Some of my earliest memories don’t come from what we were doing.

They come from what we were listening to.

Growing up on the farm in Stokes County, my brothers and I spent a lot of time in the fields alongside my dad, Joe, and my Uncle Obie. The work was steady, sometimes hard, sometimes quiet—but it was rarely silent.

Because there were always stories.

Dad and Uncle Obie would talk about what happened on the shift the night before down at Roadway Express. Who did what. Who said what. Who probably shouldn’t have said what.

Then they’d move on to what was going on at “the church,” where my grandfather, Papa Lee, was a respected elder. And if you’ve spent any time around church folks, you know there’s always something going on. Always a little disagreement. Always a little discussion.

We didn’t understand all of it.

But we listened anyway.

Then there was Aunt Dean.

Now Aunt Dean didn’t just tell stories—she performed them.

She and her sisters had what I’ll politely call an ongoing series of disagreements, and somehow we children ended up being her preferred audience. She could take a simple misunderstanding and turn it into a full production, complete with characters, dialogue, and just enough emphasis to keep you leaning in.

You didn’t want to miss an Aunt Dean story.

My Uncle Vester and my cousin Melvin had their own version of storytelling. They were closer to our age, which made their conversations even more interesting. There was a rhythm to it—quick back-and-forth, a little humor, a little edge, and just enough mystery to make sure we kept one ear open no matter what we were supposed to be doing.

Looking back, I realize we were being trained.

Not formally. Not intentionally.

But we were learning how stories work.

Fast forward a few years, and I met another storyteller who took things to a different level.

Mr. Jeff.

Mr. Jeff is a trusted friend and mentor, one of those laid-back, country types who doesn’t say a whole lot—but when he does, you’d better listen. He’s got sayings that sound like they’ve been around longer than he has, and stories that seem to take their time getting where they’re going.

But when they get there, they land.

Dry wit. Quiet delivery. No wasted words.

You don’t realize how good it was until a few minutes after he’s done.

And then there’s his son, Lawrence.

Lawrence recently had a medical procedure, and I stopped by his shop to check on him. It was serious enough to get your attention, and when I asked how it went, he didn’t just give me the short version.

He gave me the full story.

Timeline. Details. Conversations with nurses and doctors. Medical terms I’m pretty sure I couldn’t spell if you gave me three tries.

By the time he finished, I felt like I had been right there with him.

That’s a gift.

To take something that happened to you and bring someone else into it—to let them see it, hear it, feel it—that’s more than just talking.

That’s storytelling.

Some folks do it loud. Some do it quiet.

Some add a little seasoning. Some stick to the facts.

But the good ones all have the same thing in common.

They make you listen.

And maybe that’s what all those days in the field were really about.

Sure, we were working.

But we were also learning how to listen.

And maybe, just maybe, how to tell a story or two ourselves.

Now I would not put myself in the same category as Aunt Dean or Mr. Jeff or Lawrence.

But every now and then, if you catch me on the right day, I might can string a few words together.

At least, that’s how I remember it.

As Best As I Remember It.