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Chapter One
The Buffalo
When I was little we called Dad's bathrobe his "buffalo." I don't know why we called it that, but we did. He traveled a lot during those years, selling textbooks to schools all over New England. When he came home Friday night, one of the first things he did was to put on that big, white terrycloth bathrobe along with his slippers. We would snuggle hard against his buffalo while he read stories to us before bed.
On Sunday night Dad loaded up his car and left to sell books. By midweek we would start pestering Mom. Could we get out Dad's buffalo? Just for a little while? She usually refused at first, but after a while she'd sigh and give in.
We'd race upstairs to the closet in Mom and Dad's bedroom. The buffalo always hung on a particular hook. We would jostle each other to be the first to pull it down and drag it downstairs to the living room. Then we'd wrap it around ourselves while we watched TV. The buffalo was big enough for two or even three kids to nestle inside its shaggy white bulk. Beyond its warmth and softness, the most wonderful thing about Dad's buffalo was how it had soaked up his essence, his smell. We would sit there, wrapped in the warmth and comforting scent of the father we missed so much. I discovered that if I closed my eyes and breathed in the smell, I could almost believe he was actually there, holding us in his strong arms.
Today the word buffalo makes me think of the mighty beasts that roamed the Great Plains until they were almost wiped out by hunters in the late 1800s. But for me the word has another, more personal meaning that's connected to my father. It reminds me of missing him all those nights when he was gone, plus the comfort and security I felt when he came back home.
How to Write Your Life Story. Copyright © by Ralph Fletcher. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from How to Write Your Life Story by Ralph Fletcher
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