Episode 4 – My Father And Me
Like father to son and son to father, I was the mirroring shadow to his every move. I was a most impressionable toy of his that even my shadow would follow to the identical tee on what his would do. We would play the mimicking games as far as my memory can serve me. If he were to dip his raw carrots in melted butter at the dinner table, so would I. If he were to make a ruckus round of laughter at the slightest drop of a good joke or a humoring one-liner, I would also sound off to follow with a miniature giggle in somewhat matching his. If he were to tip his hat a certain way when we were out and about, I would also tip my hat to the same precise degree and measure.
There, by the early evening fireplace light, we would sit and face each other, pass corresponding horrid expressions to see which one of us would impress more upon the other, sip ever so tightly on our hot chocolate - even when the heat and flavor were long gone, and watch the last and final embers in the fireplace sparkle and fade till mother broke into our sessions and so speak on how appropriately it had become my bedtime; or more past beyond it.
There were moments of long pleasure in my room. It was the usual and normal course of events for each evening. I could feel the early Fall chill creep past my cracked windows as I stumbled into bed. My father was not far behind. He rolled the covers over me and taxed himself one final time for the day in pulling out my 'then current' favorite story, and he reading aloud a chapter or two.
This would become the time my father and I used for his grand storytelling. Whether by truer versions or fictional yarns, it was then I was to learn about the legends and bygone eras.
Of course he would tell a tale with spirited voices and engrossing expressions; in heightening the elements to the story and making them more of a product in experience than simple reading. I often felt practically inside the story rather than an ordinary outside observer. He was surely a golden father with a golden touch for parenting - and I loved him so.
I was a flint to his spark; a burst of energy to his long standing radiance, and the man I most desired to be like. The stories he would tell; the phantom measures of imagination which streamed from his mind, and how all made an impression on how I ultimately would see the world as. But none was as great as the story he would tell of the Cherokee; the lost horizon of a world left behind in the manic inquisition of the white man's pursuit for more land, gold, and promised treasures in those long winding and mysterious mountains.
It is a Cherokee world of forgotten treasures; something left behind in the vaults of history; something left in the rubble of time itself. This would be the long lost and forgotten story my father relayed to me during one evening's storytelling:
Author's Notes:
'A Diary's House' is currently available for purchase on a multitude of websites including: Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Smashwords – to name a few. More information is provided on www . cdavidmurphy . com. There is also a heartbeat series on this site called 'Language from the Heart' . You can follow the extensive blog tour – details provided on www. promotionalbooktours . com, beginning September 24, 2012. Reviews are provided on www . goodreads . com