When I was a kid my dad would occasionally tell us stories about a young boy who owned a magic bottle of bubbles. The bubbles transported him around the world, rescued stray dogs and pretty much handled any difficult situation.

What was surprising about the stories wasn’t really the magic of the bubble but that my engineer dad was tucking me into bed with these very fanciful tales. This man whom I saw as a practical, analytical sort of guy came up with stories that were truly flights of fancy.

Those stories always stayed with me, not so much because of the plot but because of the moments spent with my dad.

Years later, many years later, I found myself recreating the magic bubble in all of it’s glory for my grandchildren. Of course the content was a bit updated. The new bubble was highly networked and had amazing communication skills. But there was still enough magic and heroic deeds left to entertain a six year old. He would egg me on, asking for more and more adventure while his sister seemed mesmerized by the possibilities that a magic bottle could represent. The bubble was always a big hit and a hugely successful way to say goodnight.

For me the best part was knowing that somehow my dad, their great grandfather, was right there with me sending the bubble on yet another mission of importance as I tucked the kids in for the night.