Pure Jean-ius

It was one of those innumerable meeting up with friends at the tavern things that crop up over the holidays. I do look forward to them at first, but they can wear on you after a few.

The conversation turned to favorite Christmas movies. Mary Ann trotted out “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Greg countered with “A Christmas Story.” He turned to me. You’ve seen that, haven’t you?”

“Jean Shepherd.”

“Was that the mother?’ How soon they forget. Or, never knew.

Steinbeck could turn a phrase. Rand churned out prose by the pound. And, Heller was a one-hit wonder. But, for my money, no one could spin a yarn on the printed page like Jean Shepherd. Or on the air. Garrison couldn’t carry Jean’s microphone.

I stumbled over Jean in the musty pile of “Playboy” that I was tossing in preparation for moving in my new bride. I flipped through them, in case there was something worth archiving. The May 1973 issue had a short story, “Lost at C” and caught my eye with the pun. I started reading it. Anything to avoid housework.

It was very good. I made note of the author and tracked down a few more of his published stories. Even better.

I found books by Jean, which were actually compilations of his short stories and essays. Genius.

I’d divide his work into two categories. There were reminiscences of his callow youth that almost anyone could resonate with. That facet drives the popularity of “A Christmas Carol.” And, there were social commentaries crafted with exquisite wit.

A place we overlapped was that Jean was a self-confessed car nut. And, as he pointed out, any car nut would have to be a motel nut. If you’re a true car junky, you drive. Drive enough and you need a motel. Jean’s writing included his favorite cars and motels.

Shortly after getting married, my wife and I headed west for a rambling jaunt. Entering Wyoming from Colorado, it occurred to me that we weren’t that far from a motel that starred in one of Jean’s stories. Or, I described it as “not that far” when she asked why we left the highway. I doglegged about 150 miles to walk the same hallways that he had. She just saw brick and clapboard, but I envisioned all the characters he had described.

I missed his old radio broadcasts on WLW, WOR and other radio stations. But, public television later aired “Jean Shepherd’s America.” Absolutely hilarious.

“A Christmas Carol” isn’t one of his stories. Rather, it’s an amalgam of several. He’s departed now, but his stuff delights on. My favorite Shepherd work is “Wanda Hickey’s Night of Golden Memories.”

Many years ago, I left a big corporate job for a position with a small magazine targeted to aspiring authors. One of the attractions was that I saw it as an entrée to meeting writers. That turned out to be a bit disquieting, but that’s another story.

But, I did manage to hit the mother lode by wangling a drink with Jean in New York. I’m not a fawner, but found myself blurting out that he was my favorite author.

Jean looked at me for a few seconds. “I’m not an author. I’m just a story teller.” One hell of a one, at that.