Remembering my father, the storyteller

As my readers know, I occasionally use this blog to reminisce, and Father’s Day seems like the perfect opportunity. My father passed away a number of years ago, but I’m thrilled to say he is far from forgotten. I recently went with my mother, brother, and sisters to decorate my dad’s grave, an exercise he would have considered totally unnecessary if not downright silly. He was, after all, a very simple man in many ways although in other ways, he was extremely complex. In looking back now, I realize I never fully understood or appreciated his vast intellect and his talent for storytelling.

H.B. (date unknown)

I think those of us who knew him well sometimes took for granted his aptitude for telling tales, some of them tall and frankly outlandish. Truly, he had a way of making you believe almost anything, right up until the “gotcha” moment. Fortunately, he also had a talent for making people laugh at themselves, and everyone seemed to enjoy his good-natured teasing.

It occurred to me recently that some of my bent for writing fiction may be an inherited tendency that’s related to my father’s knack for storytelling. His tales were oral while mine are written, but perhaps we each were born with a love for creating an altered version of reality or building worlds out of thin air. I wonder sometimes what he would have thought about his youngest child being an author. And whatever his thoughts might have been, I’m sure he would have expressed them in an original and humorous way.

So here’s to you, Dad. I still miss you. I always will.

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