Just listened to my dad tell London a bedtime story “about a little boy named Bobby who wanted to be big.” Not the best story (didn’t have much of a plot or setting or tension) but it had good, simple character development. It was about Bobby who was born small, got big, and had white blonde hair. His sister was “bossy,” dad said, but the one actual event he described was about that sister saving him.
I remember the day Bobby decided to drive his electric car to the bottom of the hill in front of our house. He got stuck. And I “saved” him with some rope and a My Little Pony bike—still sporting training wheels.
That’s the story my Dad told when he told a story about Bobby, a story about Bobby who wanted to be big…
I don’t know what all this means but I find it interesting (and good) that my when my dad talks about my brother he can’t help but talk about me too.