A quartet

I spend a quite bit of time for work and pleasure thinking about how stories are made. I learned most of what I know from reading and writing, and some from just listening.

Saturday night, my friend Rick invited me to attend an Extempo storytelling event, a Vermont-version of "The Moth." Rick who is a poet and teacher also likes good stories and has studied their construction for more years than I.

The event was held in a coffee shop in Barre, Vt., and featured nine storytellers of various ages and abilities. The culmination involved a panel of judges choosing their favorites. Between Rick and I, we correctly guessed the second-place tie as well as the overall winner. 

Although not a winner, we both agreed that another storyteller had been successful. The heavyset, suspendered man had attempted the unconventional form (at least for this event) of offering a quartet of vignettes from his childhood. The scenes represented important moments of intimacy and personal truth.

Though none of the four stories attempted to illustrate large life lessons, Rick and I agreed their seeming simplicity disguised the storyteller's skill in selection and delivery. Though not a winner, he did a damn good job.

Here's a quartet of my own inspired by events from the weekend.

She carried lipstick and gum in her purse, and I loved her for painting my lips pink in a bathroom in Budapest. She showed the four-year-old me how to rub my lips together and then gave me a stick of gum to chew. I felt sophisticated for the first time as we rejoined my mother and baby sister at the tourist lookout. The lipstick eventually wore off and I'm still chasing the feeling. 

This particular path of devotion was a two-hour trip down a one-lane road to the town of Rutland, Vt. She suggested we meet for lunch at this halfway point between her home and mine. Delayed by a slow-moving truck, she was there when I arrived. Still taller than me, still wearing lipstick.

I went with the waitress' suggestion of cookie a la mode. She brought it in a cast iron skillet with two spoons. She took a scoop, then me. She, then me. I wasn't particularly hungry after the BLT, but still savored the sweetness.

Coffee done, bill paid, we walked up the street to her car. She pulled from it a western-style feather coat that had been her mother's. I tried it on. It felt warm and the silver buttons were engraved with patterns. I pulled up the fur hood and felt small and cozy in the puff of the coat, in the presence of this woman who will always be taller, always carry lipstick. 

Me and Marla