My kids call my father-in-law “Papa”. And Papa is best known for his slew of stories just before bedtime each night of his visits.
Each tale the same as his last. Each begins with “One day little Papa…” Then the plot moves quickly and predictably, always retracing Papa’s supposed childhood. The story moves through some mundane activity like “little Papa was picking strawberries” or “little Papa went to bed” and then there’s a brief, very brief, suspense.
“One day little Papa was walking to school and he saw a little old lady standing on the corner. She looked like she needed help crossing the street so little Papa walked over to help her. ‘Can I help you,’ little Papa asked. And little Papa reached out to take her hand and…’AHHHHHHHH!!! I’m gonna eat you, little Papa.’ ‘OH no! It’s that big bad wolf!!”
And screams erupt from wide-eyed faces and quickly cross-fade into shrieks of laughter followed by, “Tell another story!”
And he does. “One day little Papa…”
Honestly, he’s a bad story teller. Predictable. Brief. No characterization. No denouement. No tension and resolution. Always little Papa. Always a wolf big and bad.
But it’s good to the audience. They’re enthralled and thrilled every time. Not because of the words spoken but because of the one speaking. In the right company, in the right voice, the most unprofessional yarn is heard as an epic as grand as the listener’s love for its teller.
I love telling stories – I hope to tell my own children someday (when I have them) really horribly cheesy stories. The tradition can then continue on to when I’m a grandpa (okay, so that’s like a billion years away, but still…)