The best storyteller in the world.

By KELSEY ALLEN
news@columbiamissourian.com

Legend has it that one cold winter night, much like this one, Montana Joe went to his friend’s house only to find the guy frozen stiff and spread like an eagle. Now, Montana Joe wasn’t a very sentimental guy, but this was his best friend. He decided there was only one thing to do: His friend must be released back into the wild. The problem was, he was spread eagle, and frozen men don’t bend. Montana Joe knew one solution. The rugged man he was, he drew out his saw from his back pocket and sawed his friend into pieces.

As the saw caught on shattered bone and skin, my stomach started doing flips. My eyes got bigger, and my mind started racing to figure out what Montana Joe would do next.

Montana Joe placed the pieces of his former friend in a wooden box and put the casket in the river so his friend could float on to the beyond.

At this point in the story my dad got really quiet. You never really knew what my dad was going to say. A mustache covered his upper lip, and his eyes didn’t give any hints. We all leaned in to try to read his mind. It is quite possible that only my dad knews where Ponca State Park was and no one else was there that night. The only sounds we could hear were the fire crackling, my mom shivering and the horses rustling around in the field.

My dad started to whisper:

As Montana Joe watched his only friend float down a mostly frozen river — my dad looked at my brother, then my sister and then me — A HAND FLEW OUT OF THE COFFIN!

Screams came from all around the campfire. My sister even started to cry.

As it turns out, the hand was just the friend waving goodbye to old Montana Joe. In hindsight the story isn’t even that terrifying. But who knew what that hand was going to do?

As my dad started looking more like himself again and less like Montana Joe, I started to wonder if I could ever tell a story like that. I think that was when I began to realize how powerful, mesmerizing and thrilling a good story could be.

I don’t think my dad ever told that story around a campfire again, and it is likely that I’ve added some parts to Montana Joe’s tale that weren’t there 15 years ago. But that story made me want to become a storyteller — one who could take people somewhere, hold them there and enthrall them, just like my dad did that night in Ponca State Park.

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