His disembodied voice rang eerily from the speakers of my computer. Even my cats were mesmerized by the sound, and stared at the speakers as if they could see a story unfolding. I listened to my old friend’s voice as he told a story, one of his “signature” stories called “The Star Stealer.” He laughed his trademark laugh (much reminiscent of a donkey’s bray), used ridiculous dialects, and told the sound the stars made:

“VaVOOM-Chicky-Chicky-VaVOOM-Chicky-Chicky.”

I would have laughed and danced with him, but I was in shock. It was the first time I had been able to make myself listen to his voice, on the storytelling cds I produced for him, since he died three years ago…or is it four now. I don’t remember. It seems like only yesterday.

Or, forever ago.

I just know that I think about him almost every day. I don’t cry, but I ache inside. Does grief never subside?

I’ve talked about him before. Finley Vance Stewart was my best friend. He was my mentor, and the little brother I never had. He was a storyteller. Not just any old storyteller, though. His passion was the preservation of the art of storytelling. He created a statewide storytelling festival, an organization for storytellers, and a community of equally passionate people to celebrate our stories. That was when he was in his twenties. He created a legacy that will live for a long time.

Finley was a bundle of energy. When he lived, I called him a fireball. That seems inappropriate now, since he died in a fire (of undetermined cause) at his home. My morbid sense of humor suggests to me that perhaps Finley just spontaneously combusted.

Well, he would have laughed.

Many years ago, as we waited backstage for our time to perform, I was obsessing about my manner of dress. “Do you have a comb, Finley? I should have put on more makeup! Does this skirt make my butt look—never mind.”

Finley laughed and said, “Shelly, Shelly, Shelly. No one cares what you are wearing. They won’t remember. They won’t remember what you looked like…they won’t even remember your name! All they will remember is a good story.”

I’ve always taken those words to heart, and occasionally used them as an excuse to not get dressed up when I perform!

When I was in Galveston earlier this month, a woman in her late twenties approached me asking about my spinning wheel. She asked if I was a spinster for a living. I told her that I “spin yarns as a storyteller.”

Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Oooooh!” she squealed. “I LOVE storytelling! When I was a kid there was this storyteller who came to our school every year and he was the BEST storyteller in the world! He was all over the stage as he told the stories. We were so caught up in his stories that we couldn’t even look away!”

“Really? What was his name?” I asked.

“I don’t remember, but he was AWESOME.”

“What did he look like?” I said.

“I don’t really remember. He was skinny and he wasn’t very tall, but he seemed large on the stage. He had long, reddish brown hair down to his shoulders.”

I smiled. “Did he tell you a story about a Purple Furp?”

Her eyes got as big as breakfast sausages. At the same moment, we both put our hands to our mouths and blew out saying, “Ahvooo!”

The sound made in the story that Finley told. After all these years, she remembered the story.

I knew she would.

I told that anecdote to a group of storytellers this weekend. I had been asked to tell a story in honor of Finley at our statewide festival. Our concert was to celebrate the memory of the storytellers we have loved and lost. We “stand on the shoulders” of those who have gone before, you see.

That’s why I had been listening to Finley’s storytelling cd. I told his story of The Star Stealer. It was the most difficult story I have ever told. And yet…and yet…and yet…no story has given me greater joy to tell. Someone remarked that I was “channeling Finley,” and yes I guess I was. It was awesome to once again hear an audience laugh at his story, and have them all bouncing in their seats chanting with me:

“VaVOOM-Chicky-Chicky-VaVOOM-Chicky-Chicky. VaVOOM!”

I was smiling and in character when I was on stage. When I stepped down from the stage, I crumpled into tears.

I cried long and hard. And, it was good.