A reluctant public speaker prepares for a speech

The yipping, keening, barking, and howling of coyotes at night is well known to me, so I was quite alarmed to hear a pack on a recent early morning as I walked from my house to the garage. I’m used to opening a window next to my chair to hear them, a safe place, but this time we were all outdoors together, not far from each other, something I found to be a little disconcerting. That time of the morning usually brings familiar silence, as even the birds are still resting.

In that chair, I read. A lot. I own many books, thousands, and last week I was able to rid myself of many of the gamy, falling-apart paperbacks that have been languishing in my basement for more than a quarter of a century. Believe me, they weren’t worth saving, not in the kind of shape where some organization like a library would want them to resell. I’m not a hoarder, but I have a ton of stuff to give away, particularly books. All of the remainder will find good homes.

Consequently, into a dumpster went paperbacks of everything written by William Faulkner (my wife’s favorite), and all of John O’Hara (my favorite), as well as the complete works of John Cheever and John Updike (loved by both of us). Does anyone remember these guys today? I felt like I was pitching a bit of my past, but I also understood that it needed to be done. When you’ve been on this planet for almost three-quarters of a century, you begin to understand that very few care about the stuff you own, unless they can make a dime off it, but don’t get me started on that. Families often quarrel when members die.

It’s raining off and on as I write this on a gloomy Sunday morning, which feels about right, as a number of people known to me have passed away this summer, and I’m thinking about a speech I’ll be making in a few weeks. My ability to speak in public is almost laughable. In high school, there was no ‘almost’ about it. In those halcyon days, passing a speech class was a requirement for graduation, and I was totally unable to stand up in front of a group of my peers and speak. I was so shy that I couldn’t talk to adults. Fortunately for me, my parents were involved in local community theatre, as was the speech teacher … so I received a ‘D’, instead of the ‘F’ I deserved, otherwise, I wouldn’t have graduated high school.

When I was a sophomore, I began dating a girl who gladly became my spokesperson. If the conversation involved others, she happily did all of the talking, while I remained silent. Her ability to navigate the world with carefree confidence and sweet aplomb saved me then, and would do so for decades to come, agreeing to marry a man who needed her so much more than she needed him. Perhaps she needed me in the end, but she couldn’t have foreseen that. Anyway, she will be inducted posthumously into her high school hall of fame, and I, along with her sister (a speech and English teacher), agreed to say a few words on her behalf.

Because I’m rather old, I remember a popular book and movie by author Erich Segal, called “Love Story,” a story in which, at the beginning, one of the main characters asks what one can say about a woman he loved who passed away, someone who “Was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles. And me.” Using the short sentences of Mr. Segal, I’ll say, “Been there. Done that. I understand.” And what will I say about the woman I loved at her induction into a hall of fame? Maybe I’ll say something odd like, “For decades she drove away all the cold I ever felt.” Other than that? No idea.

Kurth Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County and hosts the “Rural America” podcast. It can be found at https://www.ullrichruralamerica.com