I’m a storyteller, but I can’t claim the credit of being the only one in my family, because the real storyteller has always been my dad.
My dad isn’t a writer, actually, he doesn’t like to write.
But ever since I could understand words, he’s been telling me stories. And unlike my stories, which are purely fictional, my dad’s are true (mostly). And he is a master of his craft.
He spins words, laughing knowingly as you get to the edge of your seat to hear better, and don’t ever try to up his stories, because he will always, always win. I’m serious. Many have tried and gone down in a blaze.
I don’t know what life would be like without my dad’s stories, because I have grown up on those tales like some kids grew up on hamburger helper. There has been a story for everything, and there are certain stories that I have heard so many times I can tell them better than he can.
Some kids read Curious George, Little Bear, and the Princess and the Frog, and I read those too, but my diet consisted of “The First Time I Saw Your Mom” “The Time I Got A Weightbench and No Weights For Christmas” “The Time The Devil Dog Tried To Eat Me” “My Grandma’s Yellow Fingernails” “That Time Your Mom’s Roses Wilted and I Was Mad Cause I Paid For Them and They Died” “When You Were Small Enough That I Could Wrap You Up Like a Burrito” and so on and so forth.
As time went on, I heard more and more stories, and soon I was in a more than couple of them. “The Time We Went To Laos” “That One Time Your Brother Broke His Arm and We Used A Cardboard Tube As a Cast” “The Time I Got You a Chihuahua and Your Mom Was Unhappy”.
As people have left our life, those stories of my Dad’s have kept them close and remembered. Everything worth mentioning is a story.
My world hinges on those stories, because they remind me of what has made us who we are, what the people in our past, and beyond were like, and the fact that God still works miracles. Those stories are filled with hope and laughter, and a life worth living.
So when I write I’m just working off of the way my dad has told stories for my entire life. And maybe, maybe one day, I will be able to tell a cooler story than he can. (Doubtful, but it’s a good way to live life.)