My father bowled on a Thursday night league. As long as I can remember, Thursday night was his bowling night. Sometimes in the summer I could go along, but most of the time, it was a Thursday night mystique. Who knows what happened at the bowling alley? But for me the best part of Thursday nights was after bowling night, when my dad and his dad would sit around our kitchen table, drinking coffee (now that I am an adult, I wonder if they were up just a tad?) and telling me stories. Stories of family, stories of work, and stories of war. The thing was, my grandfather was a master, and I never knew it. He had the timing down like it was his own heartbeat. He knew just when to tell you the one thing that tied the silly little tale he was telling into your own life and how you would be a better person because of his story of life at the Royal Typewriter company. Or Union Carbide, who killed more Indians that John Wayne. Did I mention he was a bit ironic?