Ray: the Storyteller

Raymond:
Storyteller & Friend

"Wellllllllll...." If Ray answered you with that word, long-drawn out for about three seconds of your day, you better sit down, because the answer would take a while. It would be worth your time, but you had to slow down. Maybe he did it because the shop was inside of Mickan's curve, forcing traveler and customer to slow down, anyway. Maybe it was because his brain was so full of stories he had to sort them out.  Maybe he wanted you to know for sure you were getting it straight from the horse's mouth. Maybe it was because out in Walburg, folks still greeted each other with a "howdy," a handshake, and a sit-a-spell way of life when a job was done.

I am convinced his motto was "Never tell a two-minute story in two minutes when you can do it in five, unless you're calling the sheriff or the ambulance, and then you better just get to it, because those 911 operators just don't have patience to sit and listen to this story about why we need their help in the first place, although that might be good for them to know about how that time when so & so called and the ambulance had to drive by the house four times - this was back before houses had actual numbers and not just rural route mail box assignments - but this ain't the time for that part of the story, so I reckon y'all better get out here pretty quick, huh?" Or, at least something like that.

The omnipresent matchstick or toothpick would dangle loosely from the corner of his mouth, maybe a throwback to when he and everyone else smoked, and bounce to the cadence of his lower lip, occasionally rolling to the other corner, or being withdrawn and used like an old-school classroom pointer for emphasis.  His brow would furrow in concentration or to show the seriousness of the comment and information he would deliver. Grey coverall sleeves would dance as his hands gestured north, south, east or west to show you where the event happened or the person in question lived or came from.

Setting the hook...

               

But the sound effects were a big part of setting the stage. A single "tick" or "click" of the tongue against the teeth said more than the ominous "dum-dum" of Law and Order, letting the hearer know this was serious stuff. In ancient literature, Shakespeare could have used this sound to begin any of his famous tragedies. This would usually be followed by arms getting crossed, chin lowered slightly toward his chest, and then a baritone rumble, "Let me tell ya..." And he would. He would remember the names, places and details and, with the storyteller's way, he would weave it together so you understood how the event in question touched him, or a family, or one of the churches of the Walburg-Theon-Corn Hill metroplex. He wasn't name dropping, but name telling so you knew these were real people who had known or were experiencing real hurt. To emphasize a point, he would stop talking, purse his lips tight across his teeth - there was that "tick" again - push his head forward and retract it, maybe give a single shake to the side, then clear his throat and come to the sad conclusion, "It was a real hard time for them," repeating it once for emphasis, a half-octave lower, "a real hard time."

But, if it was a comedy, those arms would cross - or not - and a smile would spread over his face. He had Teddy Roosevelt teeth - a big, friendly grin - and they could never hold back the deep guffaw that rumbled out. His eyes lit up and, like a fisherman who just caught the biggest fish ever, he knew he had a good one on his line. His voice would rise and fall, like a fishing pole, keeping tension and giving slack. The storyline would dance up and down, side to side, details here, the setting there, swirling around just a bit so you had it all figured out, letting out a little more information, then reeling you back in for more. The twinkling in his eyes danced like sunlight on the water. A chuckle, or maybe an honest to goodness laugh, would burst out into the open. Now the question arose in the hearer's mind - just a whisper of a hint - is this true, or is it a story? Did Indians really roam Walburg two hundred years ago? Well, I guess it was possible, the hearer thinks. If a story, is it a local joke or is it one of his own invention? Wait - Cockleburr Indians? Why didn't we hear about them in Texas History? Like the eternal question, "How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop" - and he always had some of those in a glass candy jar on the counter for kids (of all ages) - the world may never know.

And he loved listening to a good story, too. He was a good listener. If he interrupted you - one arm, suddenly unfolding, hand held out in a wait-a-minute stop sign - it was because he was missing a piece of information and he wanted you to give him the whole story, or maybe he had a tidbit to drop in to fill in your narrative. Maybe it was a person he knew, or a place he had been, or your story intersected with one of his own. It was his way of teaching storytelling, I guess, to help pull it out of you.  If you got him with a good joke, his laughter echoed in the shop. If the story touched him, his voice was thick and nit much more than a whisper. More than once, I saw a tear in the corner of his eye. More than once, he would say, "I gotta remember that one to tell ol' so & so..."

I had the privilege of listening to this storyteller for the good part of five years, working for him summers, Saturdays, and vacations. In my line of work, being able to tell a story is important. If folks don't want to listen, they'll never hear what I'm saying.

Last fall, I met a funeral director. We were talking about strange funeral stories, killing time - you should pardon the expression - before the family arrived at the church. He told me his story; it took about two minutes. I think he was of the Joe Friday school - just the facts. I knew I had to up my game to hook Joe Friday into the narrative. I invited him to have a seat. "Got a minute?" I said. "Might as well sit down." Then I got to it. I crossed my arms, a smile crept across my face, and a single guffaw erupted from deep within my chest. "Wellllllllllllll," I started, and like Jerry Clower (who was another good storyteller)  would say, I shucked that corn down to the cob. He interrupted me, once, with the observation, "That wasn't right!" I knew I had the fish on the line. Details, voice, information...all following the master storyteller. Ten minutes later, he was slapping his thigh, laughing. He looked at me. "You're a good storyteller," he said.

Thanks, I said. I learned from one of the best.