Elaine Viets
My grandpa was a master storyteller, a real raconteur. He’d tell his stories in a redbrick saloon on St. Louis’s south side, the city’s German-American neighborhood. Back then, saloons were working people’s clubs. The bartender-alderman, who knew more about sin than a priest, gave Grandpa this accolade: “He was a snappy dresser. Drank two beers and went straight home to his wife.”
Grandpa gave me his rules for storytelling: Keep it short. Keep it funny. Make fun of yourself, not other people. He was one of eleven children, and quit school in the fourth grade to work, but he believed in education, and insisted I finish college. Grandpa wasn’t perfect: Like many Depression-era people, he was tight with a buck. Grandma swiped his pocket change to get extra money. But I hope my storytelling is as good as his. Feel free to crack open a cold one while you listen.