THE STORYTELLER

The Storyteller

J.B. Polk

One of my all-time favorite Christmas movies is Christopher Robin, the heartwarming tale of how a grown man's midlife meltdown gets a happy ending thanks to a stuffed bear. It brings to mind my Dad, a real-life "Christopher Robin" through and through. And by that, I mean he was a man who had a serious sweet tooth for honey and a lovely, albeit peculiar, habit of talking to animals—stuffed or otherwise. I heard him chatting away with our dog, Skippy, as if he was his closest confidant. And when I was really small, he'd sneak in at night, tucking my teddy bears in like they were royalty, giving my nose a tickle, then theirs, and whispering, "Sweet dreams, my darlings.”

Yes, Dad always had a childlike wonder and innocence about him, but he was also my superhero who could find the TV remote faster than anyone else in the house and make a grilled cheese sandwich taste better than a Wagyu filet mignon from a five-star restaurant. He was so ridiculously talented that he painted like da Vinci (minus the fancy beard), could fix a bike tire with nothing but glue, and played any instrument without even bothering to learn music. We'd hand him an accordion or a keyboard, and he'd figure them out in about ten seconds and then play Darling Clementine like … Mozart on steroids. At least that's how it seemed to my six-year-old eyes.

But most importantly, my father knew how to spin tales and had a knack for coming up with the wackiest titles. We're talking gems like "The Epic Tale of How Your Sister Broke Her Thumb Chasing Squirrels," "The Time I Almost Became a Human Pretzel,” and, of course, "The Legendary Banana Peel Disaster That Turned Your Birthday Party into a Slip 'n Slide Extravaganza."

Trust me, our family get-togethers were never dull! Every story Dad told burst at the seams with more plot twists than a pretzel (no relation to Dad’s “almost” condition), characters so vibrant they resembled a box of crayons, and life lessons that clung to your brain like gum to a shoe. Oh, and just so you know, gum was banned in our house because it once created a sticky mess in my HAIR that warranted a hair-raising-and-removing marathon! But that’s a story for another competition.

My absolute favorite, however, was "The Synchronized Family Puke"—a real masterpiece of bizarre brilliance! From the time I could remember, Dad loved to regale us with tales of his childhood in Poland and the country’s food shortage during and after World War II. Imagine living in a land where essentials are as scarce as blue unicorns, so in a desperate quest for food, Poles found themselves reaching out to their long-lost relatives who had dodged the mayhem of war. They’d send their sob stories to places as far-flung as the United States and Brazil and were rewarded with a delightful assortment of spam, farinha flour, pickled herring, and lime Jell-O. Yum, right? The packages from overseas were a lifeline for many families, providing much-needed goodies when things were tougher than leather soles, and Dad always had a soft spot for his relatives abroad, who were basically the Santa Clauses of the family, helping them get through those rough patches with their generous care packages.

So get this: My dad swears that one day, a mysterious package appeared on their doorstep out of nowhere. Well, not out of nowhere but from the post office, and it was clearly labeled "From Uncle Jan in Australia." And what was inside, you ask? A box with a medium-sized brownish container, complete with a screw top like the ones on jam jars. My grandmother, a master (or mistress, to use inclusive language) of creativity, cracked it open only to find stuff resembling powdered milk but in an unappetizing shade of gray. She even dipped her finger in and tasted it! Being the genius she was, she concluded that it must be a protein booster and promptly started adding it to the family's borsch and other liquid concoctions. Everyone was overjoyed with the extra caloric contribution until—talk about timing—the jar had hit rock bottom just before Christmas, and a letter from Uncle Jan, my grandmother's brother, arrived.

“Dear Sister, I've sent over the 'Wife-in-a-Box' crematorium ashes edition. May she rest in peace and not cause any spooky shenanigans! All she ever dreamed of was a cozy spot next to her dear old mom. You know, the one by the angel statue, right next to the rose garden. I pray you grant her last wish, giving her that magical send-off! Happy holidays! Love, Jan." Dad said the words read or something to that effect.

According to Dad, the moment the note was read aloud, the clan engaged in a coordinated regurgitation routine, with dear Auntie finding her final resting place not next to the rose garden but inside the porcelain throne. It’s evident that eating members of one's own species is illegal, yet no one can be held accountable if they are unaware of it, especially if it gives them a bout of indigestion!

But then I can't help but wonder if Dad's story is reliable at all because, guess what? My sister broke her thumb trying to skip a rope, not chasing squirrels. As for dear old Dad, he didn't “almost” transform into a human pretzel, but he did manage to sprain his ankle while practicing the mystical “Destroyer of the Universe" yoga position. And the Banana Peel Disaster? It was simply a result of Mom's overzealous cleaning efforts after a banana-topped cake was accidentally dropped in a piñata-bashing contest, not a cosmic conspiracy against the family.

It seems like Dad might have taken his storytelling skills to a whole new level, adding some extra sparkle to make the tales as thrilling as a roller coaster ride. But then, maybe they did devour my aunt by the spoonful . . . I’ll never know now because Dad, who is no longer with us, has taken the secret with him. And I can bet that if there is Heaven, as some believe, he's up there spinning yarns with the most outrageous twists and turns, leaving Saint Peter in stitches.