Storytelling and Confabulation

One of my favorite memories of Newby is of a merry, child-like
expression on her face in the shadows of the porch on North First
Street. We were sitting after supper and Marcy was telling the
much-loved story of how she, as a teenager, got drunk and sat on the
roof of the family home yelling at the neighbors, apologizing at the
top of her voice for the oddity of her family. I love to bring up in
my mind's eye the glee in Newby's eye as she thought back.

Most of my favorite memories of Newby are of such casts of face, and
of places and times like that one. Places of urbane domesticity and
hospitality, or of calm observation (porches of the mind, or of Old
Cabell Hall), and times of storytelling and confabulation. I met Newby
when I was about seven- or eighteen, and until I did, I had not yet
met anyone who did what I'd read of in books; made an art of
conversation. It was a delightful discovery. That people could simply
sit together... talking and listening, coming to understand one
another and the part of the world and time that they shared, with no
other purpose in mind, no objective, no demands but for generous
spirits and humane words... I hadn't known that yet and the learning
of it was impressive enough to me that to this day I set my standard
of entertainment by evenings spent on that porch. We rarely have
agreed entirely, there or anywhere else, and I can't think of anyone
with whom to disagree is as much fun, in spite of Marcy's occasional
attempts to ban controversy.

Happy birthday, Newby! My wish for you is that you be frequently,
pleasantly surprised in this year, and always controversial, in every
sense. Cheers!

A. Soroka