We are a story-telling family.
I know this won’t come as a surprise.
Every day, throughout our children’s growing-up years, much time was spent in reading (or simply telling) stories.
Many of the best were told while sitting around the table after the evening meal.
Sometimes, for hours.
But the most precious were those told by their father after everyone was scrubbed, brushed, pajama-clad and in bed.
That’s when the Hobbit, Uncle Wiggly, and Dr. Seuss came over for a visit.
For many years, every evening, several small Tolleys could be found with little clean bodies curled up under warm blankies, but minds and imaginations far, far away as their father took them on adventure after bookcover-bound adventure.
Surely the best of times.
One evening, because of pressing duties, their father was absent.
It’s didn’t happen often.
The story-telling passed, necessarily, to me.
Everyone was ready.
Everyone was set.
Mom came in with the book.
It went something like this . . .
“Mom?! Where’s Dad?”
“You know Dad has a meeting tonight.”
“Okay, kids, where did Dad leave off?”
“Ummm . . . Uncle Wiggly . . .” the voice trailed off.
“There! Where the bookmark is!”
“Oh. Right. Okay, let’s go.”
Reading commences . . .
After a couple of pages, a small, rather sleepy little voice, “You read good, Mom, but I like it when Dad reads.”
“Yeah. He does the voices.”
Here’s to all the Dads in our lives.
And read to.
P.S. A side note: One of the kids’ favourite books was Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss. They shook their heads over the main character’s inability to even consider the possibility of eating green eggs.
One morning after a particularly strongly worded joint condemnation of said character, their Dad greeted them with a breakfast of green scrambled eggs. With colour-coordinated ham.
They wouldn’t eat them.
|Story time continues . . .|