Both Directions At Once

I come from a long line of storytellers. Anyone who has ever gotten to know us says the same. I've heard the phrase "gift of gab" more than a hundred times when describing my dad's side of the family. I didn't know anyone older than my grandma, so that's mostly my frame of reference, but I've heard stories about her parents and theirs.

Growing up, people would always tell me how great my dad was at storytelling. A seemingly 5-minute conversation would quickly turn into 45 minutes before you knew it. Same with his siblings, Aunt Ruth and Uncle Finley. Dad is the youngest of three, with five years between each of them, all having that same gift of gab. Their stories grab hold of you. Even something as mundane as going to check the mail can turn into the most immersive scene with main characters and origin stories, and tragedy.

I remember my uncle telling me about making oatmeal as a kid. Something to note, he's pretty particular about certain foods and how they're prepared, his oatmeal being one of them. But I remember being completely drawn into this story as a kid. I could see him there at the kitchen table getting the balance just right. I could smell the aromas in the kitchen and hear the conversations in each person's voice, even though I didn't know what they sounded like back then. I could actually feel the thud of the bowl as it was broken over his head and feel the warmth of the oatmeal pouring down his forehead. The descriptions were so poignant and clear. And I could taste that perfectly balanced buttery and sweet oatmeal when he tasted it, noting how it was quite possibly the best oatmeal he'd ever made.

My grandmother's friends often spoke of her storytelling. They would recall specific stories she would tell, like her taking train rides as a young girl down to El Dorado to visit her grandmother, or holding elevator buttons during crucial moments in treacherous political climates. One of my favorites was the opossum story. She would tickle herself as she retold it, and it never got old. No matter how many times I heard it, it felt fresh and exciting. Even if I knew how it ended, I would still get sucked into the description of the environment and what was running through her head in that moment. It was like she was reliving it every single time, and we were all there with her. As a proper southern lady who has called someone to come over and help her get an opossum out of her house, of course, the first thing she thinks of is, "Should I prepare some snacks to have ready for when they get here?" and "What do you serve at an opossum party, cheese and crackers?"

There was a last time she told that story. None of us knew it was the last time. That's how last times work. But the story didn't end with her. Her friends still tell it. And here I am telling a version of it right now, to people who never got to sit in that room with her. That's what a good story does. It keeps going without you.

Christy told me once that one of the things she fell in love with in high school was the way I told stories. The passion behind them. I didn't think much of it at the time. I was just talking.

That's the thing about inheriting something. You don't always know you're carrying it.

People have been telling me since I started blogging again that I need to write a book. That my stories make them feel something. I keep thinking about what that means. It's the same thing I've been chasing my whole life on the saxophone. Not to be understood, necessarily, but just to make someone feel something they didn't expect to feel.

John Coltrane said it better than I can. "The emotional reaction is all that matters. As long as there's some feeling of communication." That's the same thing I've been reaching for. He also said, "I start in the middle of a sentence and move both directions at once."

Something feels urgent, and I start there. Then I find my way back to the beginning and forward to the end at the same time. I thought that was just how my mind worked. But thinking back on my uncle at that kitchen table, and my grandmother giggling through the opossum story for the hundredth time as if it had just happened that morning, they were doing the same thing.

Last night, my son Trey played his first official paid gig. He's earned tips sitting in with me at Moody Brews before, but this was different. Someone had hired him. As the bassist. For the night.

I've always been proud of my kids. But last night was something else.

The band was hitting hard, and Trey was there every step of the way. Never a question of whether he was in the right place or knew what was happening stylistically. He was right there with us. Inside the story we were telling, telling it with us.

We hit a lot of emotions throughout the night. Excitement, nostalgia, love, sadness, heartbreak, hope, curiosity. But it wasn't until the last song that it got everyone.

We ended with Rainbow Connection. Chris started in on the piano intro, and when I came in on the melody, Trey was there. Clear and confident. I could feel it. We were matching emotions. Christy cried. The entire room could feel it. In that moment, we disappeared into the story we were telling together, and nobody was performing anything. We were just inside it.

I've played that song countless times. It never gets old.

I think that's what we do. We start where the feeling is. And when we get there, we aren't performing a memory. We're back inside it, pulling you in with us. The same way my dad would watch people taste his food. Eyes on their face, waiting, like he was tasting it all over again right along with them.