strawberries “as big as teacups” that grew in the Norwegian gardens he remembered, or he would boast about the fine furniture produced there that was built without nails, screws or pegs. He made Norway seem like an enchanted, faraway land.

My father told us wild, imaginative bedtime stories and we would hang on every detail.

I remember a particular tale about a mechanical eagle (Dad was a mechanic as well as a farmer) who ran out of gas in midair, but was able to land by tapping into his natural abilities. Some of Dad’s stories revolved around his wartime experiences while he was stationed in the Aleutian Islands. He regaled us with his personal experiences of hearing icebergs break apart at any given moment, always startling us with a well-timed “BOOM” for special effect.

When it was my turn to be a storyteller, I read books to my daughters for hours on end, but there was an equal amount of extemporaneous storytelling. I had an ongoing series of stories I conjured up about “Maggie, the Grocery Store Cat,” who helped Mr. Johnson, the store owner, stock shelves and do odd jobs. There was a moral to each story, usually some version of the Golden Rule or the merits of hard work.

My kids are now adults, but they remember many of Maggie’s adventures, especially the escapades when she teamed up with her trouble-causing kitty cousin, Magi.

Because I was a working mother, I utilized every spare moment to tell my children stories. I even told stories on the way to and from school when they were in grade school. For me there was something very satisfying about drawing from my own imagination to entertain my daughters.

There’s something almost primal and certainly universal about storytelling. It’s an art form that has sustained as well as entertained cultures since ancient times. I believe I’m a better writer because I had such a connection to storytelling, and I believe my children are higher achievers, too, because they were part of my family’s storytelling tradition.

To relegate the beauty of storytelling to computerized PJs with storybook apps makes me wonder what the ultimate human toll will be as we turn our lives over to technology.

Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by email at lhintze@dailyinterlake.com.