And we will tell stories ...

Richard and I will be visiting my dad this weekend at his summer cabin. Dad's cabin, actually a park RV, sits at an RV park in Horicon, Wisconsin, near the famed Horicon Marsh. The place is, much like the rest of Wisconsin, a place to get away, to fish and grill bratwurst and drink.

Dad was born in Wisconsin, and to hear him tell it, he spent his childhood hunting, fishing, and skipping school.This would seem like a poor role model to me, but he grew up to be a stand-up man by taking lifelong learning seriously, taking care of my sister and me when my mom couldn't, and taking care of stray cats. He did, however, retain a wicked sense of humor which both my sister and I have inherited.

There were a few years when Dad and I didn't talk. It was the time when I had gone through two incidents of sexual abuse and harassment, followed by a rape I didn't remember -- as a result, I developed a fear of men that lasted three years. My father was included in that number even though he had done nothing to me. My dad handled it by being there for me from a distance, till eventually it thawed, and eventually he tried to teach me how to drive. Even to this day, however, talking on the phone with my dad is awkward, with long pauses and awkward small talk.

In person, though, I get his stories. My dad is 82 years old, and he has years of stories and an engaging storytelling style that runs in his family. I believe in words even in (especially in) the storytelling tradition, where stories become refined in the passage from generation to generation.

So Friday, Richard and I will drive 7 hours to Wisconsin to visit my aging, somewhat ailing dad. We'll borrow Dad's golf cart and go fishing in the river and catch baby bullhead and eat at a local restaurant with him and a couple of his friends.

And we will tell stories.