The kind of conversations we have...

My father is a born storyteller. I don't suppose it's a trait all PK's have, but I imagine it must have something to do with sitting there in the pews, week in, week out, listening to your dad preach.

So he's told me a bunch of Condi Rice stories this week, being that he's in Birmingham, where her daddy's church was. (He went there on Sunday, and talked to the minister, telling stories, making connections, as he always does.)

I just got off the phone, wishing him Happy Birthday. We played a short game of telephone tag.

This is the Condi Rice story he told me today: (and as much verbatim from my dad as I could remember) she was not going to church for awhile, when she was teaching at Stanford. She was in the grocery store in Palo Alto. Now, you have to figure, there aren't a lot of African Americans in Palo Alto. A man comes up to her and says, "Do you know how to play piano?" She's so struck by the directness of the question that she stutters, "why why yes." He says, "Our tiny church really needs a piano player." So she goes to the church, and realizes she was never taught to play gospel music. She phones her mother and her mother says, "Just play everything in the key of C." Well, apparently what happens in a lot of African American churches is the song leader starts the choir in a capella and the piano comes in right afterwards.

Sunday he told me the story about something else. I can't remember. But I'm starved. I *am* going to lunch with Heather at 11, so I probably shouldn't spoil my appetite. I'm so tempted to go to Pamela's though, since the message from my father on my voice mail is how five years ago on his birthday he went with me to Pamela's for the first time.

It is so good to have someone else for remembering the things you've forgot.

The book Terzo gave him (not Bab's Terzo, pay attention!) was by John something Gattis, a historian. It came out of a conversation that Terzo and Dad had about history and how it's hard to make it objective. My dad was so pleased that the gift was the fruit of a conversation they'd had. That's just the kind of guy he is.

As we got ready to hang up, he said, "I've heard from all my girls today."

And as I write this, there's one girl I wish was still around, his mom, my Granny.