Why I Love My Dad

When my dad talks about history, he changes into a different person. He changes from the jokey man who, when I called him to ask when he'd be home, told me he was "driving north on a four-lane paved road", to someone who knows anything and everything. You can ask him about Hitler, Gandhi, Churchill, or Mandela, and he'll provide you with a mini-biography. His favorite person to talk about though? Mark Twain. When you ask him about Twain, his voice gets deep and powerful and seems to take on the tone of men yelling to each other along the Mississippi River, of young men evading their Aunt Pollys, of an old man, writing everything he knows. He stares off into the distance, and you know he's seeing Twain giving a speech or watching him write. He can tell you anything. My dad loves history. The facts, the people, the events.
My father is also an amazing storyteller. He can tell you about Gandhi and make it seem like a fairytale. Or not, depending on the tolerance of the listener.
After talking to him for about an hour tonight, I am left with only one question: Why is he a lawyer and not a history professor?