Who is America’s Storyteller?

The best way to meet Jeff Gould is in his shop. Filled with woodworking tools, doodads that defy description, mementos, clutter, and thousands of stories.

Jeff sits comfortably in the middle of it on a beat-up folding chair (“…From the old St. Paul Civic Center. I got it at an auction”), wearing a shop apron (“They issued these in 7th grade shop class—this is my brother’s”), next to his wood stove.

The shop has comfortable smells of sawdust, woodsmoke, and WD-40.

“My bride, Libby, shakes her head when she comes in here. She’s been trying to change me since 1987, but it’s been a tough job.”

The two migrated to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, from Minnesota in 1991 and since then have spent spare moments renovating their 140-year-old house (“We often will sit on that porch. Life looks better from there.”)

A partially assembled wood project sits on a bench covered in clamps (“You can never have enough clamps”), while he roots through a pile of hardwood looking for the right piece of oak (“This one has a fair amount of post beetle damage, but that will add character”).

“My bride, Libby, shakes her head when she comes in here. She’s been trying to change me since 1987, but it’s been a tough job.”

Although the shop looks like a functional place, your first impression is that it seems more like a museum mixed with a curio shop.

Above his lathe is a series of Father’s Day cards standing shoulder to shoulder (“Four daughters: Mallory, Maggie, Meridith, and Madeline. All married to fine young men. The finest things I ever had a hand in making.”)

Everything you see here—from old posters and photographs to signs, tools, unusual things that defy description—all of these things have a story.

And Jeff Gould always has time to tell it. “Sometimes it’s hard to capture truth in a word or a sentence, but in a story you can get to the heart of what you’re trying to say in a way that’s memorable and impactful.”

His voice is a comfortable baritone, and you can see that he might have a gift.

Then he leans back—folds his arms—the chair creaks a bit, and he starts in: “So this piece right here…”

Before you know what has happened, you’ve leaned in, got caught up in his words and deliberate cadence. He’s got you hooked.

Sometimes the stories are funny stories of interesting characters he has known and met.

Sometimes the stories are tragic. He has been a eulogist at hundreds of funerals (“I never kept track, but rough math says 700.”)

All of the stories are mesmerizing, and you find yourself nodding, hearing the truth between the words.

“Four daughters: Mallory, Maggie, Meridith, and Madeline. All married to fine young men. The finest things I ever had a hand in making.”

“Most of the things I do in the shop are about saving things. What others throw away or see as useless or outdated, I see as precious and one-of-a-kind. So I will fix them, refinish them, give them out, and people say, ‘Wow, how did you come across this?’ which makes me smile, because it was hidden in plain sight.”

“People are the same way. When I see somebody that is overlooked as ordinary or common, I look deeper and I see a powerful story at work. My stories have common themes of redemption and a common goal of encouragement that all come from everyday living.”

“To lean into a younger person and help them figure out their path, to come alongside a busy and stressed person and offer them guidance and encouragement, to sit with an older person and help them find contentment and purpose.

“‘Wow, how did you come across this?’ which makes me smile, because it was hidden in plain sight.”

These are the things I was made to do. And the shop serves as a reminder of that.”

The time passes in a pleasant way in Jeff Gould’s shop, away from the stress and competition of a noisy world, and when you leave, you carry a piece of that tranquility with you, and you begin to understand why his stories are in such demand.