The Storyteller

My father has always been my favorite storyteller.  He always tells me it’s because his family didn’t own a television when he grew up, but I don’t think that’s necessarily true.  He has to have a very active imagination to be able to make up all the intricate details that are included in his stories.  He also blames his upbringing for the fact he is a sensational carpenter.  The tables and chairs he makes are so coveted for that he is almost booked solid for the foreseeable future with custom orders.  The intricate designs he carves into the legs of the tables and chairs take more patience than I think I’ll ever have. 

The only thing I never saw him do in the eighteen years I lived under his roof was to read a book.  I couldn’t put down any book I picked up and I regularly inhaled several books each month.  The librarians at the local public library usually had a stack of books for me each Saturday afternoon.  When I got older, I began to wonder how much education my father had had.  I knew he didn’t go to college, but he never talked about any teachers or schooling he had growing up.  The few times we went out to eat, he always asked me to read the menu to him so I could “practice my reading” so I thought it was normal f.  It wasn’t until I went to college that I realized my father couldn’t read. 


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