By Tim Strickland, Director of Christ in the Smokies

My dad’s stories were legendary. Growing up as his son, I experienced some of those with him personally. Others I had heard all my life. I relished in hearing them over and over again. 

Allen Strickland, Tim’s dad, front row on right end

When I met and married Toni, my dad began sharing them with her. It did my heart good that she enjoyed and eventually loved his “tall tales” too. When my son Taylor got old enough, my dad told him stories as well, and that boy LOVED his grandad and the way he chronicled a story. It tickled dad, and he was in his element. If you heard some of them, you might not believe them. He’d joke saying, “Half of what I say is true, half isn’t. It’s up to you to figure out which half is true.”

Part of the reason some of them were like myth or hard to imagine is because he lived during a time when life was different. He grew up in the country on a farm in Alabama during the ’30s and ’40s. He had a brother and two sisters, and along with his mom and dad, they lived in a four-room house. They didn’t have a lot, but what they had they worked hard for and appreciated. At Christmas every year, each kid received a new pair of overalls and an orange, and they were excited! Let that sink in! Every single year. The same thing: a need—overalls—and an over-the-top treat—an orange.

One story dad loved to share was when he received a pair of shoes. He wasn’t used to them and didn’t like wearing them. Walking to school every day, he would take them off, hide them under the bridge, and go to school. On his way home from school, he would stop at the bridge to pick up his shoes and put them back on before going home. Surely my grandparents had suspicions or had heard he was doing this because they reminded him that he was to always wear them to school. One year on picture day, the above photo was taken, and when the picture made its way home, he was busted. Right there on the front row—no shoes! This was one of his tamer stories, but he would weave it in a way that held your attention. He had a way of drawing others in to want to know “what happened next,” and “how did it end.”

Storytelling at camp

Dad had storytelling down to an art. At our Passage to Manhood camp, we focus a lot on sharing stories as well. Traditionally, staff share a few of their favorites and sometimes, to our delight, we have fathers and sons chime in with some of their own. It’s always a time of great fun and getting to know each other through our stories.

Generational storytelling is how we have learned about the lives of those who go before us. It’s a dying art. Yet it’s an art worth nurturing, otherwise the next generation will not know on whose shoulders they stand.