Dad was the best story teller. If I am any good at story telling in my sermons, it's because of him. From what I understand, Dad got it from his dad, G.D. G.D. had a stroke when I was young and I only have a few memories of him before that. But I do remember G.D. sitting on my bed in Summerville, telling me about walking by alligators in a ditch. That did not help me get to sleep.
So when I say that Dad was a great story teller, like G.D., I don't particularly mean at bedtime. We'd beg Dad to tell us a story each night as we lay down to bed, but he’d say, “sure,” and would respond with the same ditty every time -
"Once upon a time, the goose drank wine. A monkey chewed tobacco and spit it out fine."
We'd groan, but then he would laugh his big laugh, kiss us on the foreheads, and we'd go to sleep happy.
No, the bedside story was not where Dad excelled. It was at the dinner table. Sometimes he would suddenly proclaim in his rich low-country accent for us to get ready for "A Pearl of Wisdom." He'd repeat it slowly, until we all quieted down and gave him our undivided attention. He would then rattle off some random scientific or historical factoid, probably suspicious, and we'd all be that much wiser. We loved Dad.
Dad was so good at telling stories at the dinner table that we begged him to tell us the same stories over and over, each time the same, but each time slightly more exaggerated, so that his stories grew a little bit each year. And he would laugh so hard as he told them that we'd all have to laugh along with him, even if we'd heard it a thousand times. They never got old.
One story he liked to tell about me is when Jeff had a friend over for dinner. I don't remember his name, but he was from Israel and we all wanted to impress him. Mom had made some sort of brown spice cake, the rectangle kind made in a loaf pan. But somehow she had mixed up the ingredients and had interchanged the amount of vinegar with the amount of sugar. It was just as sour and awful as you might imagine. Everyone nibbled at it, and then politely put down their forks, not wanting to say anything.
But according to Dad, I was so immersed with Jeffrey's friend that I took no notice. I just gobbled it up and every time I took a bite, I winced, swallowed it but then kept eating, oblivious to how sour the cake was. When Mom got back to the table from the kitchen, she took a bite, realized her mistake and apologized profusely. But in the meantime, I had eaten my whole serving.
It's not that funny a story, but every time Dad told it, he had us rolling on the floor. He'd imitate my face, cheeks chomping, eyes bulging, shaking his head back and forth in disgust, but still shoveling it in. Every year, as Dad told it, my bites got bigger, my eyes bulgier, and my winces more emphatic. And every year, Dad would start laughing as he told it, tears appearing in his eyes, and we'd laugh with him. Every time. It never got old.
That's the kind of story teller Dad was. He did not need fancy subjects or exciting adventures. In fact, I did not get him to tell me some of those until he lay dying. But he loved his family. And he loved the simple things in life. He would find joy and laughter in those things. And then turn them into a story.
Beautifully expressed. Although the point of the story is what a great storyteller dad was, I remember that meal differently. I thought it was Jeff’s new friend who continued eating the cake, probably because his parents told him that even though the food might be different in the US, he needed to eat everything that was served to him. Do YOU actually remember eating that cake?