Liz Warren | Storyteller

            The
way my dad tells it, the story goes like this: Mr. Brewer worked as a lawyer in Kansas City, and he was good at his
job. From one especially grateful client, Mr. Brewer received a bottle of
moonshine. Able to identify trouble when he saw it, perhaps because of his
profession, he chose to give it away…to the doorman of his office building.

            At
this point in the story my dad usually pauses—with his hands mid-air, holding
the imaginary, square-shaped bottle of moonshine—to check in with his audience.
No longer raising glasses to their lips at regular intervals or methodically
folding greasy cocktail napkins, he knows his listeners are engaged. Indeed,
they have paused to listen.  So he continues…

            Mr. Brewer did not see the doorman at his
usual post when he returned to work the next day, the following day, or the day
after that. On the fourth day, Mr. Brewer was happy and relieved to see the
doorman. In a tone more conversational than confrontational, Mr. Brewer asks
the question that had been weighing on his mind: “Well, how was it?”

            Deepening his voice and attempting to cover
his native, Midwestern nasal twang with his best southern accent, my dad, on
behalf of the doorman, responds, “Mr. Brewer, if it had been any weaker, it
wouldn’t have done the job. If it had been any stronger, it might have killed
me. It was just right.”

            My
dad’s delivery of the phrase, “just right,”
makes the story. He lowers his jaw allowing the word “just” to fall out of his mouth the way an acorn drops from a tree.
And like a gymnast whose landing is simultaneously finish and finalé, he
exhales the word “right” and
transitions immediately into a broad smile.   

            I
have heard this story dozens if not hundreds of times. “Just right” even became a household anthem of sorts, with diverse
applications. “Is the soup hot enough, honey?” my mom would ask during dinner.
“It’s just right,” he’d respond,
using the exact tone from the story. Another example: “Now that I am 17 years
old, I believe I am responsible enough for a midnight curfew,” I protested.
“Nope,” one of my parental authorities would explain, “we think it’s just right.” On more than one occasion,
they even responded synchronously, always evoking my dad’s mock accent from the
story of Mr. Brewer, the doorman, and the moonshine.

            My
brother recently moved to New York City. During a phone conversation shortly
after his urban resettlement, I was full of questions: “Where is the nearest
subway stop? How big is the Sunday New
York Times? What is your local coffee shop like? And what color are the
couches in that coffee shop?” Tiring of my inquiries, he responded, “Just right.” Immediately, I knew what he
meant. It was a subtle yet sincere request for me to stop asking questions. In
this way, “just right” continues to
function as a centering phrase among the four of us.

            The
longevity of “just right” in my
family demonstrates both the power and intimacy of story. Intimate because the
words of the story, so often shared in semi-public settings, were adapted and
used in the comparatively private spheres of our household kitchen, the phone
calls from my college dorm room, and later, the text of emails. With
applications ranging from banal to creative, “just right” is a code phrase we use to remind each other to honor
the middle ground between the poles of too little and too much. The words of
the story, in other words, literally became the words of the Gustafsons.

            Every
new application of “just right”
strengthens the bond among the four of us. Not the abstract bonds of our shared
biology and blood, mind you, but the tangible and distinct moments—often at
wedding receptions and dinner gatherings—in which we have witnessed one of
dad’s tellings. We are connected by blood, but story is the substance that
strengthens that connection. Most importantly, story gives us the honor and
privilege to laugh and live with one other. I wouldn’t want it any other way
because, you guessed it, that sounds just
right.  

            The picture at the top is of Annie and her brother Gus in New York City, where his life is just right! For
more information on the importance of family stories, check out this article
from a recent edition of USA Today.