My dad's intruder

I’ve thought a lot about my role as a storyteller recently. I once wrote about how I discovered it could captivate an audience. My students let me practice on them. But the truth is, I’d been identified as a storyteller long before that.

In middle school, a friend once compared me to Rose from The Golden Girls because of the way I talked. Instead of “Back in St. Olaf…” my stories usually began with something like “At basketball camp…” or “At cheerleading camp…” or “One summer in Kentucky…” Wherever I had been, there was usually a story attached.

Sometimes I wonder where that instinct came from. But considering the family I grew up in, storytelling was probably unavoidable.

My mom used to invent stories and songs for us when we were children. One of her stories I later adapted into a first-grade essay that won a writing contest. Another was a song she made up about my brother’s favorite stuffed animal frog. When I complained that she had written a song for him but not for me, she rewrote the lyrics to be about our family dog:

I have a little dog named Gidget,

She’s as cute as she could be.

G-I-D-G-E-T

She can run and she can jump

And she likes to sleep with me.

My maternal grandfather was also known for his stories. There was the mare that plowed the fields, the German shepherd on the farm, and the man who touched his leg at church. I wish I could remember them all. There were maybe ten or fifteen that he told over and over again. You didn’t have to see him very often before you had a few memorized yourself.

And then there was my dad.

Growing up, I never paid much attention to how he spoke—at least not in terms of storytelling. We teased him about the way he said “wrastling” and “irregardless.” Sometimes he would say something so unexpected it would make me giggle. I’m not sure witty is the right word, but he could be funny.

It wasn’t until after my mom died that I began to notice something else.

My dad became more talkative. More expressive. And slowly I started to realize that he had his own way of telling stories. In fact, he had a strange kind of talent for it. He knew how to draw people in, how to build tension.

The problem was that in stressful situations, you sometimes wished he would just tell the story straight instead of saving the most important part for the end.

Here’s my reconstruction of a phone conversation with my dad in 2012.

Dad: I had to call 911 yesterday.

Me: What? Why?

Dad: I had someone come into the house?

Me: What? Really? What happened?

Dad: It was an older woman.

Me: What did she want?

(Very specifically not addressing my question, he continued.)

Dad: Well, I had come home and poured a cup of coffee. I took it downstairs to watch some TV and nodded off. When I woke up, my coffee was cold, so I went upstairs to the kitchen to warm it up. There was a woman standing in the foyer.

Me: Oh my gosh, dad! What did she say? What did you say?

Dad: Well, I asked her what she was doing and she didn’t say anything. She looked scared.

Me: Were you scared?

Dad: No, she was an older woman. I didn’t think she wanted to hurt me.

Me: So, what did you do?

Dad: I called Chris.

Me: Why didn’t you call 911?

Dad: Well, that’s what he said. So, I hung up and called 911. I told them it wasn’t really an emergency.

Me: Not an emergency? You had a strange woman standing in your house who entered while you were sleeping and didn’t leave when you confronted her. Dad, that is an emergency.

Dad: We were okay. I told her to have a seat on the stairs and that help was coming.

Me: So, what did you do while she sat on the steps?

Dad: I heated my coffee.

Me. Oh geez, Dad.

Dad: I didn’t even get to drink it, though, because I saw a man walking up the driveway. I went to the door, and he said his wife was inside the house. He spoke with an accent, maybe Polish or at least something Eastern European.

Me: Is he a neighbor? Did you recognize him?

(Again, not answering the question.)

Dad: I asked the woman to come to the door and see if she knew this man. She looked outside, got super scared, and went back inside to sit on the stairs. The man explained that she has dementia and gets confused about where she is and who he is.

Me: Oh, dad. That’s so sad.

Dad: Yeah, it was so sad. The man was so concerned about his wife. But the police arrived and knew him and her and were able to talk to her. They convinced her she was safe with him.

Me: So, what happened?

Dad: She went home with him. The police drove them, and she seemed content. I guess they will talk more to them at their house. And then will do a wellness check. And offer some resources.

Me: Dad, when you said that a woman had come into your house while you were napping, it sounded like an intruder.

Dad: Well, I guess she was some type of intruder.

Me: Couldn’t you have said that a woman with dementia accidentally entered your house because she was confused?

Dad: I could have, but I told the story like it unraveled for me.

(Insert my eye roll.)

Dad: And then the kicker of all of it? The man brought me potatoes.

Me: What? Potatoes?

Dad: Yeah, I guess like an appreciation present. He brought me a 10-pound bag of Russet potatoes. I guess I was right: he’s Eastern European.