Father’s Day Special 2023

SW_S2_EP10

Speakers: Krista Baum, Tom Zalaski, Sara Crosby, Charlie Garcia & Scott Gaddy

[Music Playing]

Krista Baum:

Hi, welcome to the Storyworth Podcast, it's our special Father's Day episode. I'm your host, Krista Baum, co-founder of Storyworth. If you're new to Storyworth, we help people write their life stories, the big stories, and the small ones.

Once a week we send our writers a question to help inspire their writing. They reply to the email with an answer or story that comes to mind. At the end of the year, we print what they've written into a beautiful keepsake book.

Every story written using Storyworth is private, but for this podcast, the writers volunteered to share their stories publicly with you.

We're sharing some less conventional stories this Father's Day. Stories that go a little deeper and explore the man behind the role. And we have dad jokes because they're the best and the worst, and somehow dad's telling corny jokes is universal. Tom Zalaski, tell us a joke.

Tom Zalaski:

This is Tom in Green Bay. Here we go, in 3, 2, 1. I know a guy who's an insomniac, atheist and dyslexic. He lies awake all night wondering if there really is a dog. Yeah, that one takes a few seconds to sink in.

Krista Baum:

If you can tell by that voice, Tom also just so happens to be a former broadcast news anchor. In fact, he was named the 2022 Broadcast Legend of Northern Wisconsin and has been described as “The narrator of life,” for residents there, lucky us.

Don't worry, Tom will be back with more jokes. But now it's time for our first story. Sara takes us along in her dad's search for his personal Walden Pond.

Sara Crosby:

Hi, I'm Sara Herrnstadt Crosby. I live in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, the name of my story is Walden Pond.

Dad was a professor, an American Literature professor to be more precise. His family in New York City all had opinions about him becoming a Doctor of Medicine. As fate would have it, he instead became a Doctor of Philosophy, which I have to say suited him much better.

A professor's salary does not allow for many luxuries, but we had a comfortable home, food, clothing, and the occasional outing to a movie or for pizza.

Family holidays did not find us on the ski slopes at Disney Land or touring through Europe. No, my dad was a scholar who taught and was a noted expert on Emerson, Thoreau and Bronson Alcott father of Louisa May.

He was cut from the same cloth as these great philosophers and transcendentalists, was inspired by them, and believed in their perspectives of the world. Basically, dad lived on Walden Pond in his head and spent a good deal of his adult life in search of that for himself and his family, whether they wanted it or not.

He was stubborn and opinionated and adventures every August during his month off from teaching, brought us to the most isolated places he could discover all over the Southwestern United States by car.

In reality, camping was what was affordable, and it gave him the very modality that allowed him his search for his own Walden Pond.

I remember once seeing a roadside indicating California being a hundred some miles away. I pictured palm trees and flowers, oceans with miles of sand beach, and I begged, I mean begged to go there. “Please daddy, please,” I squeaked from my middle position in the backseat.

I was desperate to see the Pacific Ocean. “No,” was the answer to many people. “I have a better place to take you,” and off he would go, continuing toward the next isolated place on the map. I remember driving through towns and looking in the windows at people's homes, longing to be in my own bed or at the pool with my friends.

But now I look back and realize the gift that was given to me each and every August until at age 16, the rebel in me refused to go on any more family camping adventures. I have climbed and hiked all over the southwest. I climbed Pueblos in Mesa Verde, met and visited with Maria the Hopi Potter of great fame in her home.

I spent time making friends with Navajo Hopi and Mandan children during a time when my parents volunteered for visits on different reservations. I have camped at the Grand Canyon and Lake Powell where we were again the only people for miles.

In fact, Lake Powell has found a place in our family's tales as one of the only times my father had admitted defeat, but not until he had spent several hours trying to get the tent stakes to grab in the sand on the shores of this newly formed lake.

Fortunately, as fate would have it, we ended up in a rented silver airstream as a rainstorm came up and washed the only road away. After a day of parental pondering during which I managed to have a run in with a rattlesnake, we ended up taking a flatbed across the lake to continue on with dad's adventure.

I have accompanied my parents' dad, found Jeep trails over and through mountainous regions in Colorado. One such trip found us with a totaled car and a hospitalized mother, but the silver lining was several days swimming in a motel pool while dad made everything right again. That was the moment in my young life that I realized daddy was not an invincible superhero.

The look on his face as he stood outside the car, is seared into my memory. Camping in the Rockies, which he were almost guaranteed rain and one year in Estes Park, actual snow, but mostly it always seemed to rain and rain and rain.

Every year as the mountains disappeared in the rear-view mirror, dad would explain, “Say goodbye to our little rain cloud.”

One year, the rain seemed more relentless than usual. Dad loaded us all into the car and we went into Aspen. That song, was it, “Someone left the cake out in the rain,” was playing on the radio as dad ran into the shop leaving us in the running car.

I stared out the window blurred by the downpour, and I clearly remember that the song was still playing when he returned with bakery goodies. We traveled back to the tent and huddled together. Coleman lantern casting shadows, rain pelting the can with the sides and roof, and stuffed our faces with the sweet goodness and played poker. We were safe, warm, together and loved.

Yes, the adventures were numerous and could fill a book and it has only been recently, that I have developed an appetite to sleep outdoors again, given the ability to supply myself with many comforts that were considered unnecessary to my father throughout the 60s and early 70s.

Thank goodness for my mother who convinced him to eventually leave camping behind, but clearly, he never ended his search for that Walden Pond he lived for.

Trips to Europe replaced the pitching of tents and Jeep roads, but the adventurous didn't stop. Driving all over Scotland and Italy to out of the way places, the normal tourists would never have found.

It took me growing up and having children of my own to appreciate these torturous trips. They are in reality, part of the foundation that helped me become who I am today, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

As far as finding Walden Pond, I think dad had somehow always lived on its shore.

[Music Playing]

Krista Baum:

Sara, the photo you included with this story sends major Sound of Music vibes where Captain von Trapp is carrying the children over the mountain at the end. Did you guys do any singing on these hikes to pass the time?

Sara Crosby:

So, one of my dad's songs that he taught us went, “My sweetheart’s a mule in the mind, my sweetheart’s a mule in the mind, and I sit in a seat, and I chew in a spit all over my sweethearts behind.”

So, my little brother, they got to share a song that they sing, like what their favorite song is. He must have been in kindergarten, and that's the song he sang. And no doubt, my parents got a phone call.

Jump down, turn around, pick a bale of cotton, that was a big one of his, anything by Pete Seeger, of course … it was great because they had this incredible collection of the English philosophy departments. I mean, they're just amazing human beings, and they would gather together.

My dad would play very bad piano and they'd sing folk songs and probably drank lots of martinis. We would sing together and yeah; those are my greatest bonding memories of my dad because he did live on Walden Pond. He was very introspective and deep in his thought.

Krista Baum:

Sara, what was your Storyworth experience like?

Sara Crosby:

Not only did Storyworth prompt me to put some of these stories that my kids and certainly my grandkids really can't connect to yet, I want them to know I'm only second-generation American. My grandparents were refugees from Eastern Europe, and there's a lot of generational traumas.

Being an Ashkenazi Jewish person that we all share and growing up was hard. We all have trauma to deal with like in the here and now that does belong to us, and that complicated with this depth of trauma that's just been passed down from generation to generation.

I'm hoping that some of these stories will help them understand their grandmother and me and why they feel the way they feel. Because I wouldn't have sat down and written them or thought of it even if this hadn't been gifted to me.

So, I can honestly say Storyworth (I'm going to get all teary), is probably one of the greatest gifts my kids could have given me.

[Music Playing]

Krista Baum:

In our next story, dad wakes up, heads out to work only for a complete stranger to turn his day upside down and what turned out to be the best way possible.

Charlie Garcia:

Hi, Charlie Garcia here, originally from Pueblo, Colorado, been living in Erie, Colorado for the last 40 years. And the name of the story I want to share with you today is The Angel of Speer Boulevard.

A promising summer morning in the mid-1980s greets and teases me with thoughts of taking the day off from work. I fight the temptation to casually lounge the day away and began gathering some items to complete a light carpentry job in Boulder.

With my circular saw firmly gripped in my hand, I half-heartedly head to my car parked on Holbrook Street in front of our home.

A quick turn of the key and the trunk opens wide. I dropped my saw on top of the assorted hand-held tools crammed into the storage space. I pushed the sun-warmed hatch down, and to my great surprise, a man is standing on the sidewalk and gently staring at me.

He studies me with unblinking deep brown eyes. He is unexplainably materialized like a character from Star Trek, beaming down to my precise coordinates. “Good morning,” I venture. “We need help,” is the immediate but soft-spoken reply.

The man is small and light in stature, jet black hair tumbles and falls across his head and down upon his forehead. He is Hispanic and speaks with an accent. He reaches out toward me. His hands are large, calloused and filled with what appears to be hundreds of hairs and scratches.

His face is weather worn. His eyelets squint as he sharpens his focus upon me with a beseeching gaze. Heavy mud cake boots anchor him firmly to the ground. His jeans are faded, and his denim coat is out of place for summertime wear.

“Over here,” he beckons to me, pointing up the street and urging me on with an emphatic wave of his other hand. “Well, I'm on my way to work and I promised I would finish the job today,” I counter, not wanting to have my well-planned day interrupted.

“Please, it's not far,” he steps toward me with urgency. For some reason, I look into the stubble covering his lower face. I am avoiding eye contact. “I'm really sorry, but I really have to get to work.” I suddenly realize my responses to this stranger are full of the word “I.”

“Please help us,” he repeats. He reaches out and gently touches my arm, “Please.” I lift my head and look at him, my eyes fall into his. The touch of his hand does not push, but rather reaches out in a hopeful way as if someone needing help after a fall.

Even though I look into his eyes, I'm able to observe his entire form, there is nothing to fear in this person.

I look at my car, I look at my house, I look at my watch and I rub my chin and finally share a slight smile with the unannounced visitor. “Are you sure it's not too far?” “Yes, yes, come.” He brightens and drops his hand, releasing the tender grip on my arm.

The man begins to rapidly scuttle southbound on Holbrook Street, he never looks back over his shoulder. He is confident I'm following. My mind races faster than my feet while wondering what I have gotten myself into.

The young fellow leads me to a cup of giant cottonwoods, beneath the canopy of rusting leaves nestled deeply in the shape sits an old and dilapidated minor shack.

The house is quiet and covered in rotten wood siding. The windows are broken out. The roof is barely intact, but sags mightily. The door is solidly stuck in an open position just wide enough for a person to enter or exit with a swivel of the torso.

My guide on this morning journey slips into the door. His head pops out and he nods at me as a signal to enter the shack. He is kneeling next to a woman who is in severe distress. She's lying down upon a blanket stretched out on the dirt floor. The man is trying to comfort her, but she continues to moan in pain.

I walk over and kneel next to them. She is pregnant and deeply lost in the throes of labor. The man hands me a small and wrinkled paper card. He whispers, “We need to take her here.” “Take her where?” I ask while examining the card in the dim light.

He stands and points at the card, “To this place.” The card is identification to receive medical treatment at Clinica Campesina in Frederick, Colorado. Frederick is a small town, several miles to the east.

I breathe deep of the musty intense air trapped tightly in this room. I hand the card back to the man. “I'll be right back, let me go get my car.”

I excitedly pull open a passenger door, turn the ignition key and head up the hill to the top of Holbrook Street. I pull up in front of the old house. They squeal the brakes and create a cloud of dust over the stick shift and out of the passenger door, I fly.

I find the man, together we help the woman to her feet and escort her out the door. The man slides into the backseat, the woman finds her place next to me ready to ride in a most uncomfortable shotgun position.

I steer gently turning the car around slowly so as not to jostle the expecting mother, we head for Frederick. I calm my unchecked nerves and ask the man if this is his wife. “Yes, “Mi esposa.” I turned to the woman sitting next to me and asked if she's going to be okay.

I no longer worry about fumbling around with my inadequate Spanish verbal skills to communicate with the couple. Each one of us knows what needs to be done and what will happen no matter what language we speak.

She groans meekly and utter something in Spanish. Her hands grip the cushion seat with intense force as the labor pain pulsates throughout her body. I see that she's in deep pain, so I decide to end my efforts at awkward conversation and just focus on driving.

Within 15 minutes, we're in Frederick. I know my way around the town and find Clinica Campesina with no problem. Together we assist her along the sidewalk and into the clinic. The man and I each hold one of her arms as she waddles along the sidewalk leading into the clinic.

We rush up to the receptionist window. I began to frantically explain that this woman is obviously in labor and needs help immediately. I tell the man to show the receptionist his wife's medical ID card. She studies it and hands it back to him.

To my enormous surprise, we were told that this clinic is not a place where she can give birth. “The woman would have to be transported to the Colorado University Hospital in Denver.” I'm in total disbelief. “I'm sorry, but I was on my way to work when this man asked for help,” I plead. “You need to take her to Denver,” the receptionist calmly replies.

“I can't, this is not my wife or baby.” “She needs to go to Denver, why don't you call an ambulance? I'll get a doctor.” But no doctor came. A doctor appeared and quickly examines the struggling woman.

“She is in deep labor; you'll have to get her to Denver immediately.” Once more, I protest, “I was on my way to work, he told me to bring her here. I don't even know where to go in Denver.” My exasperation rose quickly.

“I'm sorry, but we cannot transport her, you will have to do it.” I look at the man I met this morning on Holbrook Street, I look at his wife wringing in pain. At this moment, we are neighbors, residents of the same street, living with an easy walking distance from each other.

I speak before I have a chance to think of one more excuse for not helping this troubled pair, “Let's go.” I glare at the receptionist and the physician's aide and turn to the door.

With every mile we pass, the woman experiences more frequent and powerful labor pains. The baby is near arrival. Now, she reaches out and ceases hold of my right arm. When she experiences a contraction, she digs her nails into my arm. Her soft voice utters something in Spanish during her labor pains. I believe she is reciting the sort of prayer. I hope she's also praying for me.

I reach out and pat her hand when her grip tightens. Surprisingly, her husband remains quiet and appears to be enjoying the strange road trip. He looks out the back window seemingly enjoying the scenery that is whizzing by the roadside.

The skyscrapers of downtown Denver come into view somewhere in all of those buildings is Colorado University Hospital. Ahead I push, finally, I recognize a familiar exit, Speer Boulevard. My anxiety grows swiftly as we get trapped in a current traffic draining deeper into the heart of Denver.

We come to another stop at a large intersection and are trapped in a turning lane lined with cars. Once more, I react without thinking. I put the car in park and gone directly to the car in front of mine. I tapped nervously on the window.

The woman inside the car is surprised but quickly composes herself and rolls down her window. “Can you please help? I have a woman in labor in my car and we need to get her to Colorado University Hospital. Can you tell me how to get there?” The woman looks astonished and once a broad smile covers her beaming face.

“Yes, I know the way. I'm a nurse there, I'm on my way to the hospital to start my shift, just follow me.” Hardly believe in her good fortune, I pat her on the arm and breathe an enormous sigh of relief. My heart skips and my elation primes even more adrenaline to surge through my body. “Thank you, don't lose us.”

I sprint back to my car and hop in the front seat as smooth as any Duke of Hazzard possibly could. I look at my passengers and squeeze the hand of the mother to be, “Everything is going to be alright,” I said through grinning teeth.

We follow our heaven-sent guide through intersection after intersection. We arrive at a large brick complex covering both sides of the street. The two-way north buildings are connected by a walkway that crosses over the busy avenue. University of Colorado is printed boldly across the side of the walkway.

To me, the overhead walkway is a finish line for my sprints. All my anxiety and stress flows out of my body in a giant exhale. I follow the nurse turning into a drop-off zone in front of the hospital. The nurse is already at the car door, helping the soon-to-be mother into a waiting wheelchair.

I crawl out of the car and summon her husband to follow. I am now happily caught up in the spirited draft of dedicated souls helping a needy young lady along.

I find myself in the midst of a promising whirlwind of activity. A new nurse appears and hands me a pair of booties and a gown. “You need to slip these on, she'll be having the baby very soon.” With a bit of annoyance in my voice, I calmly speak, “I'm not the father, that's him.” I point to the long line of snack machines in the lobby.

There as if lost in a decision-making quandary is the young man, the nurse and I approach him. She hands him the booties and gown, “You need to go with her, your wife needs you.” I pat him on the shoulder and wish him good luck.

I turn and leave feeling like my day should be over by now. I step into the sun and drink in my experience.

Today, I faced my fears and rode a most unusual rollercoaster. I marched proudly back to my old and reliable Chevy Monza. But I'm awash and an uneasy feeling as if someone is following me. I quickly turn around and there he is, the husband is following me back to my car.

Incredulous, I ask, “What are you doing here?” He looks at me with obvious confusion and does not say a word, I think he feels I am abandoning him. I reach out and take his arm, “Let's go,” I reenter the hospital with my companion, together, we march in unison to the front desk.

“This man's wife is in delivery room right now, he needs to be with her,” immediately, an employee of the hospital summoned and whisks him down a long corridor. I turn and almost run out of the hospital. I dashed in my car and refused to look back. Unbelievably, I actually went to my job site that day.

I worked the rest of the day in almost total silence. I think of the child being born; I pondered the conditions his family would be living in. And I contemplated how it came to be that I met a man in such need on the sidewalk in front of our home.

Mostly I consider the nurse I met on Speer Boulevard. What unseen yet compelling force, pulling out of my car at that very moment to find a guide who knows the way to the hospital. I did not catch her name; I did not have a chance to express my gratitude.

Somewhere in the hum and drone of heavy traffic, I must have heard a flutter of wings. A slight rustling that called to me and lifted me above the turbulence, I found myself lost in on a busy street. Out of the hundreds of individuals moving in every direction possible, I find the one person who could deliver us.

An angel was patrolling traffic on Speer Boulevard, and we were blessed to find her in a true moment of deed.

Days later when I returned home from work, my wife tells me a young man had dropped by our house. The young man wants me to know that his wife gave birth to a beautiful and healthy son. He also offers a few dollars for gas money, which my wife refuses to take.

I smile as my wife shares the news with me. A son, a happy family, and an angel have crossed my path. It's hard for me to determine which one of us packed into my Chevy Monza was in most need of help on that long ago, summer morning.

[Music Playing]

Krista Baum:

Charlie, I know getting through this story, especially at the end there was challenging for you. What is it about this story that makes you so emotional?

Charlie Garcia:

I just went on this fantastic voyage with these people, and they were my neighbors and just didn't know it. While I sat warm and comfortable in my house, somebody down the street didn't even have heat.

I guess I look back on that little part where at first, I was not a very good neighbor. And then this angel, who I wish I would've caught her name shows up and maybe taught me a lesson that I'll never forget. I hope I'm a better person for it.

Krista Baum:

How has the Storyworth writing experience been for you?

Charlie Garcia:

At first, I was seeing Storyworth as a chore, “Oh boy, here comes another prompt.” And I put it down to two weeks as they were coming once a week and I was feeling overwhelmed. But then once I got into the groove of writing and realized I could use the prompt or do my own thing, it became more like an invitation to write.

I was really looking forward to it. It just turned out to be a real love affair with writing, it really blossomed. And like I said, I love to write, but this gave me so much to look forward to and so much purpose.

So, I just kept on writing and with my book, I went up to 414 pages, and I says, “I'm going to get as much out of that Storyworth limit as possible,” and I was so pleased with the results. It's just a professional looking hardback book. And so, thanks to my daughter Carolyn, and she gave me that. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Tom Zalaski:

An avid golfer dies and goes to hell. He gets there and sees the most beautiful golf course imaginable. He's given gold-plated clubs and gold-plated tees. He stands on that first tee box with his gold-plated clubs and says, “Okay, wow, give me a ball.” To which the devil replies, “That's the hell of it, no balls.”

Krista Baum:

And before we say goodbye to Tom, he just has a few pieces of fatherly advice to share.

Tom Zalaski:

Get a law degree. Take some business courses. Learn to invest your money. Get involved in investment in the stock market. Learn some car repair. Learn how to cook and iron. And learn to play an instrument. Just do something that's your future self is going to thank you for.

Krista Baum:

Sometimes relationships with our parents aren't easy. Our final story today is an honest reflection of a man's complicated relationship with his dad, about not measuring up, about not letting him in and about the big picture of life.

Scott Gaddy:

My name is Scott Gaddy, I live in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I am going to talk about my dad today. Going into the woods, getting out on the water, or exploring some back road, I kept him company when he would tend to his garden, cursing squirrels for helping themselves to the best of the crop.

I was there to hand him tools or hold a flashlight when something around that house needed repair. While on task he'd narrate the fix in this kind of slow labor cadence. Even a person who was only half attentive couldn't help but walk away with some new skillset.

Those early years, with dad would produce a hundred other short stories, good ones and others we weren't necessarily going to be seeing eye to eye on. I can't help but think there was something important missing between us. It has something to do with a feeling more than tangible fact.

While we were always a father and son team, I can't say we were always buddies. Not buddies like your best friend from school, not like the guys you rode bikes with all the while swapping lies. Maybe my experience is a common one, maybe, but I was a melancholy, introverted kind of kid.

I had a tendency to let my thoughts wonder, imagining myself being somewhere else, while dad was needing more focus. Can't help but believe that lack of focus had a lot to do with our relationship overall.

There is one more thing about that relationship. I know an invisible barrier was growing between us. I was building it brick by brick, always being concerned about getting things right. He was a well-schooled man, but one who also came with a satchel full of streets smarts that's scrambled my mind. I wanted to impress him, not disappoint him.

An underlying competition took shape, the minute I began to convince myself dad wanted proof of my worth. That way of thinking wasn't necessary, but children don't always know better, he loved us all as is.

When these things are considered, the bond with my mom was almost the opposite. We didn't spend the same amount of time together. We never went camping, fishing, exploring on our own. She would experience those things in a family setting when dad thought it was time to do the tribal thing.

Feeling closer to mom as a child wasn't based on external things. It was knowing that my human need to be nurtured would always be fulfilled by her somehow. No amount of misbehaving on my part or drama from anybody else in the households would ever take that away.

Here I am now 67, as old as that might be to some, I'm still a kid inside. Even with my parents having passed years ago, I still catch myself talking with dad when I'm up against a problem. When I'm sad, I can still imagine being curled up, knees to chest, mom's arms holding on tight.

At the time it was like there was nothing else happening in the world and there was no safer place to be.

[Music Playing]

What I wrote to my son is really something that anyone could apply to their children. I don't know if you want me to share any of that.

Krista Baum:

Go ahead, that would be great.

Scott Gaddy:

This was when my son was being deployed. He had two combat assignments I think it was. But this is what I wrote:

“My child, when you were very young, I wondered what you would grow up to be like. Would the good things bring fond memories? Would the not so good times teach you anything to make you a better or wiser person?

Would your heart grow to find the good in man despite his shortcomings? And your spirit, would it rise above all else to bear you up and allow you to see the greater picture and purpose for our being?

My first and foremost wish has always been that you would be honest with yourself, never to live a life outside of your own heart's calling. I looked into your eyes so thirsty for learning, I imagined you grown and standing tall.

Would you navigate your own journeys with strength against adversity, courage against fear and compassion against indifference? Would you find the proper balance between the darkness and the light that is our world, and use that balance to be a guardian for what is good instead of a slave to what is not?

Now, having seen you grow, I have seen my imaginings grow within you. But know this, everyone's life belongs to them, to sow, nourish and reap as they in the end saw fit. We have our victories, we make our mistakes, that is the nature of man. Wherever you go, no matter the length of your journey on this earth, your spirit is yours and yours alone to keep.

Your capacity to love, however, was given to you to share. What measure of this love you choose to give to others will not only come back in kind but will spread and multiply itself across many hearts, many you may never come to know.

If you were to remember nothing else, remember this, no boundaries realized or imagined will ever keep those you love or those who love you from being in your heart.”

Krista Baum:

Thanks for joining us today, dads, we love you, Happy Father's Day. On a personal note, Nick, thanks for being such a fantastic dad to our kiddos. Aunt Mary, thank you for writing about your big brother and your Storyworth book, so I can still get to know my dad even after all of these years without him.

If you want to get started writing your life stories or want to give the gift of Storyworth to a loved one, head over to storyworth.com and we'll be back this fall with weekly episodes. So, if you want one of your stories to be considered for the podcast, head to storyworth.com/podcast.

Storyworth is a production of Evergreen Podcasts hosted by me, Krista Baum, and produced by Hannah Rae Leach. We get production help from Jill Granberg and our mix engineer is Sean Rule-Hoffman.

We'll see you in the fall.