Welcome to Episode 39 of Navigating the Fustercluck—a podcast full of snackable insights to help you navigate the everchanging world of creativity & marketing. My name is Wegs, like eggs with a W, joining you from Deaf Mule Studios in Dallas, for a special edition of the show. A common thread thru many of our episodes has been the art and impact of storytelling. Since this is the week of my birthday, and some of you have asked for more details about me personally, I thought that we’d share a story I told live on stage for a local storytelling group called Oral Fixation. It’s a story about me and my father. It’s a story that may just give you some ideas on how to present your stories. Business. And personal. A story called, The Triple Special Day: The Triple Special Day With an uncertain hand, I took the dull shears, and cut off 5 locks of his bone-white hair. One for my mother. One for my older sister, Lea. One for my younger sister, Karen. One for me. And one for which I had special plans. 30 minutes had passed since my father had drawn his last breath. Staring down at his face, two things struck me: First, I was not placed on this earth to be a barber. Second, over the years, my father and I had come a long way. A long, long way from the gaping silences, and years of me going M.I.A. from every major holiday but Christmas. Back then, it seemed like only 2 topics were non-combustible. Sports was one. Bonafide Cheeseheads, fondue, and not blood, ran through our veins. Then there were my grandparents. Mama & Papa had died while I was a toddler, yet lived on in stories. Take their wedding… Grandpa called it… The Triple Special Day. As dad told it, after WWI, Austria— lederhosen, not kangaroos— was hurting– badly. Still, on August 4th, 1924, my grandfather, two of his brothers, and their three brides, married in one large ceremony in a small village called Putzleinsdorf… (Population 300, counting the cows & pigs. 400, with the chickens & geese.) According to the local paper: Probably never has our place experienced a celebration like that on August 4th. To escape hard times, 11 days later, all six boarded the Hansa, the ship that would take them to America. While they often dreamt of it, my grandparents were too poor to return. Over the years, Grandma would helplessly sob over the letters announcing the deaths of her sister, brother, friends and father. The closest my grandparents ever got back to Austria was when dad took them to see the Sound of Music. Sometimes, I would ask him, Dad, do you think you’ll ever visit Austria? We’ll see, he’d say. For me, however, it was only a question of when. Shortly before my 28th birthday, my answer finally arrived. The U.S. Postal Service kindly delivered it to my doorstep… At the time, I was living the dream, but not sleeping much in Chicago. The mad boy had become a “mad man”, writing ads for beer. At long last, I felt free of my parents, teachers and my hometown of Kenosha, Wisconsin. Or as I called it back then, “Kenowhere”. I felt like I’d made it— at least at first. Over time, a creeping feeling started gnawing at me– I couldn’t escape my way to happiness. Not even a world-class city like Chicago truly felt like home. Disappointing, because growing up, I just knew that Chicago was my pre-ordained destination. The letter my mailman delivered that November day would take me another direction, and time zone all together. Even in a mountain of circulars, bills and my 12th overdue notice from the Columbia House Records Club, this letter stood out. The envelope had striped-edges, looking as if it actually cared about the message it cradled inside. The postage was like art. I took this odd-looking letter down the block to my favorite hot dog stand—the infamous Wiener Circle,