Grandpa spins yarns. “Hard times” leave lasting impression

Though fraught with anxiety and tinged with utter chaos, our five-day-long babysitting of the grandkids a few weeks back helped to confirm I have reached the zenith of human existence: I can now tell genuine, bona fide “grandpa stories.” I have arrived.

My graduation from a mere “reader” of bedtime books to an exalted teller of random, true-to-life tales came as the indirect result of a gift I’d picked up at this fall’s used book sale down at the county fairgrounds. Though not a huge fan of the “Star Wars” franchise, I knew my son-in-law had not only been steeped in it as a child but continued to follow along all the way through current iterations of the sci-fi blockbuster. When I found a book of short bedtime stories based on the original "Star Wars" trilogy, I figured he and the boys might have fun with it.

Andrew took the ball and ran for back-to-back touchdowns. The boys were instantly smitten. The book became a bedtime staple, and within weeks the house began to fill with light sabers, X-wing Starfighters and Darth Vader figurines.

Chapters exhausted, the legend lives on. And while Andrew may be able to conjure stories to carry the characters and their saga forward, I never paid enough attention to the whole "Star Wars" thing to bluff my way through even a single tale capable of entertaining a 5-year-old. So as I sat in the nightlight’s glow between the boys’ beds, I offered this compromise: “I will tell you one short, made-up "Star Wars" story. Then you’ll have to listen to one of my own true-life stories.” They took the deal.

For the next several nights, I made up some extremely brief and totally bogus baloney about the happenings “long ago, in a galaxy far, far away,” then quickly segued to the real meat and potatoes: My own life as a young boy.

I lived on a block filled with kids in a time when our horizons stretched unabated from the rail yard to “hospital hill” on the south and west and the public swimming pool and surrounding park to the north and east. Miller’s pond was near the center of it all, and nothing other than “Grump’s Garden” was off limits. As long as we were home before dark with no broken bones and most of our skin intact, we could look forward to more of the same the following day.

My dive down the rabbit hole of my youth was so deep and delightful I can’t even remember all the adventures I shared with the boys in those few precious nights. I hoped the high points would bubble to the top to become legends James and Max would one day share with their own kids.

You can scarcely imagine my delight when just a few days after her return, my daughter mentioned James told her that at bedtime each night, “Papa told us a whole bunch of crazy stories from when he was a little boy.”

When I asked if he mentioned any specifics, Charlotte answered timidly.

“Well, yes, he did, but you might be a little disappointed.”

“I’m a full-blown Grandpa and a teller of epic tales,” I reminded her. “I can take it."

“Well, OK, but you were warned,” Charlotte said. “James told me that when Papa was young, he had to race home from school to watch his favorite TV show because it was only on at a certain time on a certain day, and he could only watch cartoons on Saturday mornings.”

Obviously, I’m going to need to up my game a bit if I’m to become an enduring legend.

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.