When I was a child, I begged my Dad to tell me bedtime stories.
He didn’t read out of a book. He made up his stories as he went.
He could tell a story in such a way, that your imagination took over. You were there. In living color. (Does anyone remember that phrase?)
He told jokes in the same manner.
Even into my adulthood, he would tell me things and make my imagination go wild. Not just made up stories. But real life true events that happened during his lifetime. I was there watching. As Dad drove that car down airport hill, at night, with no headlights. Or when his friend Emil thought he was shot. Or when my cousin tried to climb the wall when a mongoose box scared him.
I was sitting there wide eyed, hanging on everyword.
Dad could make me laugh when no one else could.
He could erase my sadness and wipe away the tears.
Must be why I like sharing the stories I’ve heard throughout my lifetime. It must be in my blood, enstilled in my heart. Or maybe, it’s my way of keeping the memories of my Dad alive.
I have a vivid imagination. I give credit to my Dad and other story tellers for that. I believe when I’m old and feeble, unable to move about by myself. I’ll live in a world of my own with my imagination to keep me company.
I’ll travel to foreign contries and do things I’ve never done. Everyone will call me a crazy old lady. That’s okay. The people in my head will love me for who I am. And enjoy my adventures along with me.
Does anyone remember Mac Davis? He was a storyteller/musician. He had a television show when I was a child that I liked. Especially, the part when someone out of the audience would give him a subject and he would, on the spot, make up a short, usually funny, little song using that subject.
How about you?
Ever heard of a mongoose box?
Do you have a favorite story teller?
Anyone remember Mac Davis?