Once upon a time, when houses looked very tall and city streets appeared to lead a path to the rest of the world, I was a little girl who loved stories. I began listening to my father read aloud rhymes and fairy tales long before I knew the meaning of the words that came from his lips. My father liked the stories and verse as much or more than I did. He seemed to have an infinite supply of poems memorized and would insert them with enthusiasm in conversation at the dinner table or while walking in the woods.
When he wasn’t reading aloud to me, I often saw him reading to himself. Sometimes he would have one of my dolls propped on his lap, appearing to be turning the pages so that the doll could see the illustrations in the book.
As I grew up, I began to observe that my father’s favorite books were religious texts, poetry, and most of all, fantasy: the Hobbit and, after he had passed his 80th year of life, Harry Potter became his friends. He seemed to know them as intimately as he did his own family.
Even at a very young age, I had my feet planted firmly on the ground. I was too pragmatic a child to believe in imaginary friends. In spite of my skepticism, I played along, at first just to humor my Dad. His tales were often amusing and often inspiring and it was shear joy to “play along.” And, finally, I came to appreciate the benefits that imagination can bring.
His questions to me often sounded foolish to me. Each one challenged me to think ahead, to dream, and to solve a problem.
From my Dad, I learned to suspend my doubt for a time and to imagine what I would do if confronted by an angry rhinoceros. It is more than a survival skill to be able to imagine getting out of a difficult and unexpected spot.
My Turn 
This is a lovely remembrance. My father left me with a deep appreciation of Alice in Wonderland and Alice Through the Looking Glass. Two ‘classics’ he still refuses to part with at age 87.
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