A Story About A Storyteller

The kidney stone has been quiet today. I slept over nine hours last night. I just conked right on out. Jack didn't come in to keep me company and of course, Mr. Moon was at the coast. So it was just me and my dreams and I don't even remember them. 

The guys did not go fishing today. They got up, checked the weather, and decided to call it. It's the season of afternoon thunderstorms and if you're snug at home they are a wonder and a glory but if you're out on the water, they can be a scary danger. I remember one time, a long time ago, Mr. Moon had a business partner named Chuck who asked us to go scalloping with him and his wife on their boat and we did indeed go. Now Chuck was a storyteller. Sometimes his stories were for pure entertainment and I am here to say that he did have some interesting relatives and had lived an interesting life, and although he may have embellished and embroidered some of those stories, it only served to make them all the more entertaining. 
However, sometimes his stories were what I have come to believe were tall tales. As with every tall tale, there is usually a tiny germ of truth within the story and many of Chuck's stories centered around many of the flights he'd made. Now he really was a pilot. This is completely true. He flew a small plane. But did he really fly it to Cuba where adventures ensued? 
Who knows? 
He also thought himself to be a very fine judge of the weather. Almost a meteorologist who could predict weather and where storms would go after they arose and so forth. We were out on that boat and scalloping season is in the late summer and one of our afternoon storms began building in the sky, fairly far away. But when you're on the water, you can see storms and being able to judge wind direction and speed and all that stuff is helpful indeed when it comes to staying out of their path. 
So that storm was getting pretty gnarly-looking and the sky was turning that sort of bruise shade of gray and green that does not bode well but Chuck was CERTAIN that it was going to pass to the south of us. Or east or one of those directions. I can't remember. He kept reassuring us while Glen and I kept giving each other the side-eye and by the time it became absolutely apparent that no, the storm was not going to pass us by, it was too late to get back to shore. 
There was, however, a very small island that looked like a reasonable distance away and so off we headed towards it. I don't know if you've ever been in a boat in a storm on the ocean but it is a frightening thing. You've got your thunder and your lightning and your wind and your waves, all coming together to create a...well...a perfect storm. And it's scary as shit. The boat's bouncing up and down and water's pouring in and the rain is like needles drenching you and the lightning is threatening to turn you into a piece of burnt toast.
But we did make it to the island as had other boats. And on the island, there was an old abandoned something. Some sort of building that had no walls but formed a sort of shelter that everyone had crowded into. And at first, no one knew what to say except to comment on the storm and talk about how suddenly it had come up and stuff like that but we were all sort of uncomfortable, being mashed up together with strangers, trying to stay safe and everyone was a little shaky from the experience of being out on the water where things had seemed so perilous. 
And then the true and real Chuck came out and he started telling stories of storms he'd lived through and close encounters with almost-death that he'd lived through going through the storms and uncles and cousins who had been in storms, and before we knew it, everyone was laughing and gasping and we were all in it together and that was fine. 
Chuck had done that. 
And that's what a storyteller does. And if a storyteller is, by very nature, a bit of a prevaricator, we may have to excuse him, knowing that exaggerations and editing are but part of his process. There is a line though, which when crossed results in actual lying. Am I calling Chuck a liar? 
Well, yeah, sometimes he was. But that day on that little island with those huddled people, shivering from being wet and also from having been terrified, Chuck brought us all relief and entertainment with his calm southern Georgia man's drawl, with his dry delivery and his excellent storytelling skills. 
And that's worth remembering. 
Eventually, the storm did pass, the rain stopped, the sun decided to show its face again and everyone made it back to their boats, started them up, and headed back to shore. 
That was a day I'll never forget. 

I don't recall whether we got any scallops or not but I sort of think we didn't. 

So those beautiful sliced tomatoes up there were salted and draining to make another tomato pie. There are at least four or five varieties of tomatoes in that picture including the Berkeley Tie-Dye, the Nebraska Wedding, Cherokee Purple, and some sort of Roma that I can't remember right this second. 

There's the pie. Doesn't look very impressive but I bet it'll be fine to eat. 

I finished "Leslie Fucking Jones" and my main take-away after thirteen hours of listening to a lot of her entertaining stories was to absolutely understand the importance of standing up for our own true selves. And the only way to do that is to learn who our own true selves are. And to love and respect those selves because we are the only one of them there is, and although we may not be anywhere near perfect, we are human and we matter. Also, we should be standing up for others who need to be stood up for. Not putting up with any motherfuckin' bullshit, I guess would be how Leslie Fucking Jones would put it. 
She is a force of nature. And that's the truth. 

Still raining. Going to go boil some shrimp. Mr. Moon decided to go to the gym a few hours ago and he'll be back in a little while. 

Love...Ms. Moon