Storyteller Refuge

There's a profound feeling in finding a safe harbor amid the tempests of the road, especially when that refuge is offered freely by an old friend. Such was my fortune when I found myself welcomed into the home of Al Pennington who lives just beyond the bustle of Birmingham, Alabama. His place became my sanctuary—at least for the last two nights—a respite from the weary miles stretched out behind me.

The lure of a warm bed, a hot shower, and the companionship of a fellow storyteller is enough to draw any traveler off his path for a while. I was no exception. I had pushed Josie about as hard as I dared, driving her five solid hours of undulating backroads. She coughed now and then, a mechanical grumble of protest, but she held together and delivered me to Al's doorstep without any real trouble.

Al and I go back to my days at MSNBC. I first sought him out after stumbling on some of his sharp-witted quotes in a newspaper, the specifics of which have faded with time. As a retired defense attorney with a career steeped in "been there, done that," he became a rich source of insight for the legal angles in my stories. Over the years, our professional exchanges blossomed into a genuine friendship.

Al has a remarkable gift of storytelling. Only my departed father and my uncles, now also gone, could rival his gift of storytelling.

When I arrived, Al was out, but he'd left a key waiting for me. I eased myself out of Josie, giving her a reassuring pat and promising her a couple of days' rest. She didn't complain. Inside, I shook off the dust of the road, plugged in my ever-thirsty electronics, and settled into the quiet comfort of his home.

It wasn't long before Al returned, and as if on cue, the stories began to flow. Noticing how the road had etched itself into my face, he smiled and said, "Looks like you could use a drink."

Without waiting for my answer, he swung open two large cabinet doors in the kitchen. A trove of spirits stood like silent soldiers. Each at the ready, waiting to be called into service. "Help yourself to whatever suits you," he offered.

My eyes lingered, surveying the liquor before me. Al moved to suggest an unassuming bottle of 20-year-old Irish whiskey. "Picked this up on my last trip to Ireland," he said, pointing to the label marked "Chinese Edition"—a limited run of just 3,000 bottles.

He had me at "Chinese Edition." "How the hell did you come by a Chinese edition of Irish whiskey?"

"Well, that's a story," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Before I could decide, he pulled out an
unassuming bottle of 20-year-old Irish whiskey.

On a recent trip to Ireland, Al said he'd sought shelter from the rain in a quaint Irish pub. He soon found himself immersed in conversation. Swapping stories followed. "Are you sure you're not Irish? Because you tell stories like an Irishman!" the bartender said.

The bartender then suggested Al visit a local whiskey distributor, giving him a personal referral. Following the tip, Al met with the distributor, who revealed that he had a special stock—the "Chinese Edition" whiskey that, for reasons undisclosed, hadn't made its way to China.

"Because you come recommended," the distributor told Al, "I'll sell you one bottle. I guarantee you'll have the only one in the entire United States."

He poured us a glass each as his story wound down. The whiskey glowed amber in the soft light of the kitchen. We clinked glasses in salute. From the first sip I thought to myself, "This might be the finest I've ever tasted."

Time expanded. In the comfort of an old friend's home, the road faded away. Our stories flowed as easy as the whiskey. As the night grew long, my sense of gratitude deepened.

Such experiences only served to enrich this journey. It turned miles into memories and strangers into companions, if even for a day.