The Stories we Share

“You thought she was cute!” he barked.

“I did not!” I was not doing a very good job defending myself.

Devon was telling a story I’ve heard many times over. Its hilarity does not diminish with the telling.

We sat around the living room of an old farm house, laughing. I hadn’t heard or told or even thought about these stories in ages.

It’s the one about how he bribed me to talk to the attractive young lady working behind the counter at a coffee shop in Santa Cruz, Bolivia. I apparently had an enormous glob of whipped cream protruding from the end of my nose. This detail is debated by only myself.

“And then I slammed 50 Bolivianos on the table and told him,” Devon continued, pointing accusingly at me, “‘if you go up to the counter right now, I will pay for the coffee.’”

“So he grabs the money and rushes up to the counter.”

Everybody is roaring.

“He pays.”

“Comes back…”

Dramatic pause…

“…and it was still there!”

Perfect setup, timely delivery—Laughter abounded.

I fought hard to put up some kind of defense and fell horribly short. But it didn’t really matter. I was laughing too hard to blush.

Earlier that day, we took the exit for Lodge Grass, Montana on the Crow Reservation. My wife read off the directions from the text message Devon had sent.

“…turn right, and go over the railroad tracks. Climb the hill. The road will turn into dirt. Drive for a mile or so. You’ll pass three grain bins. Take the road to its end.”

Let’s just say that our friends live out of the way. I looked around. This part of southern Montana reminds me of another place. I met the Dosson family in Bolivia many years ago. It was high time for a visit.

Though I cannot pretend to read minds and hearts, I am sure that they would say their time in South America changed their lives. They lived there for several years. In fact, their children were just that, children. They’ve grown now and I can no longer hold my own against the lads (not that I ever could. But now all doubt is gone.) The boys have families, careers, passion, and pursuits of their own now.

But there we sat, in the farm house in a land of cattle, goats, farming, and western living. Their lives have taken them from one rural place to another. Anymore, we don’t have a whole lot in common. My wife and I live far different lives than they. But it doesn’t really matter. Our commonality lies not in lifestyles or pursuits. Our commonality lies in our shared past.

Sure, places connect us.

But not as much as the stories we share.                    

anthony forrest