The Art in Storytelling

You see, there is an art to it. Art is more appreciative with age. Alas, I am getting older, and I enjoy telling stories because one day I won’t be able to.


Stories from Grandpa Mac always deserved the most intent ears and minds. They are and will always fill many hearts with joy, humor, and truths. One night we were all sitting at the dinner table. I had just helped grandma out of her ‘comfortable chair’—the one with big cushions, she loved sitting in this sofa because I elevated her legs to alleviate the swelling in her ankles and knees—and into her mobile cruiser; her wheel chair. She had been in rehabilitation centers, nursing homes, and hospitals for the prior five and a half months and it was apparent by her excitement and facial expressions that she was very happy to be amongst loved ones in her own home once more. I remember asking how the two had met. Of course I knew this information, in fact had heard it many times over, something told me it would be my last chance to hear it. I wanted to hear it again, and again—for as long as I live. But knew it would be my turn to tell the story soon enough. One’s nakedness is only exposed in the length of one’s memory. So I paid particular attention this time. The loves would banter with the dialogue as if they were fencing.
          “I thought he was obnoxious. An absolute clown. He always had to have the center of attention. Not much has changed, can't you see?” my grandmother would start with an exaggerated roll of the eyes—she’d flip her head as if casting a line into the ocean with her neck.
          “You loved it dear—and still do to this day. And you always will till your last and then into the great unknown.”
          “I’ll always think you’re obnoxious!” she'd say.
          “Remember the first time you caught my attention?” he raised his right eyebrow along with the right corner of his mouth, his teeth held a comfortable yellow tint.
          “Oh brother, how could I forget? We were in the playground on the first day of school—third grade.” Her arms waved wildly in excitement. “I saw him from a mile away. You see, he was running all the way across the grounds. Right for me. Then this stinker just hits me in the head with his school book. He ran all that way just to hit me. Oh, you were such a rascal you. I had my hair all done by mother that morning, she was so proud, I looked so pretty, and you messed it all up. The first day of school and you had me looking like a bird’s nest!”
         “I would never,” Grandpa now looked to the ceiling with his brow, fingers twiddling as if a perfect angel. He looked like a schoolchild hiding his damage.
         “When did you two first have feelings for one another?” I interrupted.
         “Well—I always thought he was cute and but it was when I had to practically make him ask me to the winter dance in Junior high," she smiled, her eyes never leaving Grandpa. "He was just too shy. He would only joke and play rough—never was too sensitive in showing his emotions. He made his friend ask me to the dance so he didn’t have to—ooh, he knew I wanted him to ask me too. Boy was I mad! His friend had the nerve to ask me.” Her features brightened and she glowed as she allowed the seed of her story to bud.
         “His friend wanted to know if I would go with him to the dance but I said, ‘No thank you, you are a sweet boy, cute too, but I’m expecting Donald McKenna to ask me to the dance.’ The poor boy went back to your grandfather with his tail in between his legs. He told Don that I meant business. He told him what I had said. Don comes up to me the next day in the school yard with his head down as if he were looking for a nickel. And he murmured, ‘Will you go to the dance with me?’” Her smile was as wide as the infinite horizon.
                “And that was that?” I wondered as Grandpa smiled confidently.
         “Not quite—he took some time to get used to. Joke after joke he comes. He does not, and can not stop. It’s as if he were a machine that spits out a joke every ten seconds!”
         “I bet that meant no boring conversations or an utter silence at dinner or on dates,” I encouraged. 
                “He certainly did keep it interesting," Grandma said. "Never knew if he’d serve a heavy narrative that was sure a laugh in full confidence or dish out petty one-liners in attempt to keep me smiling. Whatever the case—it worked. We’re together now, happy, smiling, and that’s all that matters.”
         “I have no idea how you managed,” my grandfather chuckled as he fought off a cough at the same time. He rolled his eyes and shrugged both with his mouth and shoulders.
         “Well—with those cousins of yours it’s a wonder why I didn’t scram at the start. And you know what they did?” she asked me.
                “His imagination can’t stretch that far,” Grandpa said with a sip.
                “One evening I brought over pictures of Don and I to the first family dinner I was invited to. Sally and Sue, his cousins, threw the pictures right into the gravy! The gravy! They smeared it in and made sure our smiles were good and ruined. Boy—they had a good laugh watching me cry.”
         “Oh that? That? That I told you dear was an accident—they meant nothing by it.”
         “They were laughing and pointing while they did this,” she then made a motion with her able hand in the air, as if smoothing wood with sandpaper.
         “It was because I wasn’t Irish—” she added. “Well, I have Irish in me, but I’m not full Irish like his family. I have a German last name.”
         “That might have had something to do with it,” he then bellowed out a hearty laugh.
         “See? He always contradicts himself. He proves himself wrong. All the time,” she pointed at Grandpa with accusation and wide agitated eyes.
         “Those were the days," my grandpa paused for a sip. “There were so many families and clans. Things are much different now. Everyone is spread out across the country and it is much harder to have a close knit family. Communication is hard to come by on a regular and healthy basis, unless over phone or internet. That’s impersonal, and the interaction of two people is tainted and unhealthy without being close enough to touch. That Greek town where you went to high school reminds me of St. Louis when we were your age—what was the name of the town where you went to school?”
         “Tarpon Springs. So everyone in St. Louis knew each other’s business and was in daily contact?” I asked.
         “Oh dear—the women would always just stop by during the days for hourly talks,” my grandma intercepted. “I had to leave the home some days just to be alone for longer then a half an hour.” He stopped to whistle a quick tune, lean back and smile, to wiggle his fingers.
         “On the weekends the whole family would gather at our house,” Grandpa continued. “The men would go to the basement and play poker, drink and joke, smoke cigars and swear while the women would be upstairs in the living room or kitchen gossiping about God knows what. I was too young to ever play poker with the men and when I was of age I had no desire. I was put to bed about eight thirty on Friday nights, yet often snuck out after they kissed me goodnight but before the company arrived at 9. I would scurry down the basement steps with socks on to muffle the suction created by the arcs of my feet. Not to mention I enjoyed sliding across the wood floors, passed doors to avoid being seen. I usually hid in a spot directly across from my old man in the basement, atop of a sack of potatoes, in the shadows, at an angle where I wouldn’t have a problem being seen.”
         Grandpa took a moment to reflect as he enjoyed a draw from his glass of Bushmills. I had brought him a bottle of Black Bush from Ireland—and we were enjoying the last few glasses—which happened to also be my first with him. He studied the glimmering crystal rocks that clinked against the shamrock printed, gold rimmed glass.
         “One thing I noticed,” he continued. “Is that he always kept a shot of whiskey waiting content by his side until just the right time. He would never lend it even a glance—as if it were not there at all. If anyone questioned if he intended to drink it, he would give a gentle nod, and say no more. The shot would just sit there lonely as he made use to many cans and bottles of beer. I remember this one time he was playing Tripoly with Thomas, his brother, the three Donahue brothers, and Jonathan O’Reilly. The hours they had to spare were winding down as was the excitement of the mob’s commentary. Pops lost nearly all his money but was determined to change his misfortune. The weeks prior he could not shake a terrible losing streak, and the effects of it made way to after dinner fights with Mom. So, he knew this weekend could not play the same tune to his previous miserable history at poker.”

         I then swished a swig of whiskey from wall to wall and could hear the burn of Coke mixing on my taste buds. Grandpa’s story took over, and it was as if I were sitting with my back against the cold concrete wall, knees and legs tucked between interlocked arms atop a bag of mushy potatoes.
         
"I’m all in." I heard my Pops say.
         “Are you an idiot?” Thomas said. “Just last week you spent two nights at my house. Your wife has had enough. Don’t waste what you need; as a matter of fact, don’t waste what you don’t have.”
         The case was thought to be closed.
         “I’m in no need, especially for your opinion. I will stay with my decision—you should never underestimate my confidence,” Pops said.
         
Grandpa took a brief break from his narrative to ponder on what happened next. “You should have seen the look on Thomas’ face—he sat in stone for a whole minute before he figured Pops was bullshitting.”
         “Go on,” I say.
         
          “What else you want to bet?” Thomas looked on edge with curiosity. “Your car? Your mortgage? Your only son?!?” Thomas considered all of this and agreed he would not be beaten by his brother’s bluff. He pushed a fourth of his money, the sum of which tripled that of Pops into the center of the round table. “Up the ante a bit.”
        As Thomas said this Pops looked down in dismay, in near defeat—desperation. He then began to pull on his ring finger with fury until the lone sound of solid gold striking oak echoed up the stairwell, “That would be a raise.”
        There was not another sound in the room besides the increasing, synchronized pacing of each occupant's pulse. Me father’s eyes held a deep resemblance to coal and his mouth arced as if made of the same steel used to construct the famed monument of the Mississippi. He looked capable of murder. Thomas looked as though he had found his fate to be hell, he was noticeably nervous, twitching and such—he even looked merciful. The decision was his—and there was to be only once to make it. He could ruin his own brother, shatter his married life and load us children with deficiencies, or he could fold in the face of his pride.
         “You are a sick son of a bitch you know that?!” his deck of cards were then placed defiantly face down on the table with a sigh of frustration and defeat.       
        Pops gathered all the money and folded several bundles of bills to place in a variety of overcoat pockets.
            He took his shot, and squared off with Thomas, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t speak of your mother that way,” and began to make his way to the stairs.
            “By the way, what did you have—the magical hand?” Thomas asked.
          “Not even a pair,” he turned and lent my uncle a wink before his shadow broadened as he made his way up into the stair light, whistling a mellow trumpet as his footsteps left a lasting impression.

--kpn--

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