My father is an expert story-teller. He can spin a yarn so masterfully that you begin to wonder if you’ve actually read it somewhere before. In tenth grade history, maybe?
But beyond that, and where his skill is really priceless, is the bedtime story.
When we were kids, mom would send us off to sleep with a lullaby or two. But my father would settle himself on the end the bed and tell you a tale. The house favorites were about a friendly giant, tall as mountain, who lived in the forest and did wise, kindly, practical deeds with the help of his best friend – a snake named Hognose.
I’d share a Horace story with you now, if I could do it any justice. But, I doubt I could. And frankly, you’re not really the Horace Story target audience: ages three to eight and strategically avoiding sleep.*
Over the years, Horace was joined by an array of characters from our own imaginations. Buffalo Pat, his sidekick Mr. Hat and a few others I have a hard time remembering. One constant, though, was Horace’s nemesis, the evil, horrible Mad Jack.
Mad Jack was everything despicable. He was selfish, deceitful and along with his sidekick, Snake Eyed Pete, broke every rule in the Sunday School handbook. It seemed he existed only to make life more complicated for peace-loving, wood-chopping, day-saving Horace.
We all knew that Horace was actually my father. And that’s why we loved him.
Years later, when we were teenagers, my sisters, brother and I compared notes on Horace. Despite never being given a description of the giant’s face, he had looked the same to each of us. Right down to the auburn beard. Horace also wore my father’s Pendleton plaid shirts, sleeves rolled up at the elbows.
Also, years later, my father told me a story of a very different kind. A story about my mom’s jerk of an ex-fiancé. This wasn’t so much a bedtime story, but it had many of the same themes. Good and evil, honesty and deceit. My mom’s ex had been a cocky bastard who’d wrecked my dad’s beloved VW bug, and my father hated him with a thirty-year-old passion.
The ex’s name was Jack.
*If you are between the ages of three and eight, you are very precocious and should not believe everything you read. So, listen to your parents, do what the Baby Jesus tells you and remember: drugs are bad.
Great story. Absolutely great.
What is it about fathers and telling great stories? My father was the same way, and its thanks to him I have a quirky and fun imagination.
Silly girl… the right drugs are awesome
if you posted this in part for him…that makes it extra sweet, in my book.
we had house favorites too! same stories, never got old.
Thanks, Fish
Had been thinking about my daddy today for no particular reason at all and your note got me a little teary because I miss all of the silly stories he’d tell me on the way to take him to the airport when he’d go on a trip and how I waited and waited and wondered what adventures Bert and Byron would have had while they were on their trip with my daddy…and how excited I was that he brought me wings from the plane (the pilot gave them to him JUST FOR ME!) Oh to be eight and get bedtime stories… I do miss him so… Hold your daddies dear! Ask for bedtime stories no matter how old you are–the daddy will oblige 
Thank you for the glimpse into your relationship with your parents lately. It’s amazing how much family reveals about a character and how reflecting on it reveals us to ourselves.
You’re a very sweet daughter.
Fish…..I love you..
Hello, bravo pour votre blog, salutation de la suisse
Your dad’s stories sounded a lot like my dad’s stories, except my dad’s stories were about a mouse that came into the kitchen at midnight to eat all the junk food and olives.
This post is FABULOUS! And the very idea that he took non-obvious traits of real people and you figured out their inspiration? ooh… the signs of a PERFECT story teller.
Dear Fish…unfortunately I grew up without my father and my mom worked so much she was way too tired for such stories at bedtime. Thank you so much for sharing a piece of yourself with us. I am now a parent of a three year old and bedtime stories are a favorite time for us. I hope that he looks back with the same fond memories when he gets older as you look back as you look at yours. best wishes to you and your family.
My dad was always fond of reading from a book a bedtime. I specifically remember Rapunzel, and the Princess and The Pea.
Great post!
hi fish! I’ve been lurking around your blog for some weeks now. I liked that story. Maybe you should write a Horace story in full in your blog. Maybe even publish them! I’d buy them, and I’m nowhere near the target age!
I’ve always hoped my dad would write them. They’d make such great picture books.
Hey! Don’t mislead the children! Not all drugs are bad!
I loves me some Tylenol PM.
Torrie, can ladies in the family way even take Tylenol PM??
That story reminded me about the stories my dad used to tell us every night after dinner and the stories my grandfather used to tell us when he would babysit…I don’t know how they came up with something different and interesting every time
Stories? At bedtime? Really? Guess I missed out on that one. All we ever got at night were drugs.
The stories my father told me and my sisters as kids are now being told to his grandson, my nephew. The stories made us the protagonists, saving the world. I realize now it was his way of saying that we could do anything…
Obviously the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You’re just as fabulous a story teller as your Dad.
I never got awesome bedtime stories, because my dad was always drunk by 8. :/
I think I missed out on a lot in my childhood…
Death to all VW Bug killers!
Love the footnote aside!