Every year, when the oak leaves would begin coloring our backyard and driveway with russet and crimson, and when the skies would turn gloomy and heavy and low, my father would begin telling us about the witch sisters.

The witch sisters were probably born on a piece of scrap mat board dad pulled from the bin under the work table in his old art gallery on 111th street.

Like bluish wisps of Bond Street smoke curling from his pipe, the sisters materialized into our childhoods.

In those days, he was a great storyteller. He spun the lives of the sisters through the autumn air as if he was weaving strands of DNA together - witch DNA - one part likable and one part evil.

Those sibling sisters were among his most creative productions. We'd rather hear about them turning someone into a frog then the history of the Union Stock Yards or some old building on Prairie Avenue. Give us the girls.

Before the internet, before Ghost Adventurers - before ghouls were cool - we could download the witches. Anywhere - on the front porch swing, accompanied by rain and thunder as we watched the autumn storms. In the station wagon on the way to Tippecanoe or Fish Lake. And at bedtime, where everyone would (and could) fit into the same bed, listening to the tall tales of the fall.

Tales beloved and remembered every Halloween.

Thanks to my father's artistic touch, we could see them in all of their wicked glory.

As the stories would unfold, the images were etched on left-over mat board and brown wrapping paper. Their pointy hats, warts and flowing black dresses. Personalities and quirks. Dark castles and haunted houses, teetering and comic; part Albert Gorey and Part Tim Burton. A spooky Dr. Seuss.

The stories were alternately scary and funny.

The witch sisters worked by day in a six-story room for making broomsticks. It had all the required materials - straw, sticks, and whatever else was needed - illustrated in magical detail. The Broom Room was the place where naughty children were taken; cleverly captured by the sisters and, until they were contrite or escaped, helped the sisters make their brooms.

When finished, they'd be eagerly tested; flown up into the cavernous space and accompanied by evil cackles and room-spinning moves. Quidditch before J.K. ever thought of it.

The children's punishment was always administered by the eldest sister with surprising fairness, but that lack of evil courage was resented by the younger sisters. They would complain and scheme behind her back. The matriarch was often found scolding her sisters for inappropriate acts; some of them unseemly - even for witches.

Everyone's favorite witch was the youngest of the sisters. She always carried fire - whether it was a lantern, torch, or matches. She was resentful and confrontational, and would always throw fire on those that got in her way. Or she'd burn things up. We loved her.

The middle sister lived in the shadow of the other sisters and unfortunately, I can't seem to remember much about her. But she had some big personalities in her family and it was easy to get overlooked.

The memories of the sisters are becoming somewhat foggy, like the Halloween scenes they lived in. But, in retrospect, the most remarkable part about the witch sisters is that a father of seven would find the time and the energy to give them life - and to share his creativity and excitement with all of us.

Which we all have today - in our own ways - thanks to my dad.

#family tales

Memories of the Witch Sisters