I answered the phone at my desk.

“Hello?”

“This is the last time I’m going to read this to you.”  I immediately recognized my father’s voice, who offered no salutation.

“I had to read this to you over and over and over again,” he continued.  “’I will not eat it in a box, I will not eat it with a fox. I will not eat green eggs and ham.  I will not eat it, Sam I Am.’”

“Oka-a-y,” I responded, somewhat hesitantly, wondering where this was going.  I glanced around the busy law office, processing this surreal moment of having my father read a childhood book to me.

“Dr. Seuss recently died,” he said, “and I’m reading a column in today’s San Francisco Chronicle paying tribute to him.  I was thinking about how many times I had to read his books to you over and over again.  So, I’m just letting you know, that this is the last time I’m reading this to you.” 

Laughing, I thought, “That’s my dad.”

When my brothers and I were kids, he liked to direct us in home movies.  We couldn’t just walk up a sand dune.  We had to crawl on our bellies, with tongues hanging out as if we were dying of thirst in the Sahara Desert.  Too bad movie cameras didn’t have sound back then. It would be fun to hear our comments.

And, he would just make stuff up.  For instance, my great-grandfather’s name was William Harrison.  So, my dad told me that I was related to President William Henry Harrison.  I told all my friends that I was related to a president, until I found out it wasn’t true.  Not even close.  In fact, President Harrison was in office about 40 years before my great-grandfather immigrated to this country.

My brothers like to tell the story of when our family was camping near Mt. Lassen.  Dad decides that we’re going to hike up the mountain.  Our mother suggests we bring jackets.  Dad said, “No, we don’t need them.  As we hike up the mountain, we’ll be getting closer to the sun.”

He had kept the manuscript of “Pirates of Penzance” from his college acting days, and one day decided that he, my brothers and I were going to act out the different parts, and he would record us on the tape recorder.  I can still see him coaching my brothers on the “correct” way to say “Arrgh,” as my mother walked through the room rolling her eyes.

My father taught me how to use my imagination; to look at people and situations at different angles.  I am grateful to him for this, because it allows me to see and understand different points of view, and to appreciate an individual’s uniqueness.

I am a personal historian.  I am very good at it.  I have a strong background in organizational skills, but, more importantly, I was blessed with an upbringing of storytelling and a curiosity about life.  Because of my father’s influence, I am able to preserve life stories for families around the world in a fun, educational and insightful manner; the benefits of which will be enjoyed generation after generation.

Thanks, Dad.

How has your father influenced you?