The TV was at the foot of the bed, into which my dad and I were crammed. I don't remember if it was a B&B or if it was a private household, but *somebody* was putting us up for what I believe was the NAPPS (National Association for the Preservation and Perpetuation of Storytelling, an organization which appears not to exist anymore) festival in Jonesboro, Tennessee.
I think that on this trip, my dad was there with Bernard, his most frequent storytelling partner, although it may well have been Sam, who left the building way before Google and consequently has no digital memorial. At least I don't think he does. He might, but I can't remember his last name to help me search.
I do remember what he looked like fairly well, as long as I cut my eyes away from the memory and only glance at it sidelong. (It's the kind that would fall apart under direct scrutiny). And I remember how he said "banana." It was "BET-det-dah." (Sam and Bernard decided to skip the whole hearing thing. Which actually streamlines your life in a lot of ways. And it provided excellent karma for my hearing father, too, because when he is with deaf people, he selflessly devotes himself to them. He once stopped to help a deaf man who had been in a car accident and was having trouble with some confused and increasingly aggrieved police officers. I think his deaf friends are the ones he's closest to; they're all outriders, just in different ways.)
I had a really lucky childhood, by the way, in that respect. It's a great privilege to go downstairs and there's a deaf guy in your kitchen, or a college kid, or a scholar, or an older returning student, or a Broadway director, or a bunch of professional storytellers.
Anyhow, back to Jonesboro. I remember three things from that festival: sitting and drawing the villages of a made-up Native American tribe while the performances went on; JACKIE [INSERT HUGE CHAIN OF ADMIRING EXPLETIVES HERE] TORRANCE (here's an anecdote about her--scroll down--and by the way, Jay O'Callahan's no slouch either), and "King-tuck."
On the TV in the room I shared with my dad, I watched a cartoon show about the settling of Kentucky. One of the characters was trying to convince his wife to give up everything she'd ever known and come with him. In a distant, plummy, formal voice, she intoned, "Is it worth it, this...'Keen-tuck?'" Except her enunciation was so overdone that it sounded like 'KING-tuck.' For a few minutes I didn't even know what she was talking about, until I realized she must have meant 'Keen-tuck,' or Kentucky. Just the sound of it was so weird that it kept striking in my brain, like a hammer, over and over again, KING-tuck, KING-tuck. It is still with me.
Underneath the order of our lives and thoughts is always abstraction.
