One of my favorite stories told by my father involved Chester the Shetland pony. He came with the farm we moved to in the early 70s. An old swayback pony he probably witnessed the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Possibly even the Magna Carta. Anyway, there was about a week where Chester was getting out of the barnyard and enjoying the greener grasses of the roadside ditch early in the morning. Dad, awakened by a call from the neighbor roused himself from the bed and chased Chester back into the barnyard. Eventually, colorful euphemisms were employed to express his frustration over this early morning disruption of sleep. Anyone raised on a farm understands.
Anyway, after one particularly passionate string of euphemisms that no doubt gave Samuel Jackson competition, Chester turned and looked at Dad in that cool, calm manner he always displayed. He then nonchalantly walked past Dad back to the gate just chained shut, put his nose against the hook and flipped it free. As the chain fell away and the gate slowly swung open Chester turned and once again looked cooly and calmly at Dad then nonchalantly walked past him and returned to the barn.
I share this story because that was what my Father did well; he told stories. And he wasn’t afraid to tell stories that taught him humility. But my Dad is not able to tell stories anymore. Last night at 9:36 PM he passed away.
No doubt he is regaling the angels and God with a multitude of stories that express his love of family and friends even as I type this.