Lewisburg Elementary Storytelling

What a day! Three groups of classes, three great sessions.

I drove over to Lewisburg in the evening, enjoying the greening mountains and soft air along the way. Lewisburg is a beautiful community with historic buildings and a bulging economy. There is a lot of growth in the area, but so far the feeling of a place old and well-cared-for remains.

The motel was quiet, and I was entranced by the motel-keeper's little son who had his own samovar of tea he carried around. His glasses gave him a very studious look, but his smile was pure boy.

The school was celebrating a week of Appalachian culture, and I presented the oral tradition in our state through storytelling and ballads. There can be nothing in this world as amazing as 100 or so kids sitting on the floor and listening, their faces wrapped in the story and living it with me. We sang together, talked about getting in trouble, learned about Jack (now there's someone who knows trouble!) and shared the pure joy that is always there when people listen to a story together.

The most magical thing to me is that each one of them was creating their own uniqie story in their imagination as they listened. No two children were seeing the characters, places and events in the same way. Each put faces to the people, saw palaces or huts or simple homes, each envisioned the details of the stories differently. How amazing is that! Video games and movies show children exactly how things are supposed to look, but with storytelling they get to create all the props and characters themselves.

That's important because when they read, they need to be able to do that with the printed word. Storytelling helps them develop the mental imaging skill that puts pictures and meaning to words. Listening well teaches a child that words can create pictures, and that is what makes reading fun.

So it was a great day, and I left as high on adrenaline and kid energy as it's possible to be and not get pulled over by the police. I hope the kids remember the stories we shared and try to tell them themselves, and I hope the teachers follow up by telling stories in the classroom from time to time.

As for me, I will look forward to the next storytelling event--Migration Celebration at Little Beaver State Park on May 12th.

SpeakEasy in Columbus

It was a quick trip--over to Columbus for an evening performance at a fine German restaurant. The SOCOTales storytelling guild sponsors the monthly event, and I'd always wanted to go. So when they asked if I would be a teller for the event, I was pleased to say yes.

Bev put me up--her home exudes serenity, blues and whites and cats and flowers. Since I don't get to hang out with other storytellers very often, it was a rare treat to be able to talk storytelling with Bev.

The restaurant was perfect for storytelling--cozy, intimate and good wait staff. We ate and talked and then it was time to perform. I told one of my favorites (my version of the old tall tale Walking Catfish) and sang a couple of mountain songs. I tried out a new story (Coal Camp Kids) about some of my husband's misadventures growing up in the mountains.

Then it was open mike time and it was a blast to hear the tales of other tellers. Larry Staats, a former Jackson County boy, told the most disgusting and funny recycling story I've ever heard. I sang Pretty Polly for the group as a closer, and hated to see the evening end.

I hope I get to go back sometime. And I hope the SOCO tellers realize how fortunate they are to be able to get together and share stories so often. Those of us in more isolated settings can only dream of having such an opportunity!

Weekends 2

I have had people say to me, "What is there to do in the mountains? What fun can there be living in the country? There's nothing to do!" I suppose fun is where you find it.

This past weekend started out with a visit to the replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial that was traveling through our area. We've been to the wall in Washington twice, and there are no words to describe the intensity of that experience. We didn't expect much of the replica, so we were surprised to see so many people walking its length and looking at the displays that travel it.

Ripley is a small town, so anything different will draw a crowd. But this was different. People came from all over to see the wall, to find names, to offer their respect to the lost soldiers listed on the black surface. We found the name of my husband's Marine buddy who was killed when he stepped on a land mine (a "Bouncing Betty")--William A. Ketchum, Jr. Only 19 years old, a bright boy who loved to read, Larry told me. Only days from going home.

We stayed for a while, then went on to dinner and home for wine in front of the fireplace--evenings are still cool in the mountains. We talked a long time as Larry remembered his friend and the year he spent in Vietnam.

Saturday morning we went back to town to have breakfast with friends at the Downtowner, our favorite breakfast restaurant. Larry and I went back to the Wall and were surprised again at the number of visitors. It does his heart good to see that. One man caught our eyes--he was dressed in the green fatigues of the Vietnam-era soldier, complete with helmet and boots. He didn't make eye contact with anyone, just looked at the displays intently. We walked away, and then Larry decided to go back and talk to the man. The guy was stand-offish at first; it was apparent that he'd come with a mission and he was fulfilling that--to pay honor to the dead by wearing his old uniform and remembering.

But he did talk--and talked and talked. Several young soldiers were there and they gathered around the two old vets to listen. I wish I could convey the depth of that experience, of those words. I could see it all in the man's eyes as he pulled MPC (military money in Vietnam) and Vietnamese money out of his pocket, along with his old drivers license and other documents. He'd kept it all, and he remembered it all.

We stayed with him for almost an hour, and when we left the young soldiers were still with him. Good boys, those. They knew, and they respected.

After coffee at Court Street Station, we couldn't decide where to go next. I wanted to go to an auction; Larry wanted to go to Richwood to the annual Ramp Festival. In the end, we did both. We checked out the auction, found nothing of interest, and headed off to Richwood.

For those who don't know about ramps, they are a potent wild onion that mountain people have been eating for years as a spring tonic. They're strong--so strong that you will reek for days if you eat even one ramp raw. Nowadays they're in demand in gourmet restaurants, and people have discovered how to tame the wildness of their odor. But here, they're still a spring treat to be hunted in the mountains right after the snow melts.

We got to Richwood just as the festival was winding down. They still had some ramps and other food left, and fed us for free! Ham, potatoes, ramps and sassafras tea. Nice folks there in Nicholas County, and we'll definitely go back next year. Richwood is the granddaddy of the ramp festivals, and what writer would not love a little town that has a low-ku contest (as opposed to haiku) as part of the celebration? It's what happens when a poet is mayor.

Sunday was a day of work for us, but it's the kind of work we love, digging gardens, putting down mulch, getting a few plants in the garden. We got out the lawn furniture now that it seems the snow really is over, and enjoyed dinner on the deck as we watched the sun set over the hills.

Nothing to do? More like too much to do, and every bit of it a memory to cherish.

Weekends--what a whirl!

They go by fast, and suddenly it's Monday and we're heading back to work, wondering what hit us. The days are full, varied and intense, and I don't think we'd have it any other way.

Take last weekend (not this one just past, but the one before). It started on Friday night--I signed up for a free weekend writing seminar offered by the West Virginia State Archives and the WV Library Commission. Some of West Virginia's best writers were workshop leaders--Terry Lowry, author of West Virginia Civil War titles; Geoff Fuller, a freelance writer who is working on a true crime story of the WVU Co-Ed murders; Diane Gillam Fisher, a poet whose work Kettle Bottom is on the poetry best-seller list (who knew there was such a thing!); Denise Giardina, whose fiction titles Storming Heaven and others have won numerous awards and national recognition; and Kate Long, songwriter, singer and writer extraordinaire. She was joined by Pete Kosky who writes and sings historical ballads.

So Friday night I began an immersion into writing history. I returned for a second sunking on Saturday; the workshop by Diane Fisher and the songwriting session with Kate and Pete were moving and somehow oddly disturbing--I felt like they were telling me to reach deeper, tell more, feel more. The Vietnam song (McNamara's Tear) by Kate was beautiful, and yet for this wife of a Vietnam vet, depressing and incredibly sad.

I had to leave before the workshops were over to prepare for an evening performance at the Evergreen Arts and Humanities Series Storytelling Festival in Marietta, OH, at Washington State College. Before we drove to Marietta, we stopped by Derek's house to see how the big window replacement project was going. Despite the cold, rainy weather, sons Derek and Aaron were hard at work, and had most of the windows already in while Jaime rode herd on her two little ones and kept the food organized.

The Marietta performance was excellent--not mine, but the whole event. I felt at home there sonce I'd performed for the series last year. My stories and songs went very well, and I really enjoyed Michael Burnham's telling of the Jack tale Soldier Jack.

We got home around midnight, and were up and out early to fix breakfast at Derek's. Then back home with Jaime and the little ones to burn CDs of old family photos, clean house and put away storytelling stuff and cook dinner for the guys who came over later. When everyone left, I headed to my office to finish up our --ugh-- income taxes.

And that was the weekend--full of family, fun, stories and work.

Jack Tales

What are Jack tales? There are many online resources, from class projects to scholarly articles, that address that very question. Some call him a fool some call him wise, I call him a survivor.

Click here for a scholarly article about Jack.

Or, if you want something on an elementary level, click here.

And if you just want a quick introduction, try here.

Any way you approach them, the Jack tales will delight you with their fresh humor, surprising twists, and old-time language.

A Story about Jack

Jack went out hunting, and he had a good day. He'd used up all his shot and his gamebag was full. He sat down to eat his lunch--a sackful of ripe peaches.

As he sat there, he saw the biggest buck he'd ever seen in his entire life. Its antlers branched out so far they blocked the sunlight, and that buck must have stood seventeen hands high. Jack reached for his gun, and then he remembered. He was out of shot.

Now some people would have cursed their luck, stomped around, cried, or blamed someone else for not having any shot left to shoot that big deer. But not Jack--he wasn't the kind of feller to let little things like that concern him. No, sir. Jack commenced to looking for an alternative solution to the situation at hand.

And he found it, right on the ground in front of him. Peach pits. Jack gathered up the peach seeds from his lunch and rammed them down the barrel of his gun, shoved in the wadding and powder and took aim.

Jack was a good shot. No, he was a great shot. No, he was an EXPERT shot. He hit that buck square between the eyes. But the buck just flinched, shook his head and ran off into the brush.

It didn't worry Jack too much. He had a bagful of game and he was too tired to drag a deer down the mountain anyway. He went whistling on home and cooked up a fine supper of squirrel gravy, fried rabbit and such as that. He forgot about that buck before his stomach was full.

A year later Jack found himself hunting in the same woods. He sat down to eat, and there in front of him he saw a magnificent peach tree. It was loaded with ripe, juicy peaches. Jack never could pass up a peach, so he jumped up and commenced to climbing up that tree.

He just got to the top where the ripest peaches were, when that tree stood up! That was when Jack realized that this wasn't an ordinary peach tree.

Remember the buck he shot? Well, one of the peach pits Jack had shot at that buck had lodged between the buck's antlers and grown into a full-sized peach tree right there on the buck's head!

That ol' buck shook his head, and sent Jack flying off--but not before Jack shoved about a dozen peaches into his pockets. Jack went on home and made him a peach cobbler.

And if no one's shot him, that buck is walking the woods yet.

Sad Spring

My husband found them--
two tiny birds
huddled close in a nest.
They were dead,
killed by the sudden, hard
cold of the past week.

In the frozen nest
were two pieces of bread
brought by the mother bird
or maybe the father,
offering life
to newborns long cold.

Where was he going?

Sometimes I see things that defy explanation.

I remember once seeing a purple coffin offered for sale at an auction. Purple. In fairly good condition, except for one dent.

I wondered, was it used? Had someone returned it because it was damaged in transit? Who would order a purple coffin? (Okay, forget that question, I know a lot of librarians who would do that very thing.) How had it ended up at the Rockport Auction House's afternoon box lot sale?

The coffin sold for the grand price of $1.00. I didn't see who bought it, but it had to have been one of the grizzled old men who are there every week. Maybe they used it to store hog feed, or a place to house baby chicks? Or maybe, being the thrifty type, they put it up in the barn to use at a later date. I hoped they remembered to tell their heirs where it was.

Today, it was a different coffin. This one was a beauty, all bright copper shining in the back of a beat-up old Ford flatbed truck traveling south on interstate 77. The driver looked like a happy kind of guy, bearded and gray-haired and driving with his window down.

The coffin wasn't traveling alone. In the bed of the truck with it were assorted pieces of plumbing pipe, a few tool boxes, some rope. It didn't seem to mind the lowly company.

I passed the truck but kept looking back in my mirror, trying to understand what I had just seen. I never will know where that man and that coffin were going.

Oh, I know where the coffin will go eventually. And come to think of it, the man will likely end up in the same place. I hope he's smiling just as broadly then as he was today.

Coyote

I see you, sly trickster,
sliding across the snowy hill.
You stop and stare at me, insolent,
sure of yourself while I
stand still in surprise, and
envy at your grace and speed.

Will you be visiting my farm tonight
in search of a warm chicken dinner
on the hoof, fast food cooped up
for your convenience?
Will I hear your nightsong
echo in the darkclad hills?

You run off, low to ground
without looking back even once
to see if I'm still watching.

April Snow

Larry always expects an Easter squall, as he calls it--a spell of wintry weather that comes somewhere around Easter. This year his prediction is right--there is at least 2" of snow on the ground tonight. The flakes were huge, falling thick and fast. I hope it will protect the fruit trees in blossom, but I guess that's optimistic. It's been in the 20's and 30's for several days now.

But Larry feels vindicated--his prediction came true, and he says he knew it all along; that's why he didn't take the studs out of my snow tires!

He's not alone in believing in the Easter squall: The Hur Herald reports that this is a common belief in Calhoun County, WV as well. Vance Randolph, in his book of Ozark Mountain folklore, also refers to the local tradition of bad weather near the Easter holiday.

Of course, this may just be redbud winter or maybe dogwood winter. Whatever it is, it sure doesn't feel like Spring!

Music from the Mountains

I love Friday night radio. Joe Dobbs' show, Music from the Mountains, showcases some of the best talent in the region along with visiting musicians passing through. His style is pure front-porch, friendly and casual, and focused on the music. Who needs to go out on a snowy April night when music this good is on the radio?

In Memory of Philip Swindells

To Philip and His Gardens

Philip’s garden was the world--
buried mazes, ancient paths
gardens lost and long forgotten
in passing trends and wars.

His hands found the patterns,
the makers’ meanings. With
walls rebuilt and plants restored
the gardens came into their own.

Philip did what others only dream--
to find the old and make it new again,
bringing beauty into fullness by
restoring, renewing, rewarding.

Generations forward may not know
that Philip Swindells lived and died,
but they will know the living glory
created by his loving hands.

Susanna Holstein 4.04.2007
In memory of my cousin, Philip Swindells, who died March 29, 2007

The Old Dining Room Table

The table, solid walnut, is in pieces. It waits for me to have time to assemble it, place it in its new home, settle it in.

It has a long history, beginning perhaps at the end of the 19th century. It's difficult to tell its age, except that it is beautifully and massively made, with heavy carved legs and feet, and leaves that extend its length to eight feet or better. Even though it has been in my family for almost 50 years, I will have to search books to identify its style and age.

Probably it started life in a fine house, with twelve or more matching chairs surrounding it as it sat in state in a large dining room. How it ended up in an antique store called Grandma's Attic in Independent Hill, Virginia, in the late 1950's is anyone's guess. Mine is that it was part of an estate and it was just too big for most homes being built in that time period. So it was sold at an estate auction and landed in the yard of the antique store, where my father found it.

That day was dark and rainy, and a storm was brewing when my parents stopped by Grandma's Attic. The table was outside, and the owner was muttering about where in the world he would store it before it rained. Dad asked, "How much?" The owner said, "Take it now for $40." Dad said, "Sold!" and the table was loaded into his car and taken home.

We needed that table. By then our family had grown to ten children, and we needed a big table. We used a small card table (called the "little kids table") for the children out of high chairs but still too small for the big table. If we had guests, a common occurrence in my memory, we squeezed into our places.

The new table gave us a luxury of space. My parents even bought twelve new chairs for it. We were living in style then! I remember one Thanksgiving when 27 people gathered at that table to celebrate a meal together. Birthdays, holidays, and finally weddings as we all grew up and moved out--all were celebrated at that long table.

Time passed, children left, and slowly the leaves were removed, one at a time, until the table was only a five-foot square. My parents sold the old four-square house and moved into a small ranch style house better suited to their aging needs. The table went with them, but instead of being used daily for meals, it was often covered with craft materials as my parents pursued retirement hobbies.

After my mother passed away the table was taken down and stored in the basement--no one had a house big enough to hold it. My husband and I added a room to our home, a room built of 150-year-old logs. That room would hold the table, and so it was given to me.

A 300-mile journey later, the table is here, still in pieces but ready to be put back into service. It will be in front of a window that looks over mountains, surrounded by more plebeian pieces and tools from years past. Will it feel it has come down in the world from its beginnings in a fine estate? I don't know, but it will be loved and cherished, and put into regular use when all our sons and their families come home to visit.

And I will remember, each time I look at it, those times when 13 little faces gathered around for dinner at 6pm in an old house in the middle of Manassas, Virginia, and I will be very glad it found a home with me.