It was a Norah day, not a Ray day.

[KB.]

No Ray Lamontagne will be listened to while I write this story; only Norah and maybe some P-Funk. It was that kind of day; it was probably the best day I have had since I pulled back into town on June 4th. Hell it was the best day, and by far. A lot of different folks played a part in that. I'll tell some stories about them.



It started on the other side of good; mornings ain't so hot these days. By 2:30 it all started to change. I drove into my usual gas station to buy those cigarettes I had sworn off the night before. I was filing a nice sized fountain drink full of unsweetened caffeine. I look over and I see a familiar face smile and wave at me. It was an old teacher of mine, Mr. Bruce. I took drivers Ed with him, and economics. I was saved from taking U. S. Government by a new teacher we had; Mrs. Cindy Tatum (hey Tatum). This man was a story teller; talk about Big Fish. He had so many stories, more than me even; but he has a few decades on me and I am sure by the time I catch up to where he is now I can have him beat.



We talked, he asked what I had been up to, and I gave him the short version of the last seven or eight years. No posthumous proposals, cocaine, or too much gin and Jack Daniels. He said it was good to see me; I asked him about one of my favorite people in the entire world; another teacher named Mr. Duffey. I figured this was where they had been hanging out; where as Mr. Bruce put it; "they were solving the world's problems". He told me Bob (Mr. Duffey) was there in the mornings, I told him I might just stop in and hang out with the old goat. He told me to make sure I did; and I am going to in about six hours. I can not wait.



Let me tell you about Bob for a bit. Never has the world, seen a better teacher. He TAUGHT, he didn't give you busy work and go hang out in the lounge, he also didn't always follow a lesson plan. You never knew what you might learn if you just took the time to listen. That is why even though I have no love for science, I took honors biology, chemistry, and physics with him. I could have cared less about atoms, and the periodic table. I was there to learn. I took another class with him that I do not even remember the name of; the class didn't matter, the teacher did. When people ask the question, "If you could go back to high school and do it all over again would you?" My answer is usually no; but I would in a heart beat just to have him sitting his short self in front of the class teaching me again.



We had our times; he was probably the first person outside of family I cared enough about to get frustrated with, to get angry almost, I showed him the good side and the bad. We had two personalities that clashed though; volatile at times. I remember running out of his class one day; pissed off in only the way a cocky too sure of himself teen-ager could be. I remember yelling at him about treating me different; like he thought some other folks were better or some such ****. He confessed something that day; I was his favorite, at least one of them. I'll never forget that. I may not remember exactly how it went down; it was a long time ago, but I will never forget the day. I can see it right now.



When I graduated I had applied to the University of Alaska, Fairbanks. I got accepted, but never went. I couldn't imagine being six thousand miles away from home at the time. Go re-read that last sentence; funny isn't it? Imagine me not wanting to be as far away from here as possible. He made a bet with me, fifty dollars, that I would never see Alaska; I will eventually though. I Remember two years later being at Memphis state and sending him a letter; I don't remember what the letter was, but he wrote me back. People don't do that so much anymore. I still have that letter, but unfortunately it is in a box along with a menagerie of old love letters; letters I really ain't got any business pulling out. I asked my little brother where that box was, but he says he doesn't know. I think he does, but just doesn't want me messing around in them. Maybe he just doesn't.



Duffey always had stories to tell as well. I can not wait to see him tomorrow. I can not wait to give him an envelope with this story in it. Maybe I can convince him into having a beer with me one day soon. He likes Fosters; at least he used to, and I wonder if he still smokes those Chesterfields in the brown package. He always made fun of me for smoking menthols; told me they were sissy cigarettes.



I would go back in a heartbeat as long as he was teaching. He and Tatum still make me want to teach someday. I mean Teach, not just give out worksheets and go sit in the lounge.



I was already in a good mood and it was only going to get better.



I worked six hours and I had four customers. They were all the most pleasant people an underpaid TV salesman could have asked for. These customers all listened when they asked questions and I answered; they took my opinions and my knowledge over such mundane things as 720p versus 1080p televisions, plasma versus LCD. Whether Blue Ray or HD DVDs would be the standard. Good customers. They kept me entertained, busy, and smiling.



One of them didn't buy anything, but he was the best of the four. He was a teacher at one time himself. I love real teachers; my favorite professionals other than real bartenders and real long legged waitresses. I walked by and saw him looking at audio receivers. I could give a damn about the televisions, I don't watch television, but I love my music. I noticed he was holding a Norah Jones' "Come Away with Me" CD in his hand. He looked to be in his sixties, not your usual Norah Jones fan. I stopped and told him he had a damn fine CD to listen to. That was all it took; we talked for two hours. A man who tells stories can spot a man who wants to tell one a mile away. He talked like he hadn't been in civilization for forty years; like a man who never got to tell his stories anymore because the only people around to hear them had already heard them a hundred times.



You know what? Respect you damn elders; seriously. They have lived longer and seen more than you ever will. Their stories are important; YOU have to pass them on. You will have to tell your kids and grandkids those stories; you will be the voice when they are gone. Respect the stories. If you look bored because you have heard this one a hundred times then you ain't ever going to hear a new one.



He talked about how music was his first love but that he had ended up getting a science degree instead. How he wished when he had joined the Air Force he had been smart enough to join their band. How he had been in the band at Cal-State Fullerton, and had played at the Rose Bowl. He talked about being from Huntingdon, and I told him that was my neck of the woods. I asked him if he remembered the old Dylan song, "Heart of Mine", and when he said yes I told him to hold on I had a surprise for him. I went and grabbed one of the CDs I use to demonstrate the clarity of Klipsch speakers and I played Norah singing that old song for him.



He asked me if I played any instruments, and I told him I didn't but that I write a bit here and there, and that music is sometimes the instrument I use to get the story told. I told him about a story I wrote concerning Jolene, and a series of stories I wrote using Johnny Cash's "American V" album as inspiration. I'm going to meet him in a couple of weeks at a little car lot where some old guys get together and play guitar. I'm going to carry him a copy of that story.



He told me to go buy a guitar, an acoustic one and give it a shot. I told him I didn't have a musical bone in my body. He asked me if I had ever tried, and when I replied that I hadn't he asked me how in the hell did I know if I had a talent for it or not. He convinced me. I almost put "learn to play the guitar" on that list I wrote out. He told me he never thought he would learn another instrument. He already plays the saxophone, harmonica, and clarinet. Then he told me how he had finally picked up the guitar a few months back and made me feel the callous he had on his finger tip from learning to play it.



I told him to check out Mr. Lamontagne and tell me what he thought. Thanks by the way for introducing me to Ray, Sunshine. We talked about Johnny and Ray Charles; we talked about Django Reinhardt. We talked about how the songs that told stories were always the best ones. It was a good night at work. Days like today are the reason I still do what I do.



I called a friend and asked if she wanted to go to Chili's, get a drink or three and a bite to eat. We talked about old loves from way, way back. We laughed about some of them, and we talked about new people we know. We smoked too much, and we spent too much money. The company was good to have; not so much of that around here for me anymore. Glad I have someone to hang out with when I feel like hanging out.



The day hasn't ended yet, at least not for me. The good day was topped off by a nice message from a new friend. They seem to have a similar situation, as different as night and day; but the words used to describe it are close to one another. I told this person I tend to be long winded; that I sometimes say too much. The response was pure poetry.





"I think every one needs to take the opportunity to be long winded...it's not a bad thing...and if someone's in too much of a hurry to sit and take the time to really read or listen, then they aren't worth telling the story to. To me, writing is a way to express your life and things you've learned...share those things in a sense...so other people can learn those things, or understand you better. and if someone isn't willing to read it all, then the lesson and understanding wasn't meant for them, but for someone else.

What I'm saying is that you don't need to explain..."



Ahh, that is so gratifying; so simple and so true. Glad I sent that message, and glad I have a new friend to share stories with. Words are my life most days; the good and the bad ones. New friends were made and old friends were seen again; it was a wonderful day. It was a Norah day, not a Ray day.



KB



"Shut-up Boy"

~Mr. Duffey