# Stories my father told me



## KenOC (Mar 7, 2011)

Thinking tonight, and remembering. The better part of a century ago, my father would tell us stories when we went to sleep. Many involved Sput and Philpott (the scatological connections escaped us then). The adventures of this pair often involved the phantom dog cart, which would appear unscheduled and had the unfortunate habit of disappearing halfway across parched deserts. There was much more, which I can’t remember now.

Other characters appearing were were Senor Veeshnik, who rode a rhinoceros, and Ali Bombasta, whose mount was an ostrich.

How about you? Did you have story-telling parents?


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## TxllxT (Mar 2, 2011)

My father used to be a captain of Shell Tankers, who sailed over the whole world, with exception of Russia and North Korea. His stories were real life stories, mostly centering on a memorable phrase. As children we spoke nothing but Dutch, but at an early age we learned the whole sentence by heart: "His mouth was making overtime, but his brains had a day off" without really understanding it. This saying was top of the bill among my father's favorites. Another one was the Malay phrase 'onon koson' = empty talk. My father also told us real life stories from WWII when he was about 15 years old. But no, no fairy tales.


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## Triplets (Sep 4, 2014)

I didn’t see much of my father growing up. He was a small business owner who worked 90 hours a week and also had immigrant non English Speaking Parents that relied heavily upon him. A bedtime interaction with him was rare and was along the lines of “Why didn’t you eat your liver and onions for dinner? I would have loved to have that at your age!”
My Parents divorced in my late teens and then my father had to retire due to medical issues. I had my own life by then but we bonded over concerts and plays and my memories of him stem from that period.
My own children are in their thirties now. When they were in the early grades I tried to read to them nightly—stuff like the Three Musketeers, Little House on The Prairie, some Ray Bradbury and Michael Crichton—gradually I couldn’t compete with demands of their homework and the lure of cable television and video games and my memories of this time were of the frustrations of trying to get them to pay attention while we read. Now my children tell me that they loved those times, that those are among their fondest memories and that they all developed a love of reading from then. Go figure


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## Ingélou (Feb 10, 2013)

Yes - both my father and my mother's father used to make up stories to tell me. Oddly, my mother and grandmother didn't, though my mother would tell us traditional fairy stories. 

My grandfather told me stories of 'Bertie Squirrel' - I like to think it was a cool name for him, as a large part of his childhood was spent in Edward VII's reign and the king's family name was Bertie. Bertie Squirrel was always having to escape from stoats, and that's the first time I recall encountering this word. 

Dad used to tell us stories of Jimmy Bunny, a Brer-Rabbit mischievous type who liked to trick foxes. He also told us about Charlie Crab, but when we went out on day-trips to Whitby and Mum bought and dressed a crab for our tea, he'd always tell us not to worry - it wasn't Charlie Crab that the fishermen had caught, but only one of Charlie Crab's silly uncles. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PS - Granddad also used to tell us real-life stories of the First World War, which were often rather funny. (He wasn't very near the front line.) In the army, Granddad was a bit of a Brer-Rabbit character himself - one example is when he was made Demobilisation Officer at the end of the war, and promptly demobbed himself.


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## LezLee (Feb 21, 2014)

“Bertie Squirrel was always having to escape from stoats, and that's the first time I recall encountering this word.”

I suppose you know they’re stoatally different from weasels...?

I was born in 1940 and my dad was in India from 1942 - ‘45 but I don’t think he would have been a story-teller. My mum wasn’t either but used to read to me all the time till I got really frustrated and taught myself to read, so was fluent by the time I started school at aged 4.

Ken : I love the phantom dog-cart!


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## Dorsetmike (Sep 26, 2018)

> I suppose you know they're stoatally different from weasels...?


Yup, they're weasel-ly recognised.


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## TxllxT (Mar 2, 2011)

My father's father was a fisherman. He used to fish in the 'Zuiderzee', the inland sea which from 1932 was shut off from the North Sea. At the end of the War the Jerries (Dutch: Moffen) ordered all sailing ships to be claimed for evacuating Germans from North Holland. All sailing ships had to brought to the pier of the harbour (of Harderwijk). Well, all of a sudden all these fishermen were out of work. My grandfather wanted to inspect his property. So he walked to his ship at the end of the pier. All of a sudden there occurred shooting and my grandfather had to look for cover. Crawling over the ground he found an old cooking pan and put the thing on his head. We as children always asked, whether grandfather's cooking pan helmet got hit by a bullet. It really fires a child's imagination. End well, all well. My grandfather just got on his feet after the shooting stopped. He walked on his wooden shoes to his ship, inspected whether nothing was stolen, and came back.

Another story from my father was a memory from him being four years old. With his father he was fishing on the sea in front of Harderwijk, a beautiful old Hanseatic Medieval town. When they sailed back, they saw smoke rising up from the inner centre of the town. Their sailing ship entered the harbour and when they were mooring, my father's brothers and sisters appeared. The cried: "Father, our house has burnt down!" One of the elder brothers was about to marry and had collected all the things for starting a new household with his future wife under the attic. All gone up in flames. The whole family got living space inside a school. In the town community and the churches people spontaneously gave help in the form of money or real house goods, so within a few months the family (father, mother, 12 children) moved back in their rebuilt house in the fishermen's quarter.


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## KenOC (Mar 7, 2011)

My father once told me a story from his mountain-climbing days. He and a friend were hiking near Mt. Jefferson in Oregon and the mosquitoes were unusually large and fierce. Soon a dense cloud of the creatures drove them to hide beneath a huge iron pot they found abandoned in a campground. The mosquitoes continued their attack and drove their razor-sharp noses right through the pot. My dad, thinking quick, grabbed a rock and hammered their noses sideways so they couldn’t withdraw. Giving up, they flew away, carrying the pot through the air with them.

I’ve often thought he might have been exaggerating. Just a little.


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## TxllxT (Mar 2, 2011)

A bit more complicated story my father told us in order to explain the extreme differences within Protestant denominations that used to exist in the Netherlands. In the past the Dutch were quite religious and to understand the finesses between all these beliefs/faiths was a true puzzle and high math. So again a compilation of true stories. 

Once my grandfather had been fishing from Monday until Friday on the 'Zuiderzee'. By the time he wanted to sail back to Harderwijk the wind had turned adverse. They had to stay the weekend on the North Holland side, in the harbour of Enkhuizen. Well, North Holland had the name to be very liberal indeed, free-thinking etc. So having got stuck in Enkhuizen my grandfather together with his children went to church, just as they were used to in Harderwijk. When they returned to their ship, they found everything in tiptop condition. Nothing was stolen. So lesson 1: liberal, free-thinking people may be weak in religion & church attendance but often they happen to be great in practical ethics. 

Again my grandfather had been sailing and again the wind had turned adverse. My grandfather had to stay the weekend on the Frisian side, in the town of Lemmer. My father remembered that during the whole War there had been true ice-cream available in Harderwijk. But in the Dutch province, which is famous for its black-and-white milk cows, Friesland, there my father tasted for the first time of his life artificial ice-cream. Why? Well, the Frisian people were quite strict and principled in their reformed Protestant religion. When the Germans occupied the country, they just refused to cooperate with the enemy. But in the so-called Bible Belt region, to which my father's town Harderwijk belonged, things were different. They maintained with the Bible in hand that one always has to be obedient to the authorities that were put above you. In practice this meant, that in Harderwijk black trading flowered. Germans love fish and in exchange Harderwijk did not suffer any shortage in milk and other important living-commodities during the War period. My father understood this double tongue / double dealing very well from an early age. Sure, not everybody fauled in black marketing, but everybody profited... Lesson 2: there exists a difference between theoretical, principled life and practical everyday life.

Again my grandfather encountered adverse wind and had to stay the weekend over on the island of Urk. Up till the present day this fishing town is very religious, very Protestant indeed: 17 different church denominations... So on Sunday, my grandfather went to church together with all his children. But when they returned to the ship..... Everything that was loose, happened to be stolen. Later on I had a fierce discussion with an Urk born guy. He maintained, that the thieves did not come from the pious Urk people, but from other ships, that also stayed the weekend over in the harbour...

Anyway, my father didn't tell this story to make us, children, adverse to religious convictions. He just wanted us to know the truth.


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## Marinera (May 13, 2016)

No. I would ask my mum or dad, but mostly it was mum to draw me something. Only then I'll go to sleep

My manifesto was 'a picture's worth a thousand words' :lol:


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## Forss (May 12, 2017)

My dear father lost his battle with cancer about a week ago, on the 13th of January, only 58 years old... He had the most beautiful death I can imagine, surrounded by his loved ones, bidding farewell with a calm, gentle smile (not unlike Mahler's _Symphony No. 9_). He was a devout Christian and had no fear whatsoever, and his courage in the face of death was, I think, in itself worth a whole life. He was not so much of a storyteller, I'm afraid, but he taught me how to pray - and what could _possibly_ be more important than that? "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them", as _Brahms is reciting Scripture_ in his German Requiem.


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## SixFootScowl (Oct 17, 2011)

Forss said:


> My dear father lost his battle with cancer about a week ago, on the 13th of January, only 58 years old... He had the most beautiful death I can imagine, surrounded by his loved ones, bidding farewell with a calm, gentle smile (not unlike Mahler's _Symphony No. 9_). He was a devout Christian and had no fear whatsoever, and his courage in the face of death was, I think, in itself worth a whole life. He was not so much of a storyteller, I'm afraid, but he taught me how to pray - and what could _possibly_ be more important than that? "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them", as _Brahms is reciting Scripture_ in his German Requiem.


Sorry about your loss, but the reality as you so clearly describe, is that he had his heart in the right place and is now in Glory!


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## SixFootScowl (Oct 17, 2011)

KenOC said:


> My father once told me a story from his mountain-climbing days. He and a friend were hiking near Mt. Jefferson in Oregon and the mosquitoes were unusually large and fierce. Soon a dense cloud of the creatures drove them to hide beneath a huge iron pot they found abandoned in a campground. The mosquitoes continued their attack and drove their razor-sharp noses right through the pot. My dad, thinking quick, grabbed a rock and hammered their noses sideways so they couldn't withdraw. Giving up, they flew away, carrying the pot through the air with them.
> 
> I've often thought he might have been exaggerating. Just a little.


Hmmmm, I have heard stories like this quite a lot as a child. I think it was about a guy named Paul Bunyan.


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## Ingélou (Feb 10, 2013)

This is a family story told me by my mother about her Uncle John. 

When he was at school in Burton-on-Trent - in the early 1900s - and aged about 14, the class was a large one, filled with tiered rows of desks, and ordered by ability. John was a big-hearted ox of a boy without many brains, so he was sitting on the back row, at a higher level to the desks in front.

The schoolmaster was helping the boy in front with his sums. Bending over the task, the schoolmaster's large fat rump was protruding just in front of my great-uncle's desk.

Having a naughty thought, John picked up his pen and pointed the sharp nib at the teacher's rump. 'Shall I?' he whispered to the boy sitting next to him. 

The boy didn't reply, but instead shoved John's arm hard so that the pen jabbed right into the schoolmaster's bottom. He leaped up and yelped.

The offence was so serious that John was sent to the Headmaster and it was arranged that he was to be flogged in front of the whole school the next morning. 

That night John's father decided to withdraw his son from the school and start him early in the family butchery business.


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## jenspen (Apr 25, 2015)

I enjoyed the marvellous tales above that were told by a grandfather. Oral history!

My father's mother used to enjoy talking me to sleep by reminiscing about her childhood. I lapped up these stories of flood and fire (all the sovereigns melted), accidental deaths, favourite horses, poddy calves, the soft-hearted aboriginal nurse, the ride to school three-on-a-horse, typhoid fever, dances, the Indian hawker, the grandfather's splendid house, a cast of extras and cousins, of being hidden in a washbasket when the bushranger (Jimmy Governor) dropped in, of travelling for months in three buggies with a herd of cows? cattle? to take up a new selection.... 

Nobody else in the family seems to have heard these yarns (probably because I was the least obedient and the yarns were a device to get me to go to bed). The stories had such a strong flavour of a childhood in the bush before the First World War (in which some of the cousins died) that I am grateful for having this connection with our past. With the help of the internet I have found the dead 17 and 18 year old boys - when and where they fell and if their remains were ever found. And I've visited some of the fly spots on the map - a gggrandmother's inn, a gggrandfather's property - whose names have been lurking in my memory for decades.


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## TxllxT (Mar 2, 2011)

During the War the town of Harderwijk happened to be on spot as a geolocation that allied bombers from England passed over on the way to Berlin and back. So the Jerries built an huge radarstation just outside the town and installed lots of FLAK. In order to exercise their shooting capabilities the Germans had a small double-decker flying that was towing a bag on a long line. Well, one day Bello (the nickname of the plane) was flying again and the town people were looking upward to follow Bello tuffing along. All of a sudden there was great excitement: instead of hitting the bag, the Jerries had shot down their own Bello. The whole town got in a festive mood. After the war my father often took us on his bicycle to the place where the radarstation had been. As children we were very interested to find some traces of this big underground complex. Alas, everything had been blown up after 1945. In the lake in front of Harderwijk a monument has been installed to remember the allied effort to end World War II.


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## SixFootScowl (Oct 17, 2011)

When I was maybe 10 years old I recall my dad would open a bottle of beer (he only drank it up at the cottage which we had in Canada back then) and he would call me over for the first sip. It tasted nasty. Later in life I loved beer but am happy to not have any interest in the stuff the past 20 years.


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## geralmar (Feb 15, 2013)

My father narrated my first listen to the William Tell Overture. Except he turned it into a postman on horseback delivering the mail in a thunderstorm.


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## Dan Ante (May 4, 2016)

When I was old enough to stop taking things as ‘gospel’ I asked my father “what happens when you die dad” he just said one word “oblivion”


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## TxllxT (Mar 2, 2011)

My father, being a captain at Shell Tankers, once got an assignment on the SS. Sepia. This tanker had been refurbished with big rubber fenders. When the big supertankers from the Persian Gulf or from Venezuela approached New Orleans, the Sepia met them in the Mexican Gulf. While sailing next to each other with the fenders in between them, oil was pumped over into the empty Sepia. This made it possible for both of them to get to the refineries along the Mississippi river. My father liked to tell the story of a Greek (tanker) that waited for the arrival of the pilot. Over the VHF the Greek went completely bonkers. After having ranted for many minutes the pilot who was on my father's tanker took up the receiver of the VHF phone: "You feel better now?"---"Be sure someone is listening to you".--- Later on this "You feel better now?" (in English) became a often used saying in our family when someone was getting angry and pouring out his vocabulary with no restraint.


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