As children, we looked forward to the 80-mile drive to our old thatched cottage in Wexford, Ireland. Not because we liked the long drive, but because we loved the stories our father would tell us on the road. Looking back, I now realize how talented a storyteller he was. Not often can a person make up stories as complex as he did on the fly, but week after week we were entertained by “The Da” as his stories flowed from that gigantic melon of a brain. 

All six children, Ma, Da and our two dogs would pile into our Vauxhall Viva Estate (a very small station wagon), squeeze ourselves into every orifice and try to get comfortable. Impatiently, we would squirm waiting for The Da to settle in and begin his story anew. As the city of Dublin flowed away behind us, he invariably would start up the newest version of his ongoing story with some sort of question. 

“Have any of ya heard of the wolfhound of Wicklow?” he would say with the typical Irish inflection and high tone at the end. 

“No,” we’d all call back. 

“Well, let me tell ya…” he would say.

We would giggle and quiet down, because we knew our weekly adventure in the world of his imagination was about to begin.

If I was lucky, my spot in the car was “The Hump,” where Ma placed an old feather pillow to cover the parking brake lever. Sitting nestled between Ma and Da was a weekly treat that my brothers and sisters routinely fought over. I can still see him in my mind’s eye.  He drove with wild and slightly deranged excitement, with no safety belts or air bags, in rain, fog or sunshine. His eyes were animated as the words of a story formed in his mind, and his face always seemed to smile as he blurted out the funny parts to snickers and laughter from his children. 

Sometimes one of my younger siblings would ask something like, “but Da, how could he be that tall?” Da would patiently launch into a side story giving the reason giants grew to such a colossal size. He could improvise elaborate new versions at will with flowing back stories and quirky new creatures. It was a magical time in my life.  

My favorite character from all of his stories was “Gollup the Woods,” a lanky klutz of a giant who spent most of his time getting into trouble. The stories were so mesmerizing that I would hear the clanking of the cattle grid in the driveway at the entrance to our cottage, “the Ole Bog Road,” before I knew it. Car doors would fly open, children would pile out and another weekend adventure would begin.

Our cottage had two toasty bedrooms upstairs beneath the straw thatched roof. A stone chimney that was soothingly warm to the touch separated the bedrooms. All six children shared the bedroom over the parlor, where we would joke around into the late hours or until Ma put her foot down and told us to “whist our gobs.” Translation for those who do not speak angry Irish mother: “Close your mouths.” 

Sometimes I would lie in bed listening to my brothers and sisters breathing as they slept around me. In my mind’s eye I would envision other outcomes to my father’s stories. I would add a dragon or a hot female hero with magical powers. Over time, I have lost much of what was my father’s original version. The lines between what he told us and how I remember it have been blurred by the thick smoke of time. Each of my older siblings has different memories of the characters in his stories, as each of us imagined them in our own ways. 

As I write this, I hope you will see in my words some of my father coming through. He is in my thoughts every day and in every word I write. I love you Poppa Noel, and I miss you very much.