My Dad Was A Story Teller

My Dad Was A Story Teller

Contributed by W.S. White

My Dad was a story teller. I always knew this. In my youth, I accepted his tales as pure fact. I have become more discerning as I near 60 years. I've come to acknowledge the imperfections in people. Some, while in my innocence, I thought of as nearly perfect in their character. My Dad embellished his stories about his childhood and also, the adventures in his adult life. It really didn't cause any harm; never truly disparaging the characters in his stories. Only, displaying their humanity; making them more interesting than they actually were. That may even have applied to himself as a prominent figure in most of his stories.

I remember, when I was a child, that my dad took on the job of being a father with great gusto. He was a hard worker, but his time with my brother, sister, and I was filled with merriment, rough house, and silly songs. He was humorous and kind. His stories and even his time with us were just what was required to leave a nostalgia about those days.

He insisted that every Christmas, we buy a real, live Christmas tree. After years of having a tree that needed constant attention in order to keep it in good condition for as long as possible, he devised an elaborate system of plastic buckets and siphoning tubing inserted into the tree stand to keep the tree fresh. He would then disguise the contraption with a large, burgundy, bed sheet; neatly wrapped around the base of the tree.

To begin, he would saw off the base of the trunk in order to allow more water to be absorbed. After this, someone would help him lift the tree up into the tree stand. Then, he would screw the long screws into the trunk and tree stand while wedging random, small pieces of wood around the trunk and inside the tree stand to keep it stable. Hence, came the elaborate watering system. Of course, he would untangle all of the Christmas lights and wrap them around the tree. Now, this was no small tree. He would buy the largest, nicest looking tree for a bargain. Usually, late in the season.

All of the assembly could take hours, while managing to leave spruce needles covering the living room floor. When finished tidying up, it was time for the kids to put on the ornaments, which would take several more hours. Oh, there was quite a collection, as Mother would give each of us a new ornament every year.
Well, it was quite lovely. We went through this ritual every year. Even after we children became adults. In due time, there would be a grandson. All the more reason to continue with the tradition.

Many Christmases passed until our mother left us. Complications of cancer. Dad was already starting to fail. The grandson, now a young adult, would try to mimic the elaborate ritual of tree dressing. It wasn't the same. Dad was no longer able, although he would monitor our progress and give us occasional instruction. Finally, we decided to succumb to our secret desire to get an artificial tree. Dad hardly noticed. Unfortunately, it would be his last Christmas. The following Halloween, he would join Mom.

I don't regret much in my life. I figure, what's done is done. Not that I haven't made mistakes. Even some terribly injurious ones. I don't regret Dad's last Christmas tree. We did our best. I just wish I had more memories of his stories. Some are vivid memories. Others are more vague. That's funny. I remember less of the vacations and trials of life. But to me, Dad was a great dad with a lot to share. Even his gift for storytelling. Now, I see that he could make any dull and tedious event entertaining. I'm glad that Mom and Dad are back together. Not that their relationship wasn't a bit stormy. But that's another story.