It happened maybe twice a week. When my children–Grace, Sam and Ellie–were little, the four of us would crawl into our queen-sized bed right before bedtime. I was always in the middle, all of us tucked under a sky-blue comforter within the golden blush of a single bedside lamp.
My oldest, Grace, nestled in the crook of my right elbow, Sam snug on my left and my youngest, Ellie, next to him. It would always start the same way. Once settled in, Grace would usually be the one to gently command, “tell us a story about when you were a little boy.”
I would then just pick out a story.
And, I have dozens of them because I was lucky to have lived in the 60’s at a time, and in a neighborhood that produced stories almost daily. Many so odd and funny, I wouldn’t believe them if I hadn’t lived them.
I would always start the stories the same way.
“So, this is a story about…”
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A Father Looks Past Sixty 