06/16/2024
"And as I pulled up my pants, I watched from my bedroom window as my Lakeside Dairy Milk truck rolled down the hill from our house on Phillips Ave. When I got down there, two guys stood in the aftermath where my truck had come to rest against a now-leaning light pole. I asked them, 'What do I do?'"
Light a match with one hand. Tell a long-winded joke. Shuffle a deck of cards with panache. Some people light the scene with party tricks. Not me; I make any gathering shine by getting my dad to tell stories. "Dad, tell the story about the woman who stole your jean jacket." "Dad, tell the story about when you won a car in NYC and drove it home in a blizzard." "Dad, tell the story about the time the cops showed up with a warrant for Mom's arrest, and you wouldn't go wake her to tell her because, for all you knew, she could have been a serial killer." "Dad, tell the story about when the cops showed up with a warrant for your arrest, and Mom came to your defense and sent them away."
I've been begging my dad to tell me stories since I was a little girl, trying to fall asleep at night. Growing up, my dad would tell me stories from his imagination as I drifted off to sleep. As I got older, he kept telling stories, but they slowly evolved from the creative tales of his make-believe into the retellings of his experiences and interactions of all shapes, sizes, and levels of significance.
When my dad tells a story, he smiles and leans into the memory of it. Whether it's a story from his dairy days, Zandbroz days, or Mandan and growing up days, the details, setting, and emotion he conveys make it seem like it just happened yesterday. Many of his stories aren’t happy or feel-good accounts but tales of trials, tests of character, or wild and unbelievable misfortune. And yet, my dad has a way of weaving wisdom, perseverance, and humor into all the stories in his repertoire. Stories rife with frustration, minor calamities, and ill-willed individuals become celebratory in their own way because my dad doesn't hold on to bitterness, regret, or anger. Instead, every story he tells has a theme of grit to make things work out, forgiveness to offer people grace, or simple recognition and acceptance that life throws a lot of curve balls and takes a hell of a lot of work. So, even the harrowing tale of a house under water or a Ford Ta**us with four tires that fell off in January 1997, my dad tells without malice and with a kind spirit. Somehow, his misadventures make us feel good and offer the best entertainment when he tells them because they're not loaded with negativity or told from a perspective that asks us to feel sorry for him. Not all my dad’s stories are of strife and tragedy, there are plenty of happy and sweet ones, but the hard ones are cherished and retold time and again because they’re part of his story, wisdom, and life lessons, too.
Growing up, I would beg my dad to take me to work with him, and he almost always would. I loved being in an environment with all the cool college-aged Zandbrozians who entertained and engaged me. Yet, the main reason I wanted to go to work with my dad was that I wanted to be at his side. I've always looked up to my dad and wanted to be where he was. He's always embraced me as his sidekick, let me show up exactly as I am, and made me feel I belong.
Even as I got older, even into my mid-thirties, I would miss my dad when he was away. Whether running errands or out of town for a few days, I would feel like my home, comfort, and best company was gone. To this day, when my dad’s not around, it's a bit lonely, and I feel a little homesick. Until I moved away in my late thirties, I would jump at every opportunity to spend time with my dad. Trips to Costco, Minneapolis for a Twins game, or NYC for a trade show were all golden opportunities to spend time with the person with whom I am most myself. The very best, though, and how I got to be where he has been for most of my life so far, was spending our days together at Zandbroz. I stopped asking him to take me to work with him and went to work for him.
Many of my favorite stories that my dad tells happened long enough ago that I was either not around yet or too young to remember. However, many of the stories I beg my dad to retell and replay are ones that I witnessed or was a part of and either take place at or tangentially involve Zandbroz. They are the same stories that taught me how to show up, be kind, practice patience, and start each day brand new.
There are many stories of things going wrong. Terrible tenants like the one whose toilet overflowed, causing water to seep through the ceiling into a case of rare, first-edition, signed books, or the one who painted their walls black, or those who stopped paying rent. Downtown politics that don't make sense for business, customers who beg for hugs, or college boys who d**k around on rooftops where they don't belong. The quotidian crises of owning a small business – jewelry case glass shattering, display units buckling, family dynamics – offer a near-daily new headache. When these stories took place, my dad was often quick to emotion. He doesn't shy away from curse words and is not always calm in his initial reaction. But that's because he cares. He's invested in all that he pursues: his family, Downtown Fargo, Zandbroz, his home, community, and people. My dad's passion comes through when things go wrong or when a disaster strikes – whether trivial or significant. That passion is what makes his stories shine. Stories don't evolve or take shape when you let your voice go unheard, allow people to walk all over you, or accept whatever life throws at you.
Stories are written when you show up for what you care about. They become interesting when you face adversity with perseverance and a commitment to care. They are worth retelling when they're teeming with recognition of your strengths and your shortcomings. My dad's stories are the epitome of all these things. My dad's stories don't skip the parts of him flooded with frustration, and they don't shy away from the reality of the misery the scenario put him through. Still, they also reflect how my dad is always in control of the situation. If he's quick to cuss, he's faster to analyze the situation and work on what needs to be done. If he yells or lashes out at something stupid someone has done, he's the first not just to forgive their inanity but to apologize for his reaction (even when it's 100% merited).
My dad is a great storyteller because he's good at moving on. He doesn't ruminate, stew, or mope. If something wild or maddening happened yesterday, he'll tell you a story that will make you laugh about it today. He's that way with people, too. My dad sees the value in people, and if they don't show it, he finds it. He believes people deserve second chances and that no one's stupidest mistake or weakest characteristic defines them. Of all the people he's proven this to, I am the greatest recipient of his grace. My dad has never given up on me, never abandoned me, never made me feel like a disappointment, never done anything but support me. My dad has always trusted me and given me the liberty to pursue my interests and ideas at Zandbroz and my dreams and callings in my personal life. My dad has flown sky-high with me when I've soared, and he's traveled to the depths of the earth with me when I've nearly destroyed myself or my reputation. My dad has taught me that every day is brand new, and each day, you get to write your story the way you want to – you can even start a new page if you need to!
To tell a good story, you have to show up and pay attention. You have to be kind and care about what's happening around you. Good stories aren't short on drama, so you have to have passion, opinions, and emotion, but you can't let them dominate the story, so you also have to know how to balance them. People are what makes a story, so to tell a good one, you have to understand how to connect with others. I'm learning how to be a good storyteller from my dad. I witnessed many of his stories unfold in real time as I watched him show up for who and what he believes in and cares about, get involved with the community, stand up for what's right, pursue his passions, and interact with people. From my dad, I learned to do the same: show up and pay attention. Thanks to him, I'm building quite the catalog of my own stories.
My dad learned how to be a good storyteller from my Grandjack. When my Grandjack told stories, he captivated the room. His stories were interesting, to be sure; after all, he had nine kids, owned a dairy, and wove himself intricately into many different organizations within the community, but what kept people engaged and enchanted was his character that came through in his retellings. He was dynamic, charming, and tuned into whoever he talked to. My Grandjack cared about people and knew how to connect with them, and one of the best ways he knew how to connect was by telling stories. I've learned over the years that what makes my dad a good storyteller is that he cares about people and knows how to connect with them. Like my Grandjack, my dad is deeply dedicated to his family, invested in many areas of the community, and selflessly engages with the people and needs around him.
When we tell stories, we let people into our world and invite them to stay awhile. My dad gives his time and energy generously. I know most of the stories I ask my dad to tell so well that I could never hear them again and trust that I'd always remember them, but I want to keep hearing them because I love who my dad becomes when he tells them. I ask my dad to tell stories because when he does, his eyes sparkle, and his true character comes out. They're interesting and entertaining and wrap me up in his world. I'll insist that he keep telling stories because they make me feel connected and close, but more importantly, so that others may see and experience the character and personality of the man who I'm so proud to call my dad.
"They told me, if they were me, they would get in the truck and get the hell out of there. So that's what I did".
