Issue 74, Fall-Winter 1978
Jessica popped out of Debby’s tummy and said, “tell me a story. Dad.” While a nurse wiped the other world from her eyes I started to tell. All the kids from my own childhood appeared. There was Bad Bernie throwing stones at people, Marky Fixler riding his purple bike and his little brother Gonzalez trying to pedal a scooter alongside him. My sisters were there too, dressing me up in their old clothes and pushing me around in a buggy. The stories made so much noise that the doctor told us to leave the hospital.
But the stories followed us home. They filled up the playpen and the yard. When Jessica ate she mixed them with baby food and smeared her face and laughed. She threw the rubber coated spoon at me and yelled “more stories.”
So I told her about my Grandma and the Grandma stories brought in people with beards and funny clothes from Europe, people who were bakers and farmers and fishermen. And they made us feel lazy for not working as hard as they did. The new stories took up so mu…