My dad is the best storyteller I know. He grew up in the country, the youngest of two boys and was always getting into some sort of trouble. He and a friend accidentally set a field on fire once by flicking lit cigarettes (that they’d stolen from the friend’s mom) to the ground when they were done smoking them. He was in first grade at the time.

Fast-forward twenty years and he had joined the Dallas Fire Department (ironic, I know). He has countless stories from his years on the department and every time my family gets together we all want to hear them again. There was the time, back when fire stations still had poles, that he and his buddies put butter on the pole so the next person that tried to slide down it would slip off and fall through to the first floor. Yeah, fireman are crazy.

Another time he was up on the ladder over a burning house, working the hose to quench the flames. It was a new system he wasn’t used to so instead of dousing the flames raging below him, he shot the hose into a neighbor’s yard, completely destroying the lady’s garden as she watched from her porch in horror.

No matter how many times I hear my dad tell these stories, I never get tired of them. He has a way of remembering details and describing events so that by the end of the story everyone is rolling around in hysterics. My dad is one of the reasons why I love stories so much and over the years that love has developed into my passion for writing and telling stories of my own. I’m so blessed to have him as a father and look forward to many more stories in the years to come.

Happy Father’s Day!


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