My father was a master storyteller. Not by trade, but by personality. He couldn’t help himself. He refused to accept an average life and instead turned simple trips intro grand adventures. It was far better to live large.
My father was a fighter pilot in the United States Air Force. He was (I have it on good authority, by which I mean his) the best fighter pilot there was. Being a pilot meant he traveled a lot and to locations all around the world.
When he returned home he often brought my brother rocks (gemstones and minerals and such), dolls for my sister, and stories for me (with an occasional toy to represent the story). I loved his stories–the ones about the kangaroo preventing him from leaving his motel in the Outback (which is why he missed my birthday and definitely not because of engine problems) or about the penguins who invaded his hut during Arctic Survival Training (despite penguins not living in the Arctic).
I was gullible. Some might say I still am. It’s true. I bought his stories completely. It was not until his wake and funeral that I learned in true “Big Fish” style that all was not as he said.
Okay, some of the stories were outlandish and illogical. I knew there was embellishment, but that is allowed in storytelling. I made concessions for his sake, ignoring the laws of time and physics. What I didn’t know was that many of the stories he told about his fellow fighter pilots, the ones where someone did something outrageous or silly, were really about him.
The truth only made me love him more.
He is the reason I am a writer. He taught me the virtue of story. He taught me that anything, and I mean anything, is better with story and laughter.
I try not to embellish too much, but I have on occasion skewed life a bit for a better story. Someday I hope my son will love me more for it too.
Today is the anniversary of my Dad’s passing. Here’s to you, Dad, and to good stories.