My dad, the storyteller

 

One of the greatest gifts my dad has given me is a love and appreciation for the beauty of language, and the way it can be used to enrich, educate, humor, and move. In no better way did he bestow this gift than through the art of stories.

In the beginning, it was the reading aloud of brilliant classics such as “The Story About Ping” or “My Friend Mac” with just the right sound effects and facial animations for his captive audience to render forth shrieks and chuckles.

Then once upon a time (or two or ten), he would come through the door of the house, arms laden with books to announce “Children, I have a surprise for you!” Usually purchased from library cast off sales or some newly discovered, old books nook, marked 10 cents here, a dollar there, these treasures were gold to me. Between their crackling, laminated book jackets and crisp, browning pages I served Her Majesty with Sir Walter Raleigh against the Spanish Armada. I happened upon the Great Salt Lake with explorer Jedidiah Smith. I walked the shadowy halls of death with Florence Nightingale. I lived on houseboats. I landed at Ellis Island. I flew across the Atlantic. I hid from enemies. I tamed wild horses. And I did all of these things because Dad took the time to seek out good literature for us.

But the best stories, the absolute best stories, weren’t found in those beloved, worn books, but within the spellbinding cadence of my father’s voice and the marvelous worlds he spun before our wide-eyes and bated breaths. The farmhouse rooms that contained his pajama clad children became faraway lands of adventure and mystery, or sometimes, a classroom of inspiration and introspection, as he skillfully used that magic called language to weave fantastical fables, folksy tales, and challenging life lessons. These were bedtimes stories that were truly worthy of being followed by a pleading “Just one more, Dad!”

His way with words was a gift and we were the lucky little beneficiaries.

As I drank in the enchanting elixir of his stories, or as I delved deep into the riches of the books he surrounded us with, it was easy to believe that with language, and the ballads of brave heroes to lead me, I could be anyone, I could do anything, and I could go anywhere. That may have been a quixotic belief, and it most definitely was a conviction that as an adult, I too often fail to live up to.

But with the power of knowledge, literacy, and communication, one really can be and do and go, figuratively or literally. Dad probably knew just that when he made such an effort to impart his love for words to me and cultivate my growth with stories.

But the best part, the absolute best part, is that in the end, as I drifted to sleep with my favorite characters or plots cavorting in my mind, I didn’t need to be anyone, do anything, or go anywhere.

In that moment, I was perfectly content to be the little girl who had read a wonderful book, had a wonderful day, and then fell into dreamland as the bedtime-storied, happily-ever-aftered, kissed good night, tucked in tight, much loved, daughter of my Dad.

This is only one of hundreds of ways Dad showed how much he loved us. But this is the one I decided to thank him especially for today. Dad, thank you for creating memories for us by filling our lives with beautiful words, and thank you for all the words that now fill our hearts with beautiful memories.

You made it look so effortless, but I’m old enough now to know it wasn’t. It took time, it took dedication, it took a really special man who wanted his children to have a special life.

And we did.