The Storyteller

     One never knows whom they shall meet or what that person’s story may be, unless one stops to listen.  While ambling along the sidewalk, just outside the old post office downtown, amid the sweet scent of early pear blossoms, I met a man.  His eyes were as blue as the clear sky above and his fair skin almost transparent, yet leathered with age. His hand was strong, but lightened, almost papery.  I noticed as we visited the permanent tattoo of nicotine on his left thumb and forefinger.  I stopped to shake his hand and ask his name, when he thanked me for the Lincoln and asked me mine.  “My name is George Henry Martin, pretty lady,” he smiled as he shook my hand.

     George Henry Martin…had many a tale to tell, all, which began with, “Let me tell you a little about.”  Peppered with, “Did you know…and well, let me tell about…”  A history lesson of the locals as they related to his family entailed.  He went on to tell me of his brother Jimmy James whom a man named Brimage had accidentally killed.  That led to another tale of someone from the Brimage family who wreaked a little havoc and is now serving a lifetime sentence in Nevada. He chuckled as he told how the warden appreciated the burly big size of the youngun and made him his own personal bodyguard. Another anecdote had a robbery gone awry and someone driving through a nearby shop window.With each new tale, he began, “Let me tell you a little something I know about…” and “Did you know?”

     Most I did not know, however, I did recall when Union Blvd was the original Hwy 99 when he inquired.  I remember driving beneath the Bakersfield sign with my Pop and Mom on the way to one of my grandma’s bike runs.  Five or six years old, I also remember staying overnight in a tiny turquoise motel and swimming in my underpants and t-shirt, as it was an impromptu overnight stay.  The water was warm and we swam at sunset.

     His tales poured from him, continuous and always culminating with relation to his family, like a babbling brook spilling into the river.  Enchanted and at ease, I listened.  Nonetheless, I bade him farewell.  “I sure have enjoyed visiting with you, Mr. Martin, but I must be going.”  To which, he smiled and asked, “How do you know my last name?”

     “You told me,” I reminded him.  “So I did,” he said and smiled again and gave a little wave.  “Farewell missy,” he said.  I think I heard him utter to the next passerby, “Let me tell you a little about my family,” but I have no idea if they stopped to listen.

     Curiosity led me to google some of the names I recalled from our visit and not surprisingly, I discovered it all factual and just as stimulating.  However, I much more enjoyed the tales told by the soft-spoken gentleman, smoking his cigarette beneath the sweet scented pear blossoms just outside the antiquated post office on a clear, sunny morning in winter.