For as long as I can remember, my father was a captivating storyteller. During hurricane season when rain lashed the windows and wind rattled the shades to reveal lightning, he would gather us under his protective voice with these enticing words: "Come over here and sit by me, I feel a story coming on." He'd make himself comfortable in his easy chair in the warm kitchen while we scrambled to gather at his feet on the bare linoleum floor. The youngest child might try to squeeze into my father's chair but eventually ended up on the floor with the rest of us. Papa needed space for his arm movements to enhance the story. No lap holding for him. No favorites. If the lights flickered and then went out, so much the better. It only added to the excitement of the story as we huddled closer in the dark safety of Papa's voice. His stories usually began..."Once upon a time" ...and from there neither he nor we knew where the story would take us. Sometimes the stories involved a young person, lost and scared, facing adversity but triumphant in the end. At other times he'd tell us of his life as a young boy in the Azores, tending his goats on the hillside as he watched the fishermen below. The stories continued till the lights once again came on, and then no matter where he was in the story, he was finished. We'd protest and beg for more, but he'd say with a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, " To be continued tomorrow." But when tomorrow came, he might not continue with the story, depending on how busy he was. When finally coerced, he would say while scratching his forehead, "Now just where was I?" We thought he was joking but learned later that he never knew what story he was telling because some were made up as he went along. We, on the other hand, knew exactly what had been said and after giving him a brief synopsis, clamored for the rest of the story. And so he continued with embellishments, truths and half truths all thrown into the drama and in this way, we learned bits and pieces of his coming to America. We never got the full story till Papa was in his eighties and suffered a second stroke. My sister Teresa spent quite a bit of time tending to my father's physical needs as his body slowly declined. When he could no longer take walks but was relegated to sitting in his chair on the porch, Teresa had the wonderful idea of taping Papa's story of coming to America. What follows are his recollections in his own words, distilled with the passage of time but still full of the feeling and excitement of the adventure of his life. Teresa mailed the tapes to me after Papa died in 1993, and I put them away in a drawer till the time came when I felt I could hear his voice again without breaking down. I decided to listen to the first tape as I drove to work in the quiet hours one morning. Much to my surprise, I found myself laughing out loud as I listened to the scratchy, raspy voice of my father singing some of the witty songs he sang to us as children. They were like Gilbert and Sullivan songs, filled with humorous, quick-paced lyrics, some in Portuguese that we could never quite catch. And now I had them on tape along with his story. I listened and smiled and laughed and remembered all over again the uncanny ability Papa had of finding the humor in life's daily trials and troubling situations. He drew you towards him with his laughter and lightheartedness, and made you forget your disappointments for the moment. He was a born story-teller. And now I will pass his story on to you in his own words.
For as long as I can remember, my father was a captivating storyteller. During hurricane season when rain lashed the windows and wind rattled the shades to reveal lightning, he would gather us under his protective voice with these enticing words: "Come over here and sit by me, I feel a story coming on." He'd make himself comfortable in his easy chair in the warm kitchen while we scrambled to gather at his feet on the bare linoleum floor. The youngest child might try to squeeze into my father's chair but eventually ended up on the floor with the rest of us. Papa needed space for his arm movements to enhance the story. No lap holding for him. No favorites. If the lights flickered and then went out, so much the better. It only added to the excitement of the story as we huddled closer in the dark safety of Papa's voice. His stories usually began..."Once upon a time" ...and from there neither he nor we knew where the story would take us. Sometimes the stories involved a young person, lost and scared, facing adversity but triumphant in the end. At other times he'd tell us of his life as a young boy in the Azores, tending his goats on the hillside as he watched the fishermen below. The stories continued till the lights once again came on, and then no matter where he was in the story, he was finished. We'd protest and beg for more, but he'd say with a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, " To be continued tomorrow." But when tomorrow came, he might not continue with the story, depending on how busy he was. When finally coerced, he would say while scratching his forehead, "Now just where was I?" We thought he was joking but learned later that he never knew what story he was telling because some were made up as he went along. We, on the other hand, knew exactly what had been said and after giving him a brief synopsis, clamored for the rest of the story. And so he continued with embellishments, truths and half truths all thrown into the drama and in this way, we learned bits and pieces of his coming to America. We never got the full story till Papa was in his eighties and suffered a second stroke. My sister Teresa spent quite a bit of time tending to my father's physical needs as his body slowly declined. When he could no longer take walks but was relegated to sitting in his chair on the porch, Teresa had the wonderful idea of taping Papa's story of coming to America. What follows are his recollections in his own words, distilled with the passage of time but still full of the feeling and excitement of the adventure of his life. Teresa mailed the tapes to me after Papa died in 1993, and I put them away in a drawer till the time came when I felt I could hear his voice again without breaking down. I decided to listen to the first tape as I drove to work in the quiet hours one morning. Much to my surprise, I found myself laughing out loud as I listened to the scratchy, raspy voice of my father singing some of the witty songs he sang to us as children. They were like Gilbert and Sullivan songs, filled with humorous, quick-paced lyrics, some in Portuguese that we could never quite catch. And now I had them on tape along with his story. I listened and smiled and laughed and remembered all over again the uncanny ability Papa had of finding the humor in life's daily trials and troubling situations. He drew you towards him with his laughter and lightheartedness, and made you forget your disappointments for the moment. He was a born story-teller. And now I will pass his story on to you in his own words.
