My father was an avid reader and great storyteller with a rare ability to spin the facts he acquired into tales. His imagination and his own sense of drama made life interesting. During school vacations and frequent travels, we sat in the evenings together and he would hold us spellbound.
His objects of study were woven into our lives. Generations of cats had been named
Sheba and
Hephzibah. Hundreds of books lined the shelves in his rooms the titles as diversified, as my father’s many interest. I remember sitting in these rooms reading. As I remember his love of books, I feel close to him. There is a special geniality about places were discussions and perhaps storytelling takes place, nestled before a fire in comfortable chairs.
Today, I celebrate the 100th anniversary of his birth. Alas, the rooms of books are gone, as is my father. Oh, how I miss his stories.
I look forward to finding, and creating, stories of my own. As I draw up my favorite chair, I invite you to join me.
