Storytellers

In Memorium

In Memorium

Today is the 28th anniversary of my dad’s passing. We southerners use a lot of euphemisms. We seldom use words like died. We speak of going on to your reward, passing over to the other side or the smart mouth version, kicking the bucket. I write about my daddy a lot. He remains my primary role model.

Central Virginia is gradually reopening. Slow and safe are the by words. We’re following the advice of the PBS News Hour.
1. Wash your hands.
2. Keep your distance.
3. Stay home if you’re sick.
4. Wear a mask in public.

The doctor who gave this advice said none of these are 100% effective by themselves, but collectively they are powerful. He also said, if 60% of us do our part and abide by these guidelines, we should stop the virus’ spread.
Ben Franklin wrote, “The good men do separately, is small compared with what they may do collectively.”

None of us wants to get sick. And I can’t imagine any of us wants to be the cause of someone else becoming ill or heaven forbid dying.

In ancient Rome the highest compliment was to call someone a “Citizen”. And the worst insult was to call someone an “Idiot”. An Idiot was someone who put their personal interests above the needs of the community.

So, let me encourage you to play well with others during this trying period. After all we can all insist upon our individual right to run with scissors, later.

In Memorium

I’m one of those damned fools who has always had to touch the stove. I’m one of the ones who has rushed in where angels feared to tread. For decades, I seldom hesitated to metaphorically “hang ten”.

Consequently, my body, mind and soul bear the scars of having been rode hard and put away wet, way too many times.

This began to change May 19, 1992. Around 3:00 AM that night, my mom called to say she had called the ambulance. I knew the drill. I got up, got dressed and minutes later I had driven the five blocks to their house. The ambulance was there and they were already loading daddy.

I said, “We’ll meet you there.” And then I was told we were going to Retreat Hospital, St. Mary’s ER was full. Daddy had been at St. Mary’s that previous evening. They had sent him home.

We sat in the waiting room and at 7:30 they came out. I expected to be told we could go back and see him. This was his 8th heart attack since 1974.

We’d been through this before. Daddy would come in for a tune-up, they’d balance his electrolytes and after two weeks of his entertaining the staff, he’d come home.

Not so this time. The doctor said he was dead. I don’t remember much after that. My mom said I became hysterical. She thought they were going to have to sedate me. I remember calling my oldest cousin, Billy, and explaining that daddy was gone. I asked him would he notify everyone, as I didn’t have it in me.

By that afternoon, I was fine. I took Momma to Bliley’s and we arranged the funeral service. Daddy had decided he wanted to be cremated, but Momma wanted a traditional viewing, so we rented a coffin. I remember walking into the parlor at the funeral home. Daddy had suffered from congestive heart failure the last 7 or 8 years of his life. As a result, he retained a lot of fluid. He had blown up from a 44” chest weighing 198 pounds to a 56” chest weighing 260 pounds. I had never suffered claustrophobia before that moment, but seeing Daddy shoehorned into that coffin still haunts me.

I sat Momma down on a chesterfield where she could see the coffin and I positioned myself in the hallway, where she could see me, and I could greet the mourners, but mercifully I could not see Daddy.

The funeral was lovely. Holy Comforter was packed with those showing their respects and I was quite comfortable greeting and thanking everyone for coming. A friend later told me he was confused that day. I looked so happy.

I have no idea what I was feeling that day. I was on autopilot. I was doing what was expected of an only son. I was handling details and looking out for my momma as my daddy would have expected me to do.

What I realize now, is that was the day I began to seriously think before I leapt. That was the day I realized I no longer had a safety net.

Prior to Daddy’s passing, if I jumped a fence and drove a spike through my foot, Daddy was there to pick me up and take me the hospital. If my car broke down in the back of beyond, Daddy would somehow come find me when I didn’t show up when I was supposed to and when a business venture failed Daddy was there to talk it through and help me brainstorm how to find a stake and get back into the game.

Now, there was just me. I hadn’t built a support network. I hadn’t needed one. I’d always told myself I was the independent, rugged individualist of American mythology. It dawned on me I’d been kidding myself. I’d been a part of a team. A team of two, but a team.

As time went on, I realized I was also kidding myself that I hadn’t had a support network. Family and friends rallied around me and this was when I began to grow up.

I’d begun practicing Servant Leadership a few years earlier as result of my participation in Leadership Metro Richmond. Now, I began to recognize my dad’s legacy. I stopped “playing the role” and began to live into the role he had modeled for me.

I am now 5 years older than daddy was when he died. For 28 years I’ve been asking myself, “What would Daddy do?’ I’m in virgin territory these days. Dealing with things he never had to deal with. I’ve learned to listen before I speak. I’ve learned to look before I leap. I’ve learned to put other’s well being ahead of my own.

Frankly, the territory might not be as unknown as I think. Daddy was born, lived and died. He came into this world alone and unfortunately left it that way, but in between he lived life well. He enjoyed going to work every day and he enjoyed coming home every night. Of equal importance everyone was happy to see him show up wherever he went.

So, on this anniversary I honor his memory. I thank God for the time he lived among us. And I continue to try to fill his shoes.

In Memorium
Warren Gayle “Buddy” Turner, Sr.
July 29, 1929 – May 19, 1992

DOWNLOAD
Tales of Deadly Matrimony
by
Edgar Allan Poe
Audio Book E-Book

I Want to Hear from You

Remember, be a good citizen. Don’t be an idiot!
1. Wash your hands.
2. Keep your distance.
3. Stay home if you’re sick.
4. Wear a mask in public.

I’d love to hear your stories.

Share with me stories that matter to you and I’ll share them with our readers.
Tell me about the people who have shaped you.
Send them to gayle@storytellerschannel.com

Til next time,

Gayle Turner
Executive Producer.

Guest Storyteller

Rusty Gross and I were chatting at a mutual friend’s annual Mardi Gras celebration.
He said the newsletter brought back a flood of memories of his growing up in Richmond. Then he went, “Oops, correction, I have never grown up and hope to be one of Richmond’s oldest teenagers to the end.”

He commented on how much of our lives were so parallel growing up in the same time and circumstances and how our parents, teachers and so many others in our youth became so much smarter as we got older.

His ultimate goal in life is to write a what not to do book rather than a how to do book from doing things his way with sometimes dire results. The lesson learned from his many broken bones and scars is, “Stupid Hurts”.
I suggested he send me one of his stories and here for your enjoyment is The Quickest Job I Never Had.

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Remember: You Matter. Your Stories Matter. Tell Them Well!
Gayle Turner
The Storytellers Channel

The Quickest Job I Never Had

by Rusty Gross

As kids growing up we all fantasized becoming and maybe became Doctors, Lawyers, Nurses, Teachers, Fireman, Police officers, Cowboys and so many other things.

For me, I was overwhelmed with motorcycles and the sound of power and freedom they projected as they passed down the streets of Richmond.

From then on at five years old it became an obsession that would consume my life.

Fast forward after many motorbikes, scooters and very worn out motorcycles that were challenges to either get running and most important keep running, I was on my life’s quest.

Being a poor student in school with nothing on my mind but motorcycles and the people / lifestyle, for whatever reason I just happened to look at the classified ads in the Richmond Times-Dispatch and like karma there was an ad for Hod Carriers @ $1.65 per hour.

For those of you that never heard the term Hod Carrier it is a Vee shaped box with a pole to carry bricks stacked to the max to deliver to the brick masons for laying in place. I am guessing easily 40- 60 plus pounds.

Eureka, I’d found my destiny in life to quit school and work at this great paying job until having saved enough to buy a 1957 Triumph 650cc motorcycle and head out to sunny California and live the good life.

The next morning I jumped on my 165cc Harley and rode to where South Side Plaza was still in the building stages and saw this trailer with a “help wanted- apply inside” sign leaning there.

Without even looking at the free standing building facing Hull Street Road I went straight into the office to apply for the position. The foreman immediately asked how old I was and without hesitation I replied “19 Sir”, even though a few years had been thrown into that answer hopefully to get hired.

He began to tell me that work started promptly at 7am and to wear my oldest clothes since “you’ll for sure be covered in brick dust from start to finish every day.”

He mostly dwelled on the fact of how demanding the job was, in both strength and perseverance to be able to adapt. Since many people on day one were so overwhelmed and worn out they never came back from lunch break or quit in short order.

Being focused on the $1.65 per hour and the Triumph it was California here I come.

As I walked out of the trailer with the foreman he pointed up at the building and said ” be here before 7am and meet whatever his name was up there and he would provide me with a hard hat , gloves and whatever else was needed for safety and to expect to be pushed to the limits by the brick layers to hurry, hurry, hurry since they were paid on performance and speed of the job.

When I did see the building under construction, it was to become the Miller & Rhoades Department Store, all kinds of workers were scurrying around on I-beams that looked to maybe be 12 plus inches wide .

That was maybe my first epiphany of realizing that even to this day I take up more room just walking on sidewalks, there was no way could I ever walk on those bloody I-beams.

Needless to say, I said, “No thanks sir.” I stayed the course in school.
And yes, I do have a ’57 Triumph to this day in my collection.

DOWNLOAD
Tales of Deadly Matrimony
by
Edgar Allan Poe
Audio Book E-Book

I Want to Hear from You

I’d love to hear your stories.

Share with me stories that matter to you.
Send them to gayle@storytellerschannel.com

Til next time,

Gayle Turner
Executive Producer.

Love, Care, and Compassion

Today is a big anniversary for me. My story will explain.
Last week was the second session of our Stories Matter! Online Storytelling Workshop.
Things continue to go well. We’re learning how to use Zoom efficiently and effectively.
Reach out if you’d like to be a part of the May Workshop.

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Remember: You Matter. Your Stories Matter. Tell Them Well!
Gayle Turner
The Storytellers Channel

Love, Care, and Compassion

When I woke up in the recovery room, I felt refreshed. There’s nothing like anesthesia to induce a sound nap. I’d been sitting there a few minutes when the young nurse pulled the curtain aside and eased into my “room”. “Mr. Turner…” she paused. She spoke as though she thought I was fragile. As if somehow, if she wasn’t careful she could break me.

I was 55-years old. Slightly gray at the temples, but otherwise the picture of vim and vigor. I was probably a little older than her parents, but certainly not some feeble old man who needed to be handled gently. Her tone scared the hell out of me.

I had just undergone my first colonoscopy. I was a Principal in an international consulting firm at the time and I had been just too busy for the past five years to take the time for a colonoscopy. A couple of weeks before I’d been seated next to an oncologist on a transcontinental flight who had made it clear I needed to make time.

Back to the terrifying young nurse. “They found a lesion.” I didn’t say anything, but I was thinking, ‘What the hell’s a lesion? What does that mean?’

She said, “The doctor will be in in a moment.” And she left.

Within a few days I was diagnosed with borderline Stage 3 Rectal cancer.

My wife, Stephanie, and I were estranged at the time. After nine months of my living in my office while she decided whether or not she wanted to be married and if so, did she want to be married to me; she had decided we should divorce. At the time she was an executive in the billing department for the physicians at the Medical College of Virginia. I reached out to her and said, “I need your help. You’re always telling me patients need an advocate. You’re the strongest advocate I could have.” She agreed to be my intercessor with the hospital. The first of many examples of kindness I experienced during my adventure with cancer. The ordeal was harder on her than on me.

My doctors decided on a plan of treatment. A pretty severe course of action that would have saved my life but would have seriously impacted the quality of the rest of my life. I’d already resigned myself to a new normal when Stephanie was in a meeting with the health system CEO and he asked, how I was doing? Steph told him. He said, “Fine young surgeon.” Then he said, “Let me tell you what I’m going to do.” And he subsequently changed my entire team. This was the second significant act of kindness.

I’d had several visits with my new oncology surgeon when I discovered we were not communicating. He kept talking about radical and conservative treatments. When it finally dawned on me that what he thought of as the conservative treatment was what I thought of as the radical solution and vice versa, we had an epiphany. We straightened out our confusion and decided to go with his idea of radical, which was my idea of conservative. The third act of kindness.

So, they began to poison me (chemo) and burn me (radiology) and finally they went in to cut away the remains and the surgeon said, “All we found were cinders. If we hadn’t known what we were looking for we might have missed it.”

There were many other acts of kindness. The staff at Massey Cancer Center were a delight from the valets who parked your car, to the admissions folks and the nurses and phlebotomist, to the X-ray techs and the chemo techs.

My colleagues who picked up the slack and chauffeured me to appointments, my partner, John, who visited every day even when I was too medicated to know it, and the parishioners of The Church of The Holy Comforter (Episcopal)in Richmond, VA and the nuns of the Sisters of Mercy Convent in Merion, PA who knitted me prayer shawls and prayed mass every day for my recovery.

The list is so long it would take a book to mention them all.

But there’s one more that stands at the head of the list.

Ten days before my diagnosis I’d had my first date with Marie McGranahan. We’d known each other since the 80’s. Her father and one of her brothers had worked for me as actors. We’d had dinner the night before Easter and had seen each other a couple of times since then for coffee and then I received my diagnosis.

I was still living in my office and thinking I’d move in with my 77-year old widowed mom when Marie said, “Come live with me. You can’t go through cancer living in your office and your mom’s place is too small.”

And that was that. Marie was positioned as my Caregiver, so Stephanie wouldn’t be dishonored at the hospital and Steph, Momma and Marie took care of me for the six months of my treatment.

Marie and I were married on September 10, 2011 aka 9.10.11. She’s now Marie McGranahan-Turner.

Cancer was an uplifting experience for me. I was the beneficiary of so much love, care, and compassion that I tear up in gratitude whenever I think about it.

I cannot thank enough Stephanie, my mom, Marie and the legion of people who cared for me. I can work to live by their example and pass on the love, care, and compassion they showed me whenever the opportunity presents itself.

I’m thankful to still be here, but nowhere near as thankful I am as for the people who made it possible.

DOWNLOAD
Tales of Deadly Matrimony
by
Edgar Allan Poe
Audio Book E-Book

I Want to Hear from You

I’d love to hear your stories.

Share with me stories that matter to you.
I’d love to hear stories of the blessings you’ve received during the pandemic.
Send them to gayle@storytellerschannel.com
Til next time,

Gayle Turner
Executive Producer.

The Triumph of Evil

Our isolation continues and we have ample time for reflection.

It’s astounding how many chores I’m finding to occupy my time.

This week’s story was prompted by a rare break when I visited Facebook.

Last week was our first Stories Matter! Online Storytelling Workshop.

The tellers all said they found the experience beneficial.

This old dog is learning new tricks.

Hope you’re finding your time at home productive, as well.

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Remember: You Matter. Your Stories Matter. Tell Them Well!
Gayle Turner
The Storytellers Channel

The Triumph of Evil

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” ― Edmund Burke.

In the book “Evil in Modern Thought,” from 2002, Susan Neiman writes of evil as “acts of intentional malevolence.”

She is understandably reluctant to offer a single, narrow definition of her own for what “evil” means today, but what she does suggest is a useful description of what effect evil has: calling something “evil,” she writes, “is a way of marking the fact that it shatters our trust in the world.” Evil is both harmful and inexplicable, but not just that; what defines an evil act is that it is permanently disorienting for all those touched by it.

I am wrestling with my will. My will to take care of my family responsibilities and my will to stand up to deliberate prevarication.

I have little time for Facebook these days. The other morning a friend posted a story about the Governor of Michigan banning the sale of plants and seeds. It seemed a little odd. The comments after the post were all about how stupid it was.

So, I did a little research and what I found was the Governor declared Garden Centers non-essential. The Daily Wire, a conservative blog, spun the piece to “no seeds and plants”. Obviously, the owners of Garden Centers are pushing back.

As of this morning April 14, 2020 Michigan has 25,635 confirmed cases of Covid-19. Thankfully 5 people have recovered. Sadly, 1,602 have died. Performing her constitutionally-mandated, police authority; she is protecting the citizens she serves by closing gathering places where the virus could spread.

The last time I caught my friend spreading disinformation I called him out on FB and he threatened to unfriend me. I obviously hurt his feelings. And of course, my mother’s words, “It’s not what you say, Gayle Turner, it’s how you say it.” Came to mind.

His threat came around the time my mother’s dementia began to require more of my time. And frankly, I didn’t want to pick a fight.

My friend’s posts are decidedly Republican in nature.

The irony of all this is he’s a pastor. I’m not surprised a conservative pastor would be posting material in line with Republican positions. What surprises me is a man who preaches love from the pulpit would be spreading distrust at a time when we need to pull together.

Now, I’m a progressive Democrat and I’m sure supporters of the President find my questioning the truth of his pronouncements disloyal, promoting disunity and provoking distrust.

Issac Assimov said, “There is a cult of ignorance in the United States, and there has always been. The strain of anti-intellectualism has been a constant thread winding its way through our political and cultural life, nurtured by the false notion that democracy means that ‘my ignorance is just as good as your knowledge.”

But ignorance is one thing, willfully distorting the truth is another.

I was quite outspoken as a young man. The story I told myself was, “I was championing right.” I respect my friend, which is why I haven’t called him out on this latest post. I’m sure he’s telling himself he’s fighting evil, wrong-headed, power-grabbing politicians.

I don’t doubt he feels he’s championing right.

The fact is I’m tired. Being a care giver is exhausting. And I’m not a nurse on the front lines or a teacher holding her charges together via a virtual thread or a parent striving to provide with no paycheck or idea when they’ll get to go back to work or if there will even be a job to go back to.

Stories are about people in a place with a problem and there’s a change, ideally progress. This has all the elements of a story save one. Change. The jury is still out as to whether or not I’m going to confront my friend.

It’s not my job to police his FB.

That said, I keep hearing Edmund Burke’s word,

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

DOWNLOAD
Tales of Deadly Matrimony
by
Edgar Allan Poe
Audio Book E-Book

I Want to Hear from You

I’d love to hear your stories.

Share with me stories that matter to you.
What stories have come to mind during this period of isolation?
Send them to gayle@storytellerschannel.com
Til next time,

Gayle Turner
Executive Producer.

One Bite at a Time

I hope this newsletter finds you and yours, safe and sound.

The isolation is taking its toll on the extroverts, but my introvert friends appear to be happy as hogs in mud.

We’re postponing Noa Baum’s A Land Twice Promised. That’s postpone, not cancel.

We will let you know asap when we find a new date.

The April Stories Matter! Online Workshop over subscribed and we will be announcing a May Online workshop in time for people to register.
Meanwhile, I thought I’d share a story about how I’m coping with the isolation.

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Remember: You Matter. Your Stories Matter. Tell Them Well!
Gayle Turner
The Storytellers Channel

One Bite at a Time

When I was a little boy, my mom would send me to clean up my bedroom. I had the ability to walk into a perfectly ordered space and create chaos in moments. I’d have toys and clothes and books and papers spread out everywhere. Well, I’d begin reordering and the next thing you knew, I’d discovered something incredibly interesting. My bedroom was right off the kitchen. So, mom would look in an see me seated among the mess, reading, or playing or just dreaming and she would get upset.

It would be about this time that my dad would come in and say, “Let’s get this done.” And in five minutes the two of us would whip the space into shape.

I learned a lot from those whirlwind clean ups.

First and foremost was, I work best with a team. Daddy used to say, “There’s nothing we can’t handle, one bite at a time.” I’ve written of this before. I used to think it was about breaking tasks into manageable pieces, but as time has gone on, I’ve realized that for me the key is ‘we’. I need people.

The Covid-19 quarantine has put a real crimp in my working with people. Sure, I’m doing lots of virtual meetings, but there are no extra hands for cleaning up, and bringing order.

Over the years I’ve developed the habit of straightening up on my way to bed at night. I walk through the house turning out lights, hanging up clothes (frequently on the bedroom door, something my wife would like to break me of) and putting stuff away. This desire to catch the chaos before it gains control has been fighting a losing battle for the last twelve years.

Ever since Marie and I got together I’ve been bring stuff home. I’ve closed down three offices around the country and have shipped books, clothes and files home. I’ve closed out storage spaces and brought stuff home. And I keep finding new books, magazines and stuff we just have to have and, yes, I keep bringing them home. And guess what, I married a woman with the same proclivities.

Well, I decided I’d had enough. The quarantine was providing us with the perfect opportunity to bring order to our lives. Marie and I have distilled boxes and boxes of office equipment, supplies and books. And we have stored them in the attic. What we are left with are three cardboard, file storage banker boxes full of paperwork that I believe are worth keeping.

I’m overwhelmed, but once again, I hear my daddy’s voice. “There’s nothing we can’t handle, one bite at a time.”

And so, Marie and I are now commencing the process of once again going through piece by piece and deciding how to file them, so we can find them and use them when needed.

And it dawned on my how happy I am to have her with me. I’m not alone. I’m still likely to be found sitting among the papers and books; reading and dreaming, but once again We are going to handle it.

One bite at a time.

DOWNLOAD
Tales of Deadly Matrimony
by
Edgar Allan Poe
Audio Book E-Book

I Want to Hear from You

I’d love to hear your stories.

Share with me stories that matter to you.
Stories of how you’re coping with the pandemic.
Send them to gayle@storytellerschannel.com
Til next time,

Gayle Turner
Executive Producer.