I remember the last story my father told. He never thought himself a storyteller, though in the last few years of his life, I came to appreciate that he was an excellent one. A perk to distance living. Our visits became more like Visits, not just a quick shared meal or casually stopping by to help with something as was common when we lived two towns apart. When out-of-staters visit, you linger more around the dinner table, over coffee in the morning. There is time for more interesting conversations.
Dad’s stories were always simple and brief, merely a contribution to the conversation, in his mind. Each taking only a minute or two. My father was anything but a bullshitter and he never spoke on things he did not know about. In the company of those who talked beyond hunting, fishing, family, the outdoors, snowmobiling, boating, cooking, the trades, and a few other topics, he was a listener. I mean, he was friendly and excelled at small talk like any good Yankee, but bullshit just for the sake of being heard? Nah. There is a line in a song, “Ain’t it like most people? I’m no different; we love to talk on things we don’t know about.” It was the first song I'd heard on Friday, January 13, 2012, after hanging up the phone with him, learning of his diagnosis. I thought, that is not dad. He knows when to not talk.
He had a way of speaking clearly, pausing at just the right moment, offering the perfect inflection as needed. So subtle. And yet, having no idea that he was such a fine communicator. He was also funny; again, having no idea. In going through papers recently, we came across his "report cards" from his time in the Navy. Each one contained handwritten comments that spoke of his wit and sense of humor, that he was a real boost to his comrades in that regard. What a fine thing to have said about you.
The last time we saw dad it was a quiet visit. There was much listening and taking it all in on his part. But at one point he said, “I have a story to share with you.” Story. It was the first time he’d ever used the word to my knowledge, and likely his last. Maybe he always knew. He spoke of a recent hospital visit (he did a lot of out-patient trips for platelets and such) in which his doctor had a beautiful tattoo of Elvis on his forearm. “Not 70s velvet-Elvis, but ELVIS.” He said it was the nicest tattoo he’d ever seen, and how he’d never in his life commented on someone’s tattoo before, but felt compelled to acknowledge this one. The doctor told him it was the work of his nephew, and that he was a contestant on Ink Master the year prior, and won! He was deemed the top tattoo artist in the country.
Here was a man who never felt the need to discuss a tattoo in his life, and the one time he does – in a tiny Fort Kent hospital no less – it turns out to be the work of America’s top tattoo artist. Guess he knew a good thing when he saw it. Dad taught us many things in life, and in that moment, I was grateful for the reminder to engage in small talk with strangers, you never know what you might learn.