Ronald Gibberhoffer Saves the Day

I have always loved to write and come up with stories. I suppose you could say that it was passed down to me, since my mother always loved to write and come up with stories. For a short time, I used to offer to make up a story when I put the two little boys to bed at night. However, after several months of doing that, I found that I began to like it less and less because my MS always wanted to dictate what the story would be about and how it would end. Perhaps, I should cast it in a positive glow and declare that he is following in my footsteps. But, seriously, it puts a damper on story-telling when the listener becomes too adamant about the various details.

Besides that, I somehow lost my bedtime role. The boys began to ask for their daddy. He doesn't make up stories at all, but he does sing songs that I don't know (the Scooby Doo theme song, Barney songs, Thomas the Tank Engine songs, and one rip-roaring song where they insert an assortment of friends' and cousins' names into the song ... I'm not generally a fan of that last song because then they are completely wound up, which seems contrary to the goal, no?).

I'm really not terribly good at making up stories on the spur of the moment. My nieces and nephews would often clamor to hear my stories about growing up and the crazy things their parents did. I do perfectly well at those stories because my memory for old family tales remains strong.

My mother, on the other hand, is not so good at remembering old family tales (some she even denies ever happened, but hey, I have siblings who vouch for me). However, she far outscores me when it comes to her extemporaneous story-telling skills. Granted, it has been quite a while since I have heard her creative mind at work, but back in the day, she was TOPS!

If asked, I'm certain she would claim that the skills were merely a survival technique. We spent more time, as a family, in our car (or some other waiting scenario) than the average family. My parents were Salvation Army officers and this meant that we were at The Salvation Army corps building most days/nights of the week. If my dad had something to do on the way home from the corps, he would merely stop, leaving us all out in the car to await his return. Many times, it was a stop at Radio Shack, that he felt he just had to make.

Indeed, I think every single vacation we ever took, included the last minute drive to the corps so my dad could run in and take care of some last minute details (for, oh, say, an hour or two ... it seemed). My poor mother! How do you keep a car loaded to the brim with luggage and five eager children quiet while you wait for a man who could easily discover 100 things to tend to, when he went in to take care of one thing?

My mother created a character. Well, actually, the character was already in our lives. The character was my father. She merely altered his name and made him a bumbling hero (instead of a busy man with always one more thing to do). And what a name she made up! My dad's name is Ronald Gorton. My mother's famous character was called Ronald Gibberhoffer! If you ask me, that is pure naming genius. (I tried to consider what I would call my husband, if I were to tell stories to my young brood. The only thing that came to mind was John Higgenbottom. Sadly, that name sounds preposterous and makes me think of a persnickety British gent.

Our Ronald Gibberhoffer was a well-loved guy. I wish we were able to remember more of the stories, because they were legion. I faintly remember one story where Ronald Gibberhoffer was trying to find a new job. After looking into several unacceptable options, he settled on a job replacing light bulbs in those tall metal towers you often see off in the distance from a highway (what in the world are those things called??? and what purpose do they serve, anyway??). My mother pulled us all along as Ronald Gibberhoffer climbed rung after rung on the endless ladder. When he finally reached the top and secured the new light bulb into the socket, he lost his balance and began to fall. Perhaps, at that very moment, my dad returned to the car. I think Ronald Gibberhoffer landed on the floor next to his bed and rubbed his head.

In another story, (this time, I am positive we were sitting in the car while my father shopped in Radio Shack) Ronald Gibberhoffer was driving around. Suddenly, a siren sounded and he noticed swirling lights in his rear-view mirror. He timidly pulled the car over to the side of the road and watched with dread as a police officer approached the car. The officer looked in the window and asked for his driver's license and identification. After verifying his name (I suppose it is not every day that an officer runs into a man who claims to be Ronald Gibberhoffer), the officer returned to our car and leaned in to say, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to give you tickets."

My father Ronald Gibberhoffer looked back at the officer with a pained expression and repeated, "Tickets?"

The officer then clarified, "Yes, here are your tickets to the circus. When you are ready to go, I will be happy to escort you there, Mr. Gibberhoffer."

I doubt my own boys would settle for killing time in a car with home-spun stories. ES would be plugged in to his I-Pod. MS would be clamoring to create the story himself. And YS would be happy enough with sleepy bear and his two tasty fingers. Plus, they'd be out of luck anyway because the one who tends to dawdle or go back in for one last detail is usually me. They'd be stuck with my husband and some Barney songs. But for my siblings and I, somehow Ronald Gibberhoffer always saved the day!