Fiction: The Forever Book

Enjoy this beautiful story written by Dave Bachmann, a frequent contributor to Liguorian.

Published in the March-April 2023 edtion.

The book was large and leather-bound. I remember being told when I was quite young that it had been in my father’s family for a long, long time. I wouldn’t hold it in my hands until many years later.

My mom did mom things. You know—cooking lasagna, baking chocolate-chip cookies, picking out what I was going to wear to school, making sure I brushed my teeth.

But it was my father who read to me.

He was a bricklayer. And because he was in such demand, he sometimes didn’t get home until after dinner, which was close to my bedtime. But no matter how tired he was, he always made time to read to me from The Book of Forever Stories.

He would retrieve the book from a high shelf in his closet, call out, “Clara, time for a story,” then limp to my room and lower himself into a chair that was too small for him. He would carefully open the book as if unveiling some ancient treasure, then slowly lift each page, softly lower it, before moving on to the next one. This nightly ritual could take several minutes as my father searched for the perfect story to read to me.

And when he found the right story, the perfect story, he would clear his throat and begin to read in a clear, crisp voice that seemed to be reserved just for me. There was no impersonation of voices. No tense rendering of the words. He just read the story, his words sketching a vivid portrait of strange lands, whimsical characters, and amazing deeds amongst the deepening shadows of my bedroom.

And oh, the stories he told! Stories of kindness, sacrifice, charity, unconditional love, and compassion for others. Like the tale of a boy who was born unable to walk who donated his most prized possession, a stuffed bear, to a fundraiser to buy a new bell for the town’s only church. Once installed, the local priest invited the boy to be the first to ring the bell as he, more than anyone, had given the most of what he had for its purchase. And when the boy grabbed the rope and pulled, it lifted him from his wheelchair before setting him gently on the ground where he was able to stand on his own for the first time. And then there was the tale of an old farmer who had the finest crops in the land and generously shared his bounty with his neighbors. The secret of his success, which he tried to keep hidden lest his neighbors think him crazy, was that once the sun went down, he strolled amongst the rows of corn, barley and wheat, singing and strumming his guitar. One day, the farmer became ill, too sick to tend to his crops, and he began to despair lest they fail. But that night, he awoke to a strange sound and looked outside to see his neighbors—children, parents, and grandparents alike—doing what he had done so many times, strolling along the furrowed rows, quietly humming in unison, serenading the crops. 

Thus did I learn about the world, what it was, what it could be, what it might be when love, kindness, and compassion became one’s guide.

As I got older, I dreamed of the day I would get to read from The Book of Forever Stories. And when I was in fourth grade, I saw my chance.

“Dad,” I quietly began, once he had finished reading me a tale, “our teacher gave us an assignment to tell the class a fairy tale. Could I pick one from The Book of Forever Stories?”

My father considered this, delicately cradling the book in his lap as if it were a small child.

“Well, Clara, I suppose you could do that,” he spoke with great solemnity. “But…” and at this he paused, “I think it’s time you tried writing a story of your own.”

“I’ve never written a story before,” I protested. “Where would I find one?”

“The earth is brimming with stories, Clara,” my father countered. “Just look around.”

So, I did.

I looked everywhere on earth. Inside our house, at the park across the street, even under my bed. No stories.

When my father came home from work the next day, I met him at the door with a firm pronouncement. “There are no stories on our earth, Dad.”

“In that case,” he answered with a slight smile, “why don’t you try looking up.”

So, I did.

“Still no stories, Dad,” I grumbled, after giving the sky over our house a quick once-over.

“What did you see?” 

“Blue sky. Some puffy, white clouds.”

“What did the clouds look like?”

At this, I hesitated. “I’m not sure. Baby chickens. Yes, baby chickens on skateboards.” 

“Sounds like the makings of a story to me. Why don’t you try writing about it?”

So I did.

“The Magical Clouds in The Kingdom of Kind”

By Miss Clara Lynn Jones, Grade Four

Queen Maya was a good queen. But her Kingdom, the Kingdom of Kind, was very poor. It was so poor that the children did not have any toys to play with. But Queen Maya had a magic wand that could make clouds change to any shape she wanted. Each day she visited every home in her kingdom and asked one child in each home, just one, what toy they would like. Then, she would wave her wand and the clouds would make that toy in the sky. When she went to one home, a little girl named Anna answered. Queen Maya asked what toy she would like but Anna got one of her five brothers and let him choose. Each day, the Queen would come to Anna’s house but always, Anna would get one of her brothers instead of herself.

When the Queen got old, she was too tired to visit each home and needed someone to take over for her. So, she called all the children to her castle and gave her wand to Anna and declared her to be the kindest and most loving child in all the kingdom. 

The End

Everyone liked my story. My teacher entered it in a competition for our school and it won first prize. When my name was announced at the ceremony, my father was sitting in the front row, wiping away tears.

My father continued reading stories to me each night until I got to junior high, when things began to change. After-school activities and homework competed with my father’s nightly readings. When I reached high school, volleyball, marching band, and school dances left no room for bedtime stories.

I didn’t see The Book of Forever Stories again until I was thirty years old. By then, I had completed college with a degree in creative arts, met my husband, moved to Geneva, Illinois, and given birth to Zoe, a beautiful baby girl.

Sadly, my mom did not get to see the birth of her first grandchild. But my father, who was still living in California where I had grown up, came to visit us in Geneva when Zoe was nine months old.

“Dad, meet Zoe, your granddaughter,” I announced with joy.

My father scooped Zoe into his massive arms and cradled her close. There was an intimacy, a gentleness I had not seen in this bricklayer I called Dad.

Over the next week my father bonded with his granddaughter and she with him. My father fed her, sang to her, rocked her to sleep and, yes, even changed her diapers, reminding me with a wry smile, “It wasn’t that long ago that I was changing yours, Clara.”

And then, before we knew it, it was time for him to go.

His ride to the airport was on its way when my father wheeled his enormous suitcase into the foyer, opened it and extracted a large bundle swathed in linen. I knew what it was before he unwrapped it.

“The Book of Forever Stories!” I squealed.

“I want Zoe to hear a story before I go,” my father casually remarked as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do.

“Don’t you think she’s a little too young to appreciate it, Dad? I mean—she’s only nine months old.”

Ignoring me, my father crept quietly into Zoe’s room where she was napping. Peering into her crib, he whispered, “How about a story, Zoe?”

Zoe’s eyes popped open, and she giggled. 

“Humph,” my father grumbled, “you’re never too young for The Book of Forever Stories.”

Dad lowered himself into a chair that was too small for him and opened the book. In a light too dim to see clearly, he slowly turned the pages, searching for the perfect story, something he had done with me countless times so many years before. Having found what he was looking for, he paused, squinted at me across the room and quietly remarked, “If you don’t mind, Clara, I’d like to have a moment alone with my granddaughter.”

Reluctantly, I backed out and gently pulled the door shut—but not all the way. I leaned in, listening for the familiar, warm, soothing voice of my father.

But when he began to read, I backed away, startled. He was reading a story to Zoe, all right. My story.

“There once was a beautiful kingdom,” he quietly spoke, “called the Kingdom of Kind. And though it was a very beautiful kingdom, it was also very poor. So poor, in fact, that the children had no toys. But the Queen, Queen Maya, had a magic wand that could make clouds look like anything she wanted.”

I crept quietly away, wondering if I had somehow misheard my father’s words. Perhaps he was reading a different story that just sounded like mine. Or maybe, in my youthful quest for a story as a fourth-grader, I had simply recounted one my father had read to me when I was a baby, like he was now doing with Zoe.

There was no time for reflection. Dad’s airport ride had arrived and, having finished his story to Zoe, he was now saying tearful goodbyes to my husband and me, promising to be back for Zoe’s first birthday.

And just like that, he was gone. And the house became very, very quiet and a little sad.

But our sweet Zoe, perhaps sensing my sadness, began making Zoe sounds, drawing me back to Mommy mode. I quickly made my way to her.

The late afternoon sun seeped around the edges of the blinds, sending a surreal array of arrowlike shafts about the room. One of them landed squarely on the chair from which my dad had been reading to Zoe, illuminating a familiar yet unexpected old friend.

The Book of Forever Stories!

For a few moments, I imagined myself running through the airport in a stereotypical movie kind of way, clutching the unwieldy book to my chest, shouting, “Stop, Dad! Stop! You left this behind!”

And then I smiled at my foolishness, realizing the truth of the thing. Dad had left the book for me.

With a reverence reserved for a priceless gift from my father, I slowly approached and picked up the precious heirloom. It was heavy, as I expected it to be—I would have been disappointed if it had not been. I sat in the chair that my father had been sitting in only minutes ago and brushed my fingers lightly over the embossed words on the leather cover, softly speaking them as I did so. “The……Book……of……. Forever……. Stories.”

And then I did what I had waited so long to do but had never done. I opened the book.

The pages were blank!

I gasped. I began turning pages as rapidly as possible. Single pages no more, now it was five, ten pages at a time. But it was all the same! Nothing written, no hint that anything ever had been written!

And then, I saw it. A sheet of paper peeking out from the front cover—a handwritten note from…Guess Who?

Dear Clara: The stories in this book were not meant to be written. They were meant to be told. They were passed down from my ancestors to my grandparents, to my parents, to me, and now to you. The stories are our way of imparting what’s important in life to our children: the values of love, forgiveness, compassion, charity, and sacrifice. They were passed on verbally because, in that way, they could never be lost, misplaced, or forgotten.

Tell these stories to Zoe as I have told them to you and don’t be afraid to add to them. The stories are part of us. They are part of you. And now, they will become part of Zoe. It is truly what makes these stories…well…forever stories.

Love, Dad

I stared at that note from my father for a long time. My tears punctuated each sentence until I folded up the note, a letter that was probably very much like the one that had been passed down to my father by his ancestors. And very much like the one I would someday write to Zoe.

And then I did the only thing I could think to do. The thing that seemed right and pure and perfect. I stood and walked over to Zoe’s crib, looked down at my precious, beautiful daughter, and whispered, “Say, Zoe. How about a story?”

The EndA 

David Bachmann is retired after forty years as a special-education teacher working with and sometimes reading to youths with autism and emotional challenges. He enjoys writing and lives in California with his wife, Jay, and Scout, their Labrador Retriever.

a frequent contributor to Liguorian

The book was large and leather-bound. I remember being told when I was quite young that it had been in my father’s family for a long, long time. I wouldn’t hold it in my hands until many years later.

My mom did mom things. You know—cooking lasagna, baking chocolate-chip cookies, picking out what I was going to wear to school, making sure I brushed my teeth.

But it was my father who read to me.

He was a bricklayer. And because he was in such demand, he sometimes didn’t get home until after dinner, which was close to my bedtime. But no matter how tired he was, he always made time to read to me from The Book of Forever Stories.

He would retrieve the book from a high shelf in his closet, call out, “Clara, time for a story,” then limp to my room and lower himself into a chair that was too small for him. He would carefully open the book as if unveiling some ancient treasure, then slowly lift each page, softly lower it, before moving on to the next one. This nightly ritual could take several minutes as my father searched for the perfect story to read to me.

And when he found the right story, the perfect story, he would clear his throat and begin to read in a clear, crisp voice that seemed to be reserved just for me. There was no impersonation of voices. No tense rendering of the words. He just read the story, his words sketching a vivid portrait of strange lands, whimsical characters, and amazing deeds amongst the deepening shadows of my bedroom.

And oh, the stories he told! Stories of kindness, sacrifice, charity, unconditional love, and compassion for others. Like the tale of a boy who was born unable to walk who donated his most prized possession, a stuffed bear, to a fundraiser to buy a new bell for the town’s only church. Once installed, the local priest invited the boy to be the first to ring the bell as he, more than anyone, had given the most of what he had for its purchase. And when the boy grabbed the rope and pulled, it lifted him from his wheelchair before setting him gently on the ground where he was able to stand on his own for the first time. And then there was the tale of an old farmer who had the finest crops in the land and generously shared his bounty with his neighbors. The secret of his success, which he tried to keep hidden lest his neighbors think him crazy, was that once the sun went down, he strolled amongst the rows of corn, barley and wheat, singing and strumming his guitar. One day, the farmer became ill, too sick to tend to his crops, and he began to despair lest they fail. But that night, he awoke to a strange sound and looked outside to see his neighbors—children, parents, and grandparents alike—doing what he had done so many times, strolling along the furrowed rows, quietly humming in unison, serenading the crops. 

Thus did I learn about the world, what it was, what it could be, what it might be when love, kindness, and compassion became one’s guide.

As I got older, I dreamed of the day I would get to read from The Book of Forever Stories. And when I was in fourth grade, I saw my chance.

“Dad,” I quietly began, once he had finished reading me a tale, “our teacher gave us an assignment to tell the class a fairy tale. Could I pick one from The Book of Forever Stories?”

My father considered this, delicately cradling the book in his lap as if it were a small child.

“Well, Clara, I suppose you could do that,” he spoke with great solemnity. “But…” and at this he paused, “I think it’s time you tried writing a story of your own.”

“I’ve never written a story before,” I protested. “Where would I find one?”

“The earth is brimming with stories, Clara,” my father countered. “Just look around.”

So, I did.

I looked everywhere on earth. Inside our house, at the park across the street, even under my bed. No stories.

When my father came home from work the next day, I met him at the door with a firm pronouncement. “There are no stories on our earth, Dad.”

“In that case,” he answered with a slight smile, “why don’t you try looking up.”

So, I did.

“Still no stories, Dad,” I grumbled, after giving the sky over our house a quick once-over.

“What did you see?” 

“Blue sky. Some puffy, white clouds.”

“What did the clouds look like?”

At this, I hesitated. “I’m not sure. Baby chickens. Yes, baby chickens on skateboards.” 

“Sounds like the makings of a story to me. Why don’t you try writing about it?”

So I did.

“The Magical Clouds in The Kingdom of Kind”

By Miss Clara Lynn Jones, Grade Four

Queen Maya was a good queen. But her Kingdom, the Kingdom of Kind, was very poor. It was so poor that the children did not have any toys to play with. But Queen Maya had a magic wand that could make clouds change to any shape she wanted. Each day she visited every home in her kingdom and asked one child in each home, just one, what toy they would like. Then, she would wave her wand and the clouds would make that toy in the sky. When she went to one home, a little girl named Anna answered. Queen Maya asked what toy she would like but Anna got one of her five brothers and let him choose. Each day, the Queen would come to Anna’s house but always, Anna would get one of her brothers instead of herself.

When the Queen got old, she was too tired to visit each home and needed someone to take over for her. So, she called all the children to her castle and gave her wand to Anna and declared her to be the kindest and most loving child in all the kingdom. 

The End

Everyone liked my story. My teacher entered it in a competition for our school and it won first prize. When my name was announced at the ceremony, my father was sitting in the front row, wiping away tears.

My father continued reading stories to me each night until I got to junior high, when things began to change. After-school activities and homework competed with my father’s nightly readings. When I reached high school, volleyball, marching band, and school dances left no room for bedtime stories.

I didn’t see The Book of Forever Stories again until I was thirty years old. By then, I had completed college with a degree in creative arts, met my husband, moved to Geneva, Illinois, and given birth to Zoe, a beautiful baby girl.

Sadly, my mom did not get to see the birth of her first grandchild. But my father, who was still living in California where I had grown up, came to visit us in Geneva when Zoe was nine months old.

“Dad, meet Zoe, your granddaughter,” I announced with joy.

My father scooped Zoe into his massive arms and cradled her close. There was an intimacy, a gentleness I had not seen in this bricklayer I called Dad.

Over the next week my father bonded with his granddaughter and she with him. My father fed her, sang to her, rocked her to sleep and, yes, even changed her diapers, reminding me with a wry smile, “It wasn’t that long ago that I was changing yours, Clara.”

And then, before we knew it, it was time for him to go.

His ride to the airport was on its way when my father wheeled his enormous suitcase into the foyer, opened it and extracted a large bundle swathed in linen. I knew what it was before he unwrapped it.

“The Book of Forever Stories!” I squealed.

“I want Zoe to hear a story before I go,” my father casually remarked as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do.

“Don’t you think she’s a little too young to appreciate it, Dad? I mean—she’s only nine months old.”

Ignoring me, my father crept quietly into Zoe’s room where she was napping. Peering into her crib, he whispered, “How about a story, Zoe?”

Zoe’s eyes popped open, and she giggled. 

“Humph,” my father grumbled, “you’re never too young for The Book of Forever Stories.”

Dad lowered himself into a chair that was too small for him and opened the book. In a light too dim to see clearly, he slowly turned the pages, searching for the perfect story, something he had done with me countless times so many years before. Having found what he was looking for, he paused, squinted at me across the room and quietly remarked, “If you don’t mind, Clara, I’d like to have a moment alone with my granddaughter.”

Reluctantly, I backed out and gently pulled the door shut—but not all the way. I leaned in, listening for the familiar, warm, soothing voice of my father.

But when he began to read, I backed away, startled. He was reading a story to Zoe, all right. My story.

“There once was a beautiful kingdom,” he quietly spoke, “called the Kingdom of Kind. And though it was a very beautiful kingdom, it was also very poor. So poor, in fact, that the children had no toys. But the Queen, Queen Maya, had a magic wand that could make clouds look like anything she wanted.”

I crept quietly away, wondering if I had somehow misheard my father’s words. Perhaps he was reading a different story that just sounded like mine. Or maybe, in my youthful quest for a story as a fourth-grader, I had simply recounted one my father had read to me when I was a baby, like he was now doing with Zoe.

There was no time for reflection. Dad’s airport ride had arrived and, having finished his story to Zoe, he was now saying tearful goodbyes to my husband and me, promising to be back for Zoe’s first birthday.

And just like that, he was gone. And the house became very, very quiet and a little sad.

But our sweet Zoe, perhaps sensing my sadness, began making Zoe sounds, drawing me back to Mommy mode. I quickly made my way to her.

The late afternoon sun seeped around the edges of the blinds, sending a surreal array of arrowlike shafts about the room. One of them landed squarely on the chair from which my dad had been reading to Zoe, illuminating a familiar yet unexpected old friend.

The Book of Forever Stories!

For a few moments, I imagined myself running through the airport in a stereotypical movie kind of way, clutching the unwieldy book to my chest, shouting, “Stop, Dad! Stop! You left this behind!”

And then I smiled at my foolishness, realizing the truth of the thing. Dad had left the book for me.

With a reverence reserved for a priceless gift from my father, I slowly approached and picked up the precious heirloom. It was heavy, as I expected it to be—I would have been disappointed if it had not been. I sat in the chair that my father had been sitting in only minutes ago and brushed my fingers lightly over the embossed words on the leather cover, softly speaking them as I did so. “The……Book……of……. Forever……. Stories.”

And then I did what I had waited so long to do but had never done. I opened the book.

The pages were blank!

I gasped. I began turning pages as rapidly as possible. Single pages no more, now it was five, ten pages at a time. But it was all the same! Nothing written, no hint that anything ever had been written!

And then, I saw it. A sheet of paper peeking out from the front cover—a handwritten note from…Guess Who?

Dear Clara: The stories in this book were not meant to be written. They were meant to be told. They were passed down from my ancestors to my grandparents, to my parents, to me, and now to you. The stories are our way of imparting what’s important in life to our children: the values of love, forgiveness, compassion, charity, and sacrifice. They were passed on verbally because, in that way, they could never be lost, misplaced, or forgotten.

Tell these stories to Zoe as I have told them to you and don’t be afraid to add to them. The stories are part of us. They are part of you. And now, they will become part of Zoe. It is truly what makes these stories…well…forever stories.

Love, Dad

I stared at that note from my father for a long time. My tears punctuated each sentence until I folded up the note, a letter that was probably very much like the one that had been passed down to my father by his ancestors. And very much like the one I would someday write to Zoe.

And then I did the only thing I could think to do. The thing that seemed right and pure and perfect. I stood and walked over to Zoe’s crib, looked down at my precious, beautiful daughter, and whispered, “Say, Zoe. How about a story?”

The End

David Bachmann is retired after forty years as a special-education teacher working with and sometimes reading to youths with autism and emotional challenges. He enjoys writing and lives in California with his wife, Jay, and Scout, their Labrador Retriever.