My 90 year old father died about four months ago. Amongst his many qualities and traits was the ability to tell stories, of which he had many. He often claimed that his father, my grandfather, was a master story teller, often spending long intervals in weaving intricate plot lines and carefully planned denouements. I imagine that the angels who now have the privilege of my father’s company will have sore ears. My dad will have a lot of catching up to do with them in his new abode.
About a month ago, I met an 84 year old man who served in the U.S. Navy during World War II. I was privileged to have him share his photos and stories of his time during the war and when he finished telling me of his exploits and memories, he asked me about my father and where he had served. As I began to tell of my father’s active service on a battleship in the Pacific, profound thoughts and emotions struck me. For as long as I had been able to hear his stories, my father was the source, the arbiter, and the vault for their genesis. It struck me that with his loss, there can be no more details added, no more refinements, and no corrections that meet his scrutiny. And, after listening to my father tell his stories for so many years, I am now the keeper of the light, the guardian of the vault, and the new story teller of record. I must now, in his absence, tell the stories and I must remember them as best I can, as their source can counsel me no more.
It is an honor and a privilege to accept this task, but it is one that bears a burden and sadness equal to my father’s passing. I hope I can shoulder the burden for a man I miss very much.
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