Fathers, Sons, and Books

Childhood memories of my father were as a storyteller, not as a book reader. He was a spinner of tall tales, and we, as a family, were always the main characters, more often than not without realizing it. They were fantastic, borderline unbelievable, often funny, sometimes scary, and always exciting…right up the point where I fell asleep.

He was the master of sending me off into my dreams.

?The story of my father and books came as a later revelation in my life. We did not share books or even talk about them. Ever, to my recollection. He did have a vast bookshelf filled with all sorts of titles…philosophy, poetry, history, science, novels, compilations of short stories…but they were a life line, as I later discovered, to relentless continuous improvement and self discovery. They were read in very private moments, away from his roles as a family man or as a professional. It’s not the books he shared with us, but rather what he distilled from them and showed us by example.?

What his books became for me, by their very presence, were an infinite source of curiosity and mystery, paper-and-print keys to understanding the world unfolding in front of me, and a deep desire to know a profoundly private man, one who silently carried untold burdens of a painful childhood and buried them to put us first.

While I'd do just about anything to have one more conversation with my father, I realize now, more than ever, that I'm still getting to know him...and myself...through books, whose timeless stories often merge with my memories of him.

Thank you for sending me into my dreams...and then toward them. Your words will never be lost.