♪ ANDREW SHELFFO: In the adrenaline rush of the moment, I couldn't get the snaps undone.

So I just ran at the robber with my arms wide like this, looking like some big flightless red bird.

KERRITA MAYFIELD: It's the kind of story I would tell my dad.

And then I start to cry, because he's not here.

EMILY SAVIN: And she's standing a little apart with her arms folded and her eyes narrowed.

And she's staring at me, and I'm staring at her.

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "Curveball."

ANNOUNCER: This program is made possible in part by contributions from viewers like you.

Thank you.

HAZARD: We are in the beautiful WGBY studios right here in the heart of Springfield, in the heart of the Pioneer Valley, and our theme tonight is "Curveball."

Now, I think that's going to be familiar to pretty much everybody in here, whether you consider yourself a baseball fan or not, because we've all had the experience of living our lives, and then all of a sudden, the forces that be throw something at us that we are totally unprepared for, really.

And I'm sure that the outcome in a lot of those situations for you has been fairly devastating.

And in other times, it's been sort of just what you needed-- you find the focus and the motivation to make the moves that you didn't know you needed to make.

Whatever your experience with curveballs happens to be, you're going to find that a part of that experience is going to be reflected in each of the very, very talented tellers that I bring up for you tonight.

SHELFFO: My name is Andrew Shelffo.

I'm from Easthampton, Massachusetts.

In my day job, I teach senior English, and I also work in technology and education.

What kind of stories do you most enjoy sharing?

There are two strands that seem to consistently come through in my stories.

One is my childhood.

The other thing that crops up in my story are my kids.

And the story that I'll be telling later on tonight, there's a moment where one of my kids is in it bringing me down a peg or two.

So that kind of fits nicely, because anybody who's been a parent knows that you go in with a certain amount of expectations, and they go out the window within the first couple of hours.

Do you have any feelings about your children potentially one day coming full circle and telling stories about you onstage?

I think that would be great if they did that.

I've told stories about my father.

My father's passed away, but we... My siblings and I still get together and talk about the stories that he would tell.

So he would tell the same stories over and over again.

It got to the point where we would actually just kind of number them.

Like, "He told story number three last night."

"Oh, yeah, I remember that one."

So I think it would be great if my kids got up and told some stories about me.

And the other interesting thing is how they would choose to filter it, you know?

What's their point of view on what this shared experience was?

So hopefully I won't be too offended.

Like many of you, I have spent my entire life searching for the perfect haircut.

(laughter) And just when I think I'm getting close, the universe manages to throw me a curveball.

Just a couple of weeks ago, for example, I took my 15-year-old son so that he could get a haircut.

And when it was his turn, the stylist sat him down in the chair and said, "What would you like?"

And my son gave a surprisingly detailed explanation for what he wanted.

I was proud of him.

It was one of those dad moments where I can kind of picture my progeny successful in the future.

And I said, "You know what?

You're doing a good job."

Plus, the haircut he was describing, it was my haircut.

That's a two on the sides and a scissor cut on top.

I was feeling pretty good.

I got pulled out of my self-congratulatory reverie, though, when he asked me to take my hat off.

I was happy to oblige, because I wanted to help the process, so I took my hat off, and Owen points at me, and he says, "See that?

See the top?

"See how funny-looking it is?

I don't want it to look anything like that."

(laughter) But it's okay, because when I talk about the perfect haircut, I'm talking about the perfect haircut experience, not just the way the haircut looks at the end.

And my quest for the perfect haircut started when I was four years old, and I went to the barber with my grandfather.

I don't remember if I got a haircut that day, but I do remember watching him as he got one.

And he sat there in the chair, perfectly still, his eyes closed, and this beatific little smile on his face.

And ever since then, I've been searching for that feeling of contentment that I saw in that expression.

My first regular barber was Sal.

He had a shop in a small cluster of stores down the street from my house.

He was across the street from the candy store next to the deli.

And whenever I needed a haircut, my mother would take me and my three brothers, and she'd load us in the station wagon, drive us down to Sal's.

And she'd drop us off, and she'd say, "I'll be right back.

Now, be good."

I had to go into the barbershop with the burden of having to be good.

But that was okay, because I was good at being good.

And I also figured the easiest path towards grandfather-level contentment was to be good, and be good at the barber.

In fact, this became so ingrained within me that for the longest time, a successful haircut was not one where afterwards I got a lot of compliments, but it was one where, during the haircut, I moved my head in the proper position, anticipating the barber's needs before he had to do it himself.

(laughter) There were two barber chairs at Sal's.

One was a regular barber chair.

The other was a replica Model T Ford, with a stick shift and a steering wheel.

In all the years I went to Sal's, I never got to sit in that chair.

"It's for the bad kids," a friend of mine from the neighborhood explained, "The ones who won't behave."

I could never understand how you couldn't get into that chair by being good.

After Sal retired, I went to Phil's, where Dominic cut my hair.

This was in high school, and all my high school friends went to Jerry's, on the other side of town.

I don't really know why I didn't go to Jerry's, except that Jerry's was always crowded, and Phil's never was, and I always consider, like, haircuts to be largely private affairs, so I went over to have Dominic take care of it.

Dominic had two chairs, too, but the only time I ever saw him use the other one was when I would walk in and find him taking a nap, or watching old reruns on the black-and-white TV.

The last haircut I had at Phil's, by Dominic, happened on a rainy and windy spring day.

I walked in, and he positioned the chair so it was facing the big picture window, and I was able to watch the tree limbs sway in the breeze.

And I found myself getting a little bit hypnotized by the metallic clicking of the scissors.

And I was also a professional graduate student by then, so I'm sure I had a nap planned for later on in the day.

So I may have been feeling a little sleepy because of that.

Every once in a while, someone would run in front of the window with a newspaper over their head, but I wasn't really watching so much as I was kind of just staring blankly.

And then that image of my grandfather flashed in my head.

And I said, "You know what?

Maybe I can, just for a second, close my eyes."

But then I saw something across the street.

In the parking lot across the street, there was a woman with an umbrella and a briefcase, and she was struggling against the wind with the umbrella.

And then this guy ran over to help her.

And I thought to myself, "Boy, that wind is a lot stronger than I thought."

But then I realized what was really going on.

He wasn't helping her-- he was trying to steal the briefcase.

And they were struggling over it.

For the first time in my life while getting a haircut, I didn't think-- I just acted.

I stood up and I announced to everybody in the shop, which was just Dominic... (laughter) "That woman is being robbed."

And I rushed out the door.

And as soon as I rushed outside, I realized three things.

Number one, once you make an announcement like that, you can't just turn around and go back inside.

You got to do something.

Second, I had no idea what I was going to do when I got close to the robber.

Third, I was still wearing the big barber bib that Dominic always put on me when I got my hair cut.

So the snaps were way up in the back here by the neck.

But in the adrenaline rush of the moment, I couldn't get the snaps undone.

So I just ran at the robber with my arms wide like this, looking like some big flightless red bird.

He saw me, he turned around immediately, and he ran in the opposite direction, which, unfortunately for him, was into the arms of a cook from a nearby restaurant who'd seen what was happening, and also came out to help.

So we both tackled the guy, we got him down on the pavement, and we held him down until the police arrived.

I even got to identify him in the back of the squad car.

"I was getting my hair cut across the street," I said to one of the police officers.

He looked at the red cape, and he said, "Hmm, no kidding."

(laughter) Crisis over, I go back into the barber shop.

And I'm not going to lie to you-- I was looking for some acknowledgement of what I just did.

Some compliment.

This may be the adult version of the Model T Ford.

I'm not really sure.

I looked at Dominic, and he looked at me.

He had the scissors in one hand and the comb in the other.

And he shrugged as if to say, "Are we going to finish this or what?"

(laughter) I know that for most people a haircut is not a way to find a pathway to enlightenment.

And it's entirely possible that my grandfather closed his eyes that day because he didn't want to get hair in his eyes.

Or because he was an old man who had become adept at catnaps.

But that's a reality I refuse to believe.

Because that makes me sad.

Dominic didn't believe that a haircut could be so much more that day.

I realized that he saw me as a guy who came in every six weeks and gave him ten dollars with a two-dollar tip.

So I never went back.

So now I wander aimlessly from barber to barber, searching for that perfect haircut that my grandfather hinted at in his expression 40 years ago.

Thank you very much.

(applause and cheering) ♪ MAYFIELD: My name is Kerrita K. Mayfield, and am a proud Southerner.

And the things that I've discovered about myself, I've discovered that I have more stories than I thought I did.

Um...

I've discovered about myself as a teacher, actually, that, that I can... that I can leave room for other people's stories, that storytelling has permeated my teaching practice.

And that when I'm with my students, I am more open to their stories, I leave...

I design curriculum so that they can do more storytelling in a way that legitimates their stories with, like, a grade or an audience.

And I'm more open, I think, to other people's stories.

I think I become a better listener.

Why do you feel that the story that you're going to tell tonight, why do you feel that it's important to share?

I wanted to tell this story in part because I missed my dad, and I think people, you know, sometimes miss people, and they don't feel like they have...

I feel like they may not have anyone else to say that with.

Or that, you know, sometimes grief has a time limit.

I think there's a neatness to how we deal with loss.

And I don't think the story is neat.

But I do think that I just wanted to tell a story about loss, and in doing so, hopefully honor my father and be honest about our relationship.

But also kind of honor the heritage that brings me up here safely.

Many people believe that Virginia is not the South.

But I am from the coast, on the Carolina line, and I grew up across the street from the Great Dismal Swamp.

My hometown has a cotton gin in it.

And for you Northerners, it's for processing cotton.

(laughter) My family has lived in the same small town for almost 150 years.

And so there are some traditions that are really dear to members of my community.

And those traditions are no more stronger than when it's New Year's.

And because no one understands genteel misogyny quite like a Southern girl... (laughter) ...the first person who comes to your house on New Year's Day has to be a dark-haired man.

The second is, you must have black-eyed peas.

Because those little eyes on the peas can see into the future and hopefully bring you good fortune.

And third, you must have collard greens.

Because the shredded collard greens look just like money.

And you can get a bag, a garbage bag, of collard greens for under ten dollars.

I come from a long line of soil workers.

And by the way, that's not code for slavery.

I come from a long line of soil workers.

And I love my garden.

I'm an avid gardener.

I love digging holes and planting things in there.

I kind of take seeds out, and I say, "Go be with God, little plant."

I love weeding on my hands and knees.

There's nothing I love more.

It's dirt therapy.

It is the time when I feel closest to my ancestors.

But as spring became summer, and summer became fall, and fall became winter, I could not attend to my garden.

(sighs) It was New Year's, and my dad had been dead for three weeks.

And I spent all of my time driving and training and flying between Virginia and Massachusetts to care for him and to try to keep him, in vain, on this side of the veil.

And my father and I have a very complicated relationship.

And you may have noticed that I switched tense.

Because I don't know, if anyone has lost a parent, but there's something so dislocating about the death of a parent.

Do you use present tense?

Do you use past tense?

I talk to my father's ghost.

What tense do you use for that one?

You know, so my dad and I are complicated.

When I was two or three, I started reading on my own.

When I was around six, I realized that my dad did not enjoy reading with me.

When I was in my 20s, I realized that my dad was probably dyslexic.

But we bonded eventually over our mutual love of stealing inconsequential things.

(laughter) My personal fave is pens.

When I was a child, not a single steak knife in the house matched, because he'd taken them from either Shoney's Big Boy, or the Howard Johnson's, where he'd stop by on his second job.

Every white towel in the house said "Holiday Inn" on them in green letters.

And my dad loved my stories.

So I'd call him up, me in Massachusetts and him in Virginia, and I'd be, like, "Dad, there's snow on the ground, like, two inches."

And he'd be, like, "Oh.

You got a lot of snow up there."

Two inches.

Or I'd call him because the census came out, and my tiny village of 1,100, I'd be, like, "Dad, I bet I'm the only black adult living here."

And he'd be, like, "Oh, now, you're surrounded by white people."

(laughter) And I would, you know, call him up and tell him what I'm growing in my garden, and he'd act like growing your own parsley was a revolutionary act.

(exhales) But it was New Year's, and I was at a loss.

I did not know what to do.

So I had driven up from Virginia, and I had decided that I was not going to dodge my heritage that day.

And I pull up into the parking lot, and the snowplow guy had done exactly what I'd told him not to do.

And he piled up this huge berm of snow in front of my garden.

So I get a garbage...

I get a shopping bag out of the car, and I go over to the garden.

And the garden is a mess-- it's a disaster.

But there are collard greens that I grew, because I... you know, you've got to think of home.

There's a kind of collard green called Vates that was made in Virginia.

And so I grow those.

And they get really big, and they get, like, six feet tall, and the leaves are gigantic.

And... but it is winter, a New England winter.

And so I go up over the snow berm to the collard greens, and the leaves are leathery, and they're full of holes.

And not only are they full of holes, they're covered with caterpillar poop, because they partied while I ignored the garden.

And then there are dead caterpillars on the leaves, and I'm rapidly defrosting them with the heat of my hands.

But I am still determined.

Because death will not win this day.

So I'm pulling on those leathery leaves.

And then I'm pulling and tugging and pulling and tugging and pulling and tugging until I end up elbow over tea kettle in the snowbank.

And I'm looking up at the sky, and I start to laugh.

Because it's the kind of story I would tell my dad.

And then I start to cry, because he's not here.

Eventually, I get up and wipe the snow off my butt and I remember that my dad and I both keep knives in our cars.

(laughter) So I go to the car, and I get my car knife, and go back over the snow berm.

(laughter) I do have a car knife.

Go back over the snow berm, and I start cutting leaves.

And I have enough leaves to fill the bag.

And I go back inside, wash them off, of course.

And then I have, in the oven, cornbread, family recipe.

Don't ask-- I won't tell you.

I have on the pot, on the stove, a pot of beans stolen from my father's stash.

And then I have enough collard greens to make a separate pot.

And I have the meal.

And my dad was right-- collard greens are always sweetest after a hard frost.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) SAVIN: My name is Emily Savin.

I am from Philadelphia originally.

I live in Northampton, Massachusetts, now.

I am a writer and a writing workshop leader.

And I have spent a lot of my life working in politics, on campaigns, and as an organizer for a Quaker lobbying organization.

Great, and I have to ask, you know, since you are also a story writer, do you tend to feel more vulnerable when you're performing onstage, or writing something to submit later on, or is it the other way around?

I'm very extroverted.

And for some reason, it's a lot more comfortable for me to tell a story to a roomful of people that it is to actually submit my work somewhere in writing.

I like having the immediate response of people in the room.

When you send something out in writing, you... You only sort of imagine what people are thinking when they're reading it.

And when I'm imagining what other people are thinking, it's never pretty.

When you leave the stage tonight after having told your story, what do you hope the audience takes away?

I hope they'll remember their own experiences as children, and as parents, if they are parents.

For me, there's something really exciting about being able to go back in time and shine a light from my adult perspective on that little world that I lived in as a child, and also to be able to show it to other people in a way that I couldn't as a child, in the way that no one really can as a child.

The summer I was nine years old, I did something reckless.

Something dangerous.

Something my mother had told me never to do.

And I did it right in front of her, looking her in the eye.

I raised my hands to my mouth, trembling, and for the first time in my life, I bit into a hot dog.

(laughter) I had a lot of food allergies, and every year on the first day of school, I would explain them to my new teacher.

I'd say, "I'm allergic to dairy, eggs, fish, nuts, peanuts, and hot dogs."

Sometimes they had questions.

Like my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Shetman, wanted to know, "If you're allergic to peanuts, "why do you have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day for lunch?"

I told her exactly what my mother had explained to me.

She had said Dr. Faber was the very best pediatrician in the city, and he had said I was allergic to peanuts but not peanut butter.

(laughter) I had learned many of my allergies the hard way.

I knew that when I ate dairy or eggs, I broke out in a rash, and when I ate fish, I threw up.

But I had never been allowed to try nuts or peanuts or hot dogs.

I asked my mother what would happen if I did, and she said, "You don't want to find out, do you?

You don't want to know."

And that made sense to me, because I did know what would happen if I was stung by a bee.

And I never had been stung by a bee, but she had explained exactly what would happen.

My throat would close up so tight, I couldn't breathe, and unless I had my epi pen with me, I would die of anaphylactic shock on the spot.

So I kept my epi pen with me at all times in my fanny pack, right next to my inhaler.

And my mother made sure to protect me from the bees in every way she could.

So before I went over to a friend's house for the first time, she would call and ask their parents, "You're not by any chance beekeepers, are you?"

(laughter) And she made sure I never did anything dangerous like wear floral prints.

Because she said the doctor had told her that a bee can mistake you for a flower and sting you.

(laughter) She never told me that I could die from eating nuts or peanuts or hot dogs, but she didn't have to.

I assumed the worst, because I knew that the world was a dangerous place, and there were a lot of awful ways to die.

I knew that the reason I wasn't allowed to sit in the front seat of the car until I was a grownup was that airbags can come out really fast, and if you're not big enough, they'll crush you to death right there in your seat.

That's why my mother called it the danger seat.

(laughter) I also knew never to step on manhole covers or grates in the sidewalk.

If I got too close, my mother would grab my arm and yank me out of the way, saying, "Don't step on that!

That cover could be loose.

"You could fall to the bottom of that hole, "and if you were lucky, you'd be paralyzed for the rest of your life."

(laughter) And I knew never, ever to go to an amusement park.

I knew this because of the articles my mother cut out from the newspaper and left at my place at the dinner table: articles about children dying in horrible accidents on roller coasters.

So I was not going to take my chances with a hot dog.

Until the day I did.

And I'm still not sure what made me do it.

Maybe I had begun to realize that I'd never heard of anybody else with a hot dog allergy.

(laughter) But I think more likely it's because my friend Nora was over.

And Nora was my best friend.

She was a year ahead of me in school.

And Nora was strong and tough and bold, and so cool.

She knew everything there was to know about the Ninja Turtles.

And she wasn't afraid of anything.

Not even my mother.

And when Nora was over, I wanted to be a little more rebellious, a little more like her.

And so that summer day, as we were all standing around the grill, I said, "I want a hot dog."

And my mother said, "You know you're allergic."

And I said, "You don't know that.

You never let me have one."

Now, usually my father had a strict non-intervention policy when conflict broke out around my mother's rules.

But this time, for some reason, he said, "Oh, for God's sake, let the kid have a hot dog."

And since Nora was over, they couldn't have one of their big fights.

So he handed me a hot dog.

And at first, I didn't really know what to do with it.

I was holding it sideways like corn on the cob.

And Nora had to show me, "No, you turn it this way, and you bite the end off."

But then I was ready.

So there I was with my hot dog.

And I can still picture where everyone was.

In my memory, they're frozen in place.

My little sister is sitting on the ground looking up from her hot dog.

And my father's looking over from the grill.

And Nora's right next to me, watching.

But they're all kind of blurry, because I'm focused on my mother.

And she's standing a little apart from everyone else with her arms folded and her eyes narrowed.

And she's staring at me.

And I'm staring at her.

And I take that bite.

And I chew it, and I say, (voice trembling) "I'm fine!"

And my heart is pounding with fear and the adrenaline of defiance.

And I keep chewing, and I keep waiting for something horrible to happen.

And the longer nothing horrible happens, the more I begin to believe what I'm telling my mother.

(steadily): "I'm fine."

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) HAZARD: Emily Savin-- make some noise.

Fantastic story.

ANNOUNCER: This program is made possible in part by contributions from viewers like you.

Thank you.

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