My dad and I spent many hours together, driving from one Army fort to another. He pulled a trailer with a pickup truck while my mom and sister followed in our car. Dad was an entertainer of the arts. No, he was never an actor he was a storyteller. In the old truck, there were big heater vents that opened or closed from levers on the dashboard. On one trip, he told me about a tiny little family that had moved into the vent to live. I got down on the floor and he told me to knock on the door. I knocked and it opened. There they were, a tiny man, his wife and two kids, sitting inside. My imagination took over and I saw the whole house including furniture. I spent hours playing on the floor. I don’t remember what happened to them, but I really did see them, didn’t I?
Do children have imaginations now a days or has technology ruined them with games and videos. When my boys were little, I refused to have a game box in the house. Their entertainment was of their own making.  My oldest built fantastic things with his Legos. My youngest built a racetrack out of tape on his desk, spending hours with his hot wheels. Yes, he had snuck in my supply and used rolls and rolls of tape, but he used his imagination and made something on his own. My middle son spent time under a garbage can with the water hose. Don’t ask me, I haven’t a clue what he was playing, but he was staying cool doing it. They played king of the slide at the park, or warriors on wild steeds (bikes) with fluttering capes (towels) clasped (safety pinned) around their necks and mighty swords (sticks) to charge into battle.
Over the years, they thanked me for not caving in when they whined about not having a gaming system. They recognize the advantage they had over their friends, while exercising their bodies and imagination. Today all three are creative in the art of imagination. One son paints and has created clay formations. Another one desires to design and build wood furniture. The oldest designs and builds bass guitars. On one bass, he didn’t use a single power tool. I don’t have the ability to look at a piece of wood and see anything, let alone a musical instrument, but I have had the joy to watch him finish it and play. 
Like I said my father was a storyteller, but it wasn’t until he was 70 that he began to write them down. For instance, he has written stories about every car he has ever owned and there were quite a few. You would start reading and soon you were in the front seat heading down a road feeling the upholstery against your back. He wrote both fiction and nonfiction, but one day he said he ran out of ideas, that summer stories and my imagination began to flow from my fingers to the keyboard. Did he pass on his gift? I would have to say yes he did.

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