Greg was a storyteller. He told stories about golfing, fishing, hunting, gun trading, truck trading, concerts, pool games – and pool room brawls, playing poker, family history, work, old girlfriends, drinking, church, motorcycles, bars and nightclubs, travels . . . the list could continue for several pages.
I can’t relate the stories Greg told me. Some of them had so many people involved that I did not know that I had a hard time keeping straight who was who. Other stories, like the ones about specific gun trades, contained information that I didn’t always understand. And then there were the ones he would tell that would have me laughing so hard all I could remember was the ending.
I miss those stories. Stories told by a man who enjoyed life, who wasn’t afraid to be himself, nor to be in a new situation. Greg might not want to be in a particular situation, but he feared nothing but God.
I miss the sound of his voice, the warmth, the humor, the sadness he unconsciously let mingle with his telling of a tale.
I drove his truck to a friend’s house today (5 December 2021). Thinking of the miles I had ridden with Greg in that truck brought tears and a sadness that has lingered.
I can tell stories of our life together, of two-thirds of my life with a wonderful man whom I will always love and miss, but I am not a storyteller like Greg was. He could entertain anyone with a story, have them listening intently, and smiling when he finished.
Greg’s stories are gone. No more will I hear him recount a day on the Cumberland nor laugh while he is telling of some antic he and a buddy lived through. Greg and his stories cannot be replaced, but my memories of him stay with me, bringing laughter and tears, sometimes together.
Our story had its ups and downs, but through it all our love was always there, creating a unit that sometimes defied reason.
No matter. The stories are gone. Most of the people Greg told stories about are gone. But the memories are there . . . memories I will cherish forever.
