Allegheny Echoes: It's Coming in June!

Allegheny Echoes is coming! June 24-29, 2007
Marlinton Motor Inn, Marlinton, WV in beautiful Pocahontas County.

This is a not-to-miss workshop experience. Whether you play banjo, fiddle, dulcimer, or guitar, or if you sing or write--the Allegheny Echoes Workshops in Marlinton, West Virginia are the best place to get your creative juices in fine fettle.

I attended in 2005 and will be back this year. In 2005 I took creative writing and wrote over 20 poems in a week--almost all keepers. The picture above was taken the last night of the workshops, when the music played until the sun came up. Musicians of all ages and skills levels jammed, moving from group to group. I just listened, soaking it up like dew on a dry patch of ground.

I can't wait for this year's workshops. I'll be taking the vocal class and hope to learn a lot about singing ballads. I'll also be up with the night owls every night, because I will never get enough of pure mountain music.

Good place for Appalachian Writers

The Appalachian Writers Association's webpage is a good resource for anyone interested in Appalachian writing. Upcoming conference July 15-17. I don't think I can make that one, but it sure is tempting.

Storytellers benefit from writers conferences because writers talk about crafting stories, choosing words, pacing, character development. Storytellers need to pay attention to those things too. The differences I see is that when I'm telling a story orally, I show a lot of things without words. The writer must find just the right words to convey what I show with expression, body language, tone of voice and gestures.

I think that in many ways the writer has the more difficult challenge. For example, think about how many ways there are to show a character is happy. It might be the lighter tone of voice, a smile, a bounciness in movement that convey this to an audience. The writer, however, has to decide: use the word happy, joyful, jubilant, or exhilarated? Each word has a slightly different meaning that a storyteller can get across to an audience by intensity, drollness, laughter, and so on. The teller can show exactly how happy a character is without any words at all--a smile can do it all.

The writer has to find words to convey that meaning, and in the writing world "show don't tell" is a mantra most writers live by. So how to show in words without actually saying the words?

I believe there can be a marriage here. What if writers observed a storyteller telling a short story, and then tried to write what the teller did? Would they be able to capture exactly the right degree of happiness? Would the teller be able to identify exactly what he/she was trying to project? I want to try this--I think teller and writer could both learn from the experience.

Two Storytelling Dynamos

I was supposed to be paying the bills, but instead I was listening to a CD by storyteller Ellouise Schoettler. I remember when she began telling. She and her family were regulars at the West Virginia Storytelling Festival.

That was 10 years ago. Today Ellouise is a pro. Her stories were smooth, nice finished edges, good pacing, and the interaction with her audience was evident from their laughter during well-placed pauses. The performance centered around stories about textiles and textile art, from handmade to crafted items. The rich texture of family threaded the pieces together to make a seamless whole.

Ellouise is a teller to watch or rather listen for (although I would bet she's fun to watch too).

After the CD finished it was back to the bills. Then the phone rang. It was Donna Wilson, who called to tell me she'd won second place in the Hockhocking Festival's Liars Contest. She had some stiff competition too. Donna's energy and enthusiasm are infectious. She was the driving force behind the Stories at the River's Edge series planned for this summer in Mason County, WV, and Meigs County, OH. I have no doubt the series will be a success. Donna's been a Tellabration producer for over 5 years, and her storytelling skills increase with each passing year. I think she's found her niche with lying, though. She told me the bones of her winning story, and it's a keeper.

Never did finish paying the bills, but I'd rather listen to a storyteller any day.

Twenty-One Years Later

Twenty-one years later,

we haven't changed much.

We got married on our day off

and came home to tie tomatoes.

It was a hot day then too.

Yesterday he came home,

started the tractor

and cut part of the flat with the brushhog,

then worked on a rail for the new deck.

I cleaned house and started writing.

We remembered our anniversary today,

a day late but who is keeping track?

Marriage isn't about lust and presents

although both are nice fringe benefits.

It's more about pulling in harness,

working and living together,

and making sure the bills are paid.

Twenty-one years later, the love apples are thriving

with daily watering during the dry spells.

Submissions

Two stories and three poems submitted to contests in two days. Yay me!

Memorial Day part 3: Water, Water Everywhere and Breakfast with a Stranger

The well driller arrived just after the demise of the snake (see part 2). We had not expected him to come during the holiday, much less on Sunday morning, but there he was and I bet he felt like a hero from the welcome we gave him. It occurred to me that his timing was perfect--a little earlier and he'd have been under the porch with the snake.

His news was wonderful--the pump was fine, it was the pump box that was bad. As he worked, more family arrived and I got breakfast on the table. $275 later, the water was running and I was one happy woman.

"Come eat breakfast with us," I called to the driller.

"Oh no, Ma'am, I just ate."

"We've got pancakes, sausage, bacon, melon, and coffee," I said.

"You've convinced me." He came into the house, no apology made for his dirty work clothes and none needed. "I never could turn down pancakes," he said. He told us why he hadn't been out sooner. He had three crews working, all fixing people's water.

I love to see a man eat well, and he put away some pancakes before thanking me and getting back in his truck to go to the next job. After he left, I asked my husband if that man was who I thought he was.

"Yep," he said. "He got out of prison a couple years ago."

Wide-eyed grandchildren were paying 100% attention now. "What for, Poppa Larry? Why was he in prison?"

"Well, he killed someone in a fight."

"He's a murderer?"

"It was a long time ago, and it was a stupid bar fight. He's paid for it, and he's a hardworking man." I looked at my grandchildren and thought they just had another experience at Granny's house that's a little out of the ordinary.

There are many sides to each of us, some good and some very bad. No person is one-dimensional. Sometimes we want to put those labels on each other, but who among us has not made a mistake or done something completely stupid? Some of those mistakes have disastrous consequences. As I watched the driller's truck leave, I thought that there went a man trying to put his past behind him. Not forget it, probably, but moving on. Had he changed his ways? Who could tell? All I know is that he is very good with wells and pumps, and for that I am grateful.

My grandchildren looked thoughtful as they finished their meal. I hope what they took home with them was the idea that everyone has depths we may not see on the surface, that sometimes a man can do something very wrong, pay for it and still make a life, and that anyone is welcome to share a meal at Granny's house.

Memorial Day part 2: No Water and One Snake

The last post I wrote was about sons and stories and graveyard visits. This is the next part of the weekend.

Friday before Memorial Day, both Larry and I were off work. We stayed home, ready for our sons and their famileis to arrive. About 3pm I put in the last load of wash--and there was no water. None. Zip.

Quick call to the well guy. He said to turn off the breaker, wait an hour and call him back. We did. Called back. Got his voicemail. Bummer.

Next step was to figure out how to cope: lots of company and no water. Rearranged the guests--men can handle lack of water, women and girls revolt. Female guests to stay at Derek's house, a few miles away, and two of the guys here. Trip to town for bottled water and gallon jugs of drinking water. Realization that our pool had about 7000 gallons of water we could use to flush the commode. We were set for a weekend without water.

Saturday was a fine day. I cooked a big country breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, grits. The men looked at the pump to figure out what was wrong. They decided our pump was dead. Our well is 723 feet deep, and replacing the pump is about $2000 more than we figured on spending this weekend. Still, if it's gone, it's gone, and we'd have to cough up the money if it came to that. Everyone left for various points in the afternoon, and only Larry, George, Clayton and I spent the night here.


Sunday morning, still no water. Poppa Larry and grandson Clayton decided to make a bow and arrow from sticks and string. That was because Larry told him about the time he was playing cowboys and Indians in an abandoned house. They played for real--their arrows were sharpened to fine points on the end. When Larry spotted a boy named Booge leaning out a broken second-floor window, he saw a great opportunity. He sneaked up behind Booge and let his arrow fly. It hit Booge square in the back, and he fell out of the window yelling AGH! It was just like the movies. When Booge hit the ground, though, the movie stopped and reality started. Larry got chased all the way home by one mad big boy. Narrow escape from certain pain.

After that story (which also had to include a description of cap wire that coal camp kids used to string their bows, and how they used dynamite to mine house coal) Clayton had to have a bow. He and Larry went in search of the right wood and I started yet another breakfast for the ones who would soon be arriving.

I looked outside and saw Clayton and Larry whittling a stick. That was too good a picture, so I stepped out the door on my way to get my camera out of the car. There on the porch was a five foot black snake, sunning on the warm floor.

Yeah right. That was my first reaction. Larry put a rubber snake there to scare me. Then it moved. Not a rubber snake. I yelled for Larry and grabbed a rake and started pushing the snake off the porch. It didn't want to go and made it clear by hissing at me and trying to bite the rake. I finally got it off the porch and onto the sidewalk when Larry and Clayton arrived--and scared the snake under the porch.

Now I don't mind snakes. They have their place in the food chain and are handy to have around barns and sheds. We always have one living in one of our outbuildings, it seems. But they have all the outdoors to roam, so when they invade my space, they're cheating. I only have a few square feet compared with their kingdoms. A snake under the porch means there could very well be a snake under the house. A snake under the house just might decide to climb up a water pipe or something and be inside the house. And that is completely against my rules of co-existence.

As we were talking about how to get the snake out from under the porch, the dogs decided it for us. There was a sudden, loud, furious battle. Clayton ran to look, and saw Raven come out victorious with the recently deceased snake.

I can't say I was happy about it. I would have preferred to chase the snake off into the woods. On the other hand, I didn't want the snake under the house either. Clayton took it up into the woods and left it there.

They say that a snake never dies until after sunset. I meant to go up the hill and see if the body was still there in the afternoon, but I never had time that day. So I don't know if that legend is true. I'll just believe that it is.

Sons, Stories, and Graveyards

Last weekend was the Connelly family reunion. This weekend it's my own sons coming home to watch Jordan, the oldest grandchild, graduate from high school. We had plenty of people in the stands to cheer her on.

Today we got together for a country breakfast, then the guys moved on to their own priorities. Aaron headed home to Fairmont, Jon got on the tractor and started the first brushhogging of the year, Derek went to his house a few miles way to prepare for a cookout, and George hung out with Larry and me, just talking and enjoying the day. Grandchildren were all over this place, exploring the hollow, asking Poppa Larry about coal mining and watching as he lit his old carbide lamp for them.

Around noon the kids and I gathered on the porch and I told them, as I had promised, the story of Mr. Fox. That led to more stories, and we even read a few from Coffin Hollow by Ruth Ann Musick. The kids listened, wide-eyed, imaginations in full throttle. I'm not sure if their mothers approve of ghost stories, but the kids love them and keep me challenged to find new ones, especially those with local connections.

It's their eyes that amaze me. They listen completely, eyes on me but in the story. How many kids can listen like that? It's a skill that will help them in many ways as they get older, because good listening is the key to understanding.

By 2pm, everyone was gone to Derek's for the afternoon cookout with their Granddaddy and his wife, and Larry and I drove to cemetery below Charleston to put new flowers on his family graves.

There is something peaceful and comforting about tending graves. We walked through the rows of stones, searching for those of his two bachelor uncles, both WW II vets, so we could put out flags for them. Then to his brother Maxey's grave. His wife Becky had already been there but we added another flag and more flowers. Maxey, gone too soon at 49, rests in the old section of the graveyard where stones are allowed, and Becky makes sure he always has new flowers.

Then we found his parents' tombs in the mausoleum and put new flowers in the holder. A mausoleum does not convey the same peace that a graveyard does, and it never feels right to visit his parents there. His grandparents took a little while to find, but I liked their place near a big shade tree. We had an extra flag and it went to his great-uncle who served in WW I.

My family are too far away for me to visit graves this year, and those in England I will likely never see. Some time I want to go to Arlington Cemetery to find the graves of my grandparents and my great-great grandfather, a Civil War veteran. But for now, these West Virginia graves are mine to care for and those beneath them are people I will mostly know only through my husband's memory.

I found myself wishing the grandchildren were with me to learn about this part of life's responsibilities: caring for those who have passed on and remembering and honoring them with flowers and flags and a few moments of memory and prayer.

I think these children of my children would understand about graves. Below is a poem I wrote a couple years back, when I took them for a hike through the woods to an old graveyard that is hidden in the trees.


Graven Image

I took the grandkids for a walk last Sunday
to the old graveyard in the woods
about a mile from my house
Last time I was there
the trees were growing through the graves
and most were marked
only by sunken ground
No stone noted the names or dates
of those who lay beneath
in anonymity

Someone had been there
since my last visit three years before
the trees were cut and the broken base
of a pale amethyst kerosene lamp
had been carefully placed
on top of the one tall gravestone
that marked the grave of Birdie Parsons
and her sister Ethel
Birdie died at one year four months
and Ethel lived less time than that
but their parents had marked their little lives
with a carved marble stone
placed on their forgotten grave
so many years ago
no one thought to carve the date

My grandchildren looked at the moss-covered stone
and ran their fingers across the names
they spoke in hushed voices
and wondered who had left the lamp
and if they’d spent the night
in that lonely place
so far from road and lights
Or was the lamp left
for the use of those
who sleep beneath the stone

Granny Sue in India?

Not exactly. But storytelling friend Tim Sheppard in England alerted me to the fact that my blog post about listening and storytelling was quoted in an article on storytelling in the Times of India.

The fact that someone in India read my blog is intriguing. I'm glad they found it interesting enough to include it in their article.

Finding out about the article from Tim, half a world away, demonstrates the power of current connectivity. Tim and I have been members of the online discussion group Storytell for over 10 years. Without the internet, I doubt we would have known of each other's existence. But because of the ease of eletronic communication, we can share thoughts and stories with hundreds of other storytellers daily with a few clicks.

Sure would like to know the person that wrote the article...

White Rose Ridge

White roses around a tumbledown house
three rooms, one board between
comfort and weather
no one knew about insulation
when the need for shelter
urged its building

I wanted to find the inspiration
for the poetic name of a lonesome ridge
where no one lived anymore
the road was disappearing
in ruts and weeds and fallen branches
maps don't mark addresses of memory

Go out to where the road forks.
There used to be an apple tree
and at the head of the holler
was the house. Might not be there now.
White it was, and a fence around the yard.
Them roses grew right up to the roof.

I walked the red clay ruts stepping
careful because no phone
and no people were near
a copperhead blocked my path
I detoured into woods, picking wild strawberries
to quench the taste of fear

broken branches and gnarly limbs
marked the apple tree
I turned trusting the sunken path
ahead was the road that led
to the house with wild wild roses
growing over the roof

it was June when roses bloom
at the head of a hidden hollow
I found them--stretching
long arms of creamy blossoms
to cradle the ruins of the past
in prickling thorns and fragrant scent

Stories: Why Tell Them?

I'm scheduled to lead a "Storytelling 101" workshop in a few weeks, and I've been considering how to approach the topic. It's not for storytellers--it's for a writers conference. So what would writers like to know about storytelling? Will they come because they want to tell stories, or because they want to write them? What are the differences between the written word and the spoken word? What drives a person to do one or the other? Can a person be successful at both?

Those are the questions I've been asking myself as I prepare for the conference. I started as a storyteller, then began writing stories and poems. Oddly, I seldom write on paper (or computer) a story I tell. Why? What's the defining difference to me between the written tale and the told tale? Is there a difference?

As I mull over these ideas, it occurs to me that to be a storyteller, one must listen. A writer must also listen for the stories surrounding the idea in his or her head.

A storyteller must passionately want to share something with others--an idea, a joke, a memory, a lesson--something is pushing that story to the mind and the lips. A writer also has something to share--a story that defines itself in shaped words and phrases, developed characters, vivid places.

A storyteller is not someone who wants to be listened to, who wants to get the attention of others because they are funny, interesting, or great performers. Performers belong in drama, theatre. Storytellers are the conduit of the tale, passing on stories from generation to generation.

A writer is likewise invisible to the reader. The words, character, plot take over the stage, act out the tale and leave the message behind for anyone who wants to seek it out.

So much the same, yet so different. How will I bring these writers to the storytelling table? By telling stories, I think, letting them share the magic, bringing them into the circle of tellers that extends into the darkness before time.

Divorce, 20 years later

It rears its ugly head
when least expected--
weddings, graduations,
funerals, places
where families gather
to celebrate, witness, mourn.

Unexpected, old hurts surface,
scabs torn loose by razored words.
It is ended, but never over.
There is no explaining to the children
who get splattered by the bitter blood
of aged wounds still fresh with gall.

Music, Miners, and Old-Time

I've been thinking about this: how can a man work underground in the dark for hours, then come up into the light, pick up a fiddle or a banjo and play? How does he do that? How do his fingers know to pick the strings so lightly, to move so fast? How can his mind remember all the notes after hours of repetitive work in dark and damp?

I listened to a CD recently. A man on the CD proudly gave his name and age, and the fact that "I am a miner. I work in the mines." And then lit out on a tune that was so fast it made my head spin just listening.

I am in awe of a man like that. (Or a woman. Plenty of them in the mines too.) I can't play, but I sure love to listen. I will never know the life of a miner, but the old-time music of these mountains must be somewhere in my blood.

For online listening, Sugar In the Gourd is a radio station devoted to "all old-time, all the time." Doesn't get any better than that.

This Year's Garden--A Work in Progress

A corner of the log room, and the new stone wall under the porch are just visible here. The deck still doesn't have a rail, although we bought the lumber to do it--so does that count? Too busy on other projects, but that one is next.

The herb garden, complete with wire to ward off digging dogs--and a mirror for the evil spirits!

It's been a rough year for gardening. Too cold, too wet, too hot, too dry--no happy medium of weather to please a gardener or the plants.

The sundial was a gift from my oldest son at least 10 years ago. Still keeping time, and no batteries needed.

Our "Lady of the Garden"--this small sculpture was bought at the libray's book sale about 8 years ago, I think. She gazes down at a small pool of water, when I remember to fill it. The miniature roses around her stone perch did not fare well this winter, and have not had a single bloom so far this year.

Hatched!

The eggs in the little evergreen tree in the pot on the porch hatched while we were away this weekend. I think they are sparrows although the mother is so fast it's hard to get a look at her. The robins in the bad-hair wreath hatched too, and may already have flown off. Here's a photo of the eggs in the evergreen, enlarged so you can see them.

Another strange bird in my garden: can anyone identify it?

Missing Dad

He would have loved hearing about the recent changes in my job. From finding rental trucks to getting parking lots paved to getting the flowers planted to arranging for laptop computers for all the branch managers to why the air conditioning pump (parts obselete in 1975) broke down and how we got it fixed to bad transmissions to finding bids for a new truck--and of course, still ordering books and more typical library-type duties.

Dad was an electrician, but also a man handy at fixing anything that broke. He would have been fascinated by this turn in his librarian daughter's career. As for me, I'm enjoying every minute of it. Being Dad's daughter, living out in the country and 15 years or so of farming have all taught me a lot about a lot of stuff that isn't covered by any library degree program I know of.

Dad would have loved it.

Family Storytelling

As part of this year's reunion, I suggested we delegate a time to sharing stories about our families, growing up or whatever we wanted to share. Since many of us had not seen each other for years, and did not know each other's children, spouses, or grandchildren, it seemed like a way to begin to learn about all those missing years.

I wish I had pictures of all the storytellers last night! from 4 years old and up, each one shared a family story or a joke with the more than 100 family members who came to the reunion. It was magical. I will never forget Drew telling about the Skunk Monkey, the story of how my brother nearly burned down his rental house and farm, or the one about Help! Help! written on the bottom of cousin Bernie's shoes at his wedding, or my sister Maggie's hilarious stretch (Bottoms UP!) or the story of "Tick Tock."

I may be the one who tells stories for pay, but I am not the only one who can weave a tale in this family. This is a family of storytellers. Each of the 20+ people who told stories proved it over and over again.

I think we're also a family of singers. next year we'll be exploring that part of our heritage.

Reunion Revisited

My favorite photos from this weekend's reunion. I didn't get pictures of everyone, because I was so busy visiting and just watching the fun. But here's a few I captured:

Grandchildren James and Michaela shared cabin #5 at Lost River State Park with us and their parents. We had a great time, especially watching the fire in the fireplace and cooking grits for breakfast.




Oldest gandson Jared retrieving a frisbee from the roof of the picnic shelter. I wish I'd caught a picture of his grand jump back to the ground. Somehow I had the feeling that this might be the part of the reunion when we made a trip to the emergency room, but that didn't happen, thank goodness.



My sister Mary (number 6 in my family of 13 siblings) and her husband David. Mary was the main mover and organizer for this first-ever reunion and did a great job. Bet she's sleeping well tonight!



Cousin Ralph with my only surviving Connelly uncle, Uncle Barney. We were lucky to have him with us this weekend, as he's been ill. But his sweet voice and smile were a joy to all of us there.




My sister Maggie and her man Roger. After being badly burned in a terrible explosion last fall, Roger continues his amazing recovery. An incredible man with a great sense of humor.




Matt with a mouthful! Even his mother Theresa can't look. The food, although you can't tell from this picture, was terrific and plentiful.




We're already planning next year's reunion. Where? We're working on that! But we will definitely be doing this again. Family is too important to for us to lose the connections we re-established this year.

Family Reunion

It's finally going to happen. The Connelly family, or at least one branch of that tree, is getting together for a reunion. I'm not sure what took us so long, but the passing of parents and the oldest cousin woke us up to the fact that time was moving fast and we were losing touch with each other.

So this weekend, we're getting together in a place our grandparents loved, up in the mountains of West Virginia. They weren't from here, but they visited often. It seemed like a natural choice for the first get-together.

I am looking forward to seeing cousins, sons, grandchildren, aunt and uncle and my siblings. I hope to hear lots of stories and lots of laughter. Our family has always been a storytelling group, and I'll bet we'll all have sore throats on the way home.

My Dad used to tell us that his father would look around the table at family gatherings and say, "Look what we started!" Used to make Grandma mad, Dad said. I'll bet Grandpa would love to see this gathering--he really did start something!

With almost 100 people just from my parents' union (13 children and their spouses, 35 or so grandchildren, 38 or so great-grandchildren), it promises to be quite a crowd.

War: 2 Poems

More bad news today. More people killed, more bombs, no news about the 3 missing soldiers, and Congress still not taking the actions needed to end this stupidity. I understand that we can't just leave, but staying without a real plan and leaving our soldiers there to face hatred and ineptness is not an option. And then we put them on trial for the things they might have done. It's a war--people, civilians, they get killed. That's war, and it's ugly and nasty and if we didn't want people to be killed we should not have started this mess.

I am the mother of soldiers. I am the wife, daughter, granddaughter, great-granddaughter of soldiers, back at least to the American Revolution. Military men (and for all I know, women) have been in the family for generations. That does not mean I have to like it. It does not mean I am comfortable with it.

My stomach is in knots every day, and my heart sinks every time I hear another soldier has died. I cannot bear to think of their families, their mothers. I know that most of the soldiers are there because they believe their leaders, and that they serve because they believe it is the right thing to do. That is why my sons joined. They believed it was their duty to defend their country, to serve with pride. I am proud of their choices even as I twist inside with worry.

Right now, I feel lucky. Two sons still in the military, but at the moment neither one in the Mideast. That makes me feel guilty. Other mother's sons and daughters are there. One of mine has already been there, I remind myself, but it doesn't make my real relief at the current safety of my sons seem less selfish.

The two poems below reflect a little of how I feel. I find it hard to put into words, and I worry that somehow I am being disrespectful of my sons. It's not a good time to be the mother of soldiers.

Storyteller

when the darkness hides his face
it’s then he tells the tales
of opening up the massive graves
of those killed in the first Gulf War

the baby skeletons are the ones
that get to him the most
he tells about fragile bones
voice cracking on the words

that tell of how they found the graves
and how they dug them out
backhoes scooping out the earth
because it takes too long by hand

to dig up four thousand buried bodies
under hot Iraqi sun
we stood there by the bones he says
while people came to search

to find their missing relatives--
uncle, father, brother, son
aunt and mother, daughter, too
all mixed and mingled in the sand

he never tells too much at once
it takes a while to hear it all
a tale no man should have to tell
but all men need to hear

-----------------------------------------

Mother’s Anthem

I am just his mother
I cannot tell him what to do
Now that he’s a grown man
With his own life and will
the duty he has chosen
is one he must fulfill

To defend his country
Right or wrong
keep it safe and keep it strong
I am just his mother
Who can blame me if I cry
Inside each night with fear
At what my son has seen
In his thirty-two years

Someone has to do it,
That is what he says
Someone has to be there
Someone has to fight the fight
why must it be my son, I cry
I am just his mother
And yes, I swell with pride
When I see him standing proud
In his uniform of military might

He is just another soldier
Like the thousands gone before
I am just his mother
And I am tired of war

Rocks from Heaven

Those who know me know that I am all about common sense.

So how do I explain a rock from heaven? I am at a loss on this one.

Here's what happened: I was driving home from work this evening. It had been a very windy, rainy day, and I was happy about that because it has been dry for a month. So dry that even planting the garden raised a dust that coated my clothes and made me wonder why I was bothering to drop seed into such dry earth.

But today it rained long and steady. As I drove up our holler, the wind picked up again. And from out of the sky came a reddish-colored rock that banged against my windshield so hard I thought it was broken. It wasn't a big rock, about half the size of my fist.

I stopped the car to check the windshield and try to find the rock. I did not find it--it glanced off my windshield and flew off to the roadside somewhere. I stood there a few seconds, making sure I was awake and had not dreamed a rock from heaven had smashed into my car.

If anyone has an explanation, I would be happy to hear it. I have none.

I Need a Day Off from My Day Off

Everyone needs a day off, right? Today I took one, and here's how it went:

8:00am: got out of bed; slept in for 2 extra hours! Make the bed, hang up clothes, grab a shower.

9:00am: on the porch drinking tea after starting the washer and dryer, sweeping floors and emptying the dishwasher. Time to read the poetry group's newsletter.

10:00am: sweeping the porch. The guys arrive to install our enclosed carport. I go off to plant potatoes and corn.

11:00am: watering the stuff we planted on Sunday. The carport is almost done.

12:00: still working in gardens; the carport is done and the workers are gone. Time to get in the shower--again, because I'm sweaty and dirty. Pick out storytelling clothes.

12:30: off for a storytelling gig at a local school. Load sound system etc.

1:00pm: arrive at the school, unload the car, get set up and figure out the lay of the land.

1:30: kids come and and I start telling stories. What a great time we had! This group was all ages, from preschool to 5th grade, plus teachers and bus drivers. What they all have in common--the need to listen, to remember, to imagine. That's why storytelling is so important. It reminds people of who they are and where they came from.

2:30: stories over, back to town to buy more plants, soil, groceries.

4:30: on the road home. Husband Larry is in front of me on Joe's Run. I wait while he talks to neighbors on our one-lane dirt road.

5:00: back at the house, change clothes, out in the garden to plant a new bed of evergreens where the old oak tree used to be before the ice storm of 2003.

6:00: still planting. Larry is laying the stone wall for a new flower bed by the porch.

7:00: finished planting, now watering. Larry is still laying stone.

8:00: still watering. Larry is cleaning up his tools. The wall is done (my Mother's Day present!)

8:30: on the porch with a glass of Chardonnay, talking to Larry and listening to whipporrwills. We have more of them than I can ever remember this year.

9;00: Larry is in bed, and I'm online, catching up on email and my blog.

Recycling and Oil Conservation, Country Style

When you live out in the country as I do, and the nearest town of any size is 50 miles away, driving is not an option, it's a necessity. I have to buy gas to go to work, 50 miles away. I have to drive to the store, 15 miles away. My husband drives to work, 50 miles away. Most of my sons are at least 200 miles away. My siblings are farther. Almost all my gigs are at least 50 miles away. So we drive a lot. I've had my car since 2003 and it has almost 200,000 miles on it.

But we conserve where we can:

We buy used vehicles. We buy vehicles with good maintenance records that are easy on gas. We consolidate trips--no running to town for milk; it has to be more than that to warrant a trip. I carpool when I can, usually two or three days a week.

We recycle; it's part of our lifestyle. No, I don't separate paper and plastic yet, although I'm working on that. What I do--I buy used. Used clothes, used books, old furniture and tools. Yard sales, flea markets, antique malls, auctions are my haunts. Almost eveything in my house has been in another house in some other time. I'm an antique nut. I find old stuff is better made and suits me better.

Clothes? Goodness, America is awash in clothes! Great storytelling clothes can be bought on Ebay every day, as well as at Goodwilll, etc. Clothes for my administrative job can be found at yard sales and resale shops.

We garden. We grow a lot of our own vegetables so they don't have to be trucked from California or Mexico or wherever. We can our food, eat fresh from the garden, and buy at the farmers' market.

We heat with wood. That contributes to global warming, I suppose, but it is how people have warmed themselves for centuries, and we have 80 acres of trees. It makes sense.

We don't have TV. We don't have X-box or Nintendo. We live simply. We don't need a lot of entertaining. A night in front of the fireplace or on the porch listening to the whippoorwills keeps us entertained and happy.

I buy a lot of gas. I have to fill my tank at least twice a week, usually three times. But it's a 12-gallon tank and it goes a long way. I try to do my part for conservation by not contributing to the oil-fueled economy of new stuff. Maybe it's not enough. It's what I can do now.

How do you lose one shoe?

It's life's little questions that entrance me.

Tonight as I got out of my car in town, I saw one lone brown flipflop laying on the sidewalk. Child size, in good condition, it leaned kind of rakishly against the parking meter.

How does that happen? How does a person lose one shoe? Does the owner go hobbling off, not noticing that he's one shoe-less? When would he notice? When he kicked off his shoes at night, and only one plop! sounded on the floor? Or not until the next morning when he's getting dressed and is on the floor, crawling under the bed, looking for the lost mate? Will he call someone to report it missing, put on odd shoes or go shoeless the next day?

What will he do with the surviving flipflop? Will he take it out on the streets to help search? Or, sad thought, will he toss it in the trash and forget that once it was part of his favorite pair of summer sandals, carrying him to adventure and through adversity?

Ah, the mysteries of this life! So many questions, so few answers.

What's in, What's Not

In:
onions, lettuce, radishes.
Cabbage, broccoli, cherry tomatoes.
Early Girl tomatoes,
Brandywine, German pink, WV Heirloom,
Lemon Boy, Golden Jubilee, Mortgage Lifter and Better Boy tomatoes. Green beans,
cucumbers and yellow squash and zucchini.
Yellow and red bell peppers, banana peppers.

What's not:
corn
pumpkins
cantalopes and melons
cayenne peppers
tomatillos
potatoes
beets.

Beats me why the potatoes and beets, usually the first things we plant, are still not in the ground.

Herbs: sage, dill, cilantro, thyme, rosemary, tarragon, savory, basil, lavender.

The ones that made it through the winter: peppermint, lemon balm, oregano, parsley, chives, fennel, one lavender. It was a hard year.

Also planted this year: weeping willow, three currant bushes, one Joseph's Coat climbing rose, three evergreen trees, veronica, victoria, and pinks.

Flowers: begonia, marigolds, geraniums, alyssum, lobelia, petunias, zinnias. And I've just begun to plant my flower gardens, so the list will grow. Most of the perennials made it through the bad weather. Flowers have to be hardy to make it up here.

Golden Eagle

Each year it's a privilege to see Spirit, the Three River Avian Center's golden eagle. he sits proudly on his perch, and the glint in his eye dares anyone to come too close.

This year as we left the park and began the drive home along I-64, I was startled by a huge bird that flew up the mountain and swooped just in front of our car.

I got one flashing glimpse of a bright eye, sharp, clawlike beak and golden-brown head. Eagle!

He was gone as fast as he came. I will keep the image of that eye and beak and golden head in my mind for a long time. Sometimes the only camera we have is our eyes, and the pictures we hoard in memory.

Storytelling and More at Migration Celebration

Busy crafters! Over 70 visors were decorated, each one amazing and fun.

What a day! This is the sixth or seventh year I've participated in Migration Celebration, the annual festival put on by the Three Rivers Avian Center in southern West Virginia. Each year the event gets better, and more people attend.

My part in the day is to plan and oversee crafts for kids, and to do a storytelling session. This year, I was joined by daughter-in-law Jaime who did a program, craft and display about geology as an addition to the children's activities. The funny part was that lots of adults were fascinated by her display and spent a lot of time talking to her.

I worked on new stories for this year's event, wrote two songs and some riddles--all about birds. Since this is the major fundraiser for the center, I wanted to really focus on what they're all about, and that's birds.

The day went very well. The only problem I had was when that I didn't bring my sound system, because they've always had one there. For the first time, they didn't. That's what I get for thinking! It worked out all right, and I told several of the new stories, all interactive tales with puppets and the kids participating.

My voice was very tired by the end of the 45 minute set; being outside in a picnic shelter can be a tough environment without a mike. And by the end of the day, the rest of me was tired too, but very satisfied that the day went so well. I hope I'll be invited back next year. I still haven't told all the stories I developed for this year's event!

Five Sons on Mother's Day

The phone started ringing at 10 am. Son number 3 checking in, wishing me a happy day. By the end of the conversation, he's decided to stop by to borrow the rototiller because he is planting a garden this year.

Son #5 was next, calling from Gemany. He talked about his trip to Berlin to see the site of the former wall. He'd called last week too, because Mothers Day in Europe is the first Sunday in May. While he was on the phone, son #3 arrived, so they got to talk too.

Then son # 2 and son #1 called. I loved hearing from them--they are older and very busy and yet they remembered and called. Son #4 did not call, but I saw his wife yesterday, and I know he's working long hours. He calls regularly every week, so I know that if he could have called he would have.

Good sons, all. They know that I do not expect visits or want gifts. Most of them live a good distance away, and I will see them at Family Reunion next week. Gifts? I have lots of stuff,and don't want them to spend their time worrying over what to buy. I don't need more stuff.

What pleases me most is to hear their voices, to know they remembered, and to know that they are all well and thriving. What can make Mother's Day better than that?

Good sons. A woman can't ask for more than that.

The Abandoned Leg Brace and 500 Used Chickens in an Econoline Van

It leaned on the brick wall by the door of the coffee shop, its velcro bands spread wide as if some mighty muscle has burst its hold and gone on alone. Who did the brace belong to? and why did they leave it behind? Had a miracle occurred on that very spot? The questions and possibilities have chased each other around my mind all day. At 6:00pm, it was gone.

The anomaly of that brace reminded me of another brain teaser that happened a few years back. I needed some new chickens--mine were ready for the retirement home. An ad in the paper prompted me to action. The man on the other end of the line explained, "I've got chickens. A lot of chickens. They're used, though.

"You see, my buddy decided to go into the chicken business. He ordered 15,000 baby chicks. He didn't think about where he would house them or how much it would cost to feed them or where he would sell the eggs.

"He raised those chicks and he had eggs everywhere. First he kept the hens in a small building, but he couldn't sell all the eggs and he couldn't afford the feed. So he turned them loose. Well, coyotes got a lot of them. Others died for lack of feed, whatever. I told him I'd try to sell them. There were only 5000 by then. I've sold a lot and there's about 500 left.

"So here's what I'll do. I'll bring them to town in my gray Ford Econoline van. You'll know it's me by the side of the road. And you can pick out as many as you want."

I was fascinated. An Econoline van filled with 500 chickens flying loose? Would they be coming out the windows? Would he have a chicken sitting on his head? Would we open the doors, grab a chicken, slam the doors and then do it again to catch another one?

I couldn't wait to meet him. We drove to town and sure enough, there was the gray-primer van by the side of the road, and a wild-haired young man in a ball cap waving his arm out the window. Why weren't chickens flying out too?

I was disappointed. All the chickens were in cages, not flying free in the back of the van. Still, it was a sight as they clucked and squawked and stared at us with beady eyes. We picked out 20, paid for them and headed home. The young man continued on to Charleston with his ladies. I never saw him or his chickens again. But I thank him every time I remember that telephone call. You can't get better mental stimulation than that.

Bluebird Narcissus

He's back again. He has to be in love with his image. Why else does he beat against the mirrors of my car every morning and evening, preening and fluttering from one side of the car to the other? I'd think it funnier if he didn't leave long white streaks of nevermind down the doors.

I thought I'd found a solution--I put bags over my mirrors at night. It works--he not longer batters my car trying to see himself. But I didn't count on his determination, and once again he's ahead of me.

When we got the yard ready for summer, I put a gazing ball out in a flowerbed. It didn't take the bluebird long to discover it, so now its shiny purple surface sports stripes of white. It's a good thing the ball is firmly anchored because he attacks it with vigor all day long.

Bluebird, 2, Me 1.

Too Hot, Too Soon

Saturday and Sunday nights, we worried about frost and sat in front of the fireplace. Monday night was chilly too. Today? It's 86 degrees. The plants we put in over the weekend have to be struggling with the sudden heat. This is one of the most frustrating Springs in a long time--too hot, too cold, too hot, too wet, too dry, too cold...

We need a good rain. The ground is dry as powder.

What I Need

I need
to see with a child's eyes
to hear with a mother's ears
to love with a daughter's heart
to strive with a son's strength
to hold with a father's arms
to laugh like an old man
to live like a woman well-loved

Worries

I suppose that reading this blog a person might think I live a life without worry. I write about the good things in my life, the little joys that make up my days, the deep peace of country living, the awareness of the world around me.

I have problems, like anyone else. The ongoing war makes my stomach sick and tight. With two sons in the military, I live each day with the knowledge they may be called to serve there. One has already been to Iraq, and well I remember the stress of that 15 months.

My father's death is still heavy in my heart, and so is my mother's. Losing both within a year was a shock I have yet to get over. I miss their voices the most, and still find myself thinking I need to call them--and then remember, they're not there.

Work has its own stress and worry. With the recent promotion came more duties that make the job challenging and full of unexpected twists. Suddenly I find myself third in line from the top, a place I never wanted to be. But here I am.

Being married to a Vietnam vet is no simple task. While I know that my husband does not have the deep problems of many others, there are days that are difficult to get through, especially when it rains. We cope. I know when to leave him be, and we get through the dark times.

My worries are less than they used to be. Life has gotten simpler in many ways. I know that I am fortunate. I have five sons, all healthy. I have a husband of 20 years, a large and loving family, many grandchildren. I have a good job and a home I love. I have other loves too-storytelling, writing, gardening. I am a lucky woman, and I am grateful for that.

That is why I write about the good things in my life. The worries are there--I give them a nod and glance of recognition, often a prayer, and go on about my day. They do not rule my life.

Worry might provide a few minor notes, but never the melody I sing.

Like an Old Lady

The Red Hat Society can think what they want; I know how old ladies are. They wear what they like and the world be damned. So tonight, I join the old ladies of the world. It's cold and I want to be warm. I'm wearing, not carefully coordinated red and purple, but a green and brown flowered dress, a red and blue checked flannel shirt, gray and black striped socks and my favorite flowered slippers. Fashion police do not visit this far out in the country, and if they do, they'd be welcome to sit in a rocker by the fire, kick off their tight high heels, listen to the whippoorwills and tell me just why I might need to wear coordinated outfits where no one but the chickens and my dogs will see me.

And after they finish explaining this to me, I'll tell them about the letters found in the trash from the old cabin, the hankies my mother always carried, my father-in-law's miners certificate, how my parents met in world War II, and let them tell me again why I need to wear matching outfits. Maybe one day I'll understand, but not in this lifetime.

5 golden things before bedtime

1. The pileated woodpecker flew with the setting sun over his back. Glorious color, glorious flight.


2. The greens of the trees backlighted with golden light at 7pm. So many variations on the theme of Spring green, undulating and shading from ridge to ridge.












3. Yellow-gold flames leaping in the fireplace. It's cold this evening, and the fire in the stone fireplace in the old log room felt good. It's calming to watch the fire as I sit in my rocker, looking out over the trees to the mountain on the other side of Bucket Run.

4. Joseph's Coat roses in a vase on the table. I planted the rose Sunday, but I knew the open blossoms would not survive the transplant. So now they grace the table with their orange-yellow blossoms.

5. Old ballads on the tape in the CD player. Golden oldies from the mountains, songs that traveled across the ocean with early settlers, to live on in seclusion in the mountains until the songcatachers discovered them. Tonight, it was Phyllis Marks singing to me.

Storytelling Sources

I am sometimes asked for sources of stories by those who are interested in telling tales themselves. Where can stories be found? They're everywhere, in every place we travel and in every person we meet. They're in books certainly, but also online, in the local newspaper, in the classified ads, on the staff bulletin board.

How can these stories be found? By not only hearing but listening, not only looking but seeing, not only touching but feeling. And by asking questions and listening to the response. How often have you seen a TV personality ask a guest a question, only to continue to talk, interrupt and ask more questions before the guest has a chance to answer?

Many people seem to like the TV show called The View. I find annoying in the extreme as the stars of the show try to outshout each other in desperate efforts to get the most attention from the audience and the camera.

This past weekend at a farm auction I was standing by an older man and discussing the items being sold. I said I'd like to have the old wood ironing board, and he said he used to have one like it. He proceeded to tell me the story of the Coon and Possum Dog (read a version of it here), a tall tale that's been told in the mountains for years. I tell it myself, and that's why I wanted the ironing board. But here he was, telling the story as a current joke, and telling it well--he could be a professional storyteller, but I'd bet he doesn't even know there is such a thing.

He told me several more stories and jokes that afternoon, for the pure pleasure of sharing them. And I listened, for the pure pleasure of hearing the tales told so well.

Stories? They're everywhere. Listen--you may be hearing one right now.

What I Saw Today

1. A jack-in-the-pulpit growing very near the place we planted a weeping willow tree this morning. (No storyteller or balladeer can not have a weeping willow tree--they are mentioned so often in song and story, and there is a wealth of folklore about them). The jack was a small one, all green with no purple striping. It's the first one I've found on our land, although I have found them down in the Hawk Hollow behind our house.

2. A robin's nest in the twig wreath over the door to the log room. My sons call that wreath my "bad hair" wreath, but I love it. I made it about 5 years ago, twisting grapevine and sticking in stems from a spirea bush. It hung inside the log room until last year, when I decided it would look better outside. The robin seems to like it. I'll post a photo when I get a chance to take one.

3. A girl in a red satin evening gown and a Mickey Mouse hat at Wal-Mart this afternoon. I have no idea. Where is my camera?

The Squirrel Lure

Told to me by an old-timer at an estate auction today:

A squirrel saw a walnut on a rock in the middle of a river. The squirrel was a saving sort, and wanted that nut. He ran up and down the riverbank for a while, then finally decided to go for it. He dove into the river, swam out to the rock and got the nut. The squirrel tucked the nut into his cheek and began the return swim.

There was a great churning of water in the river, and then a huge muskie surfaced and grabbed the squirrel. The muskie and squirrel disappeared below the water, and after a few minutes the water was quiet.

Then the muskie surfaced again, walnut in his mouth. He carefully replaced the nut on the rock.

Quiet Noise

It's a quiet night on the ridge. Only one dog barking, two whippoorwills calling. My rooster crows uncertainly because it's dark and he knows he should be sleeping but the dog woke him up and because he's awake he must crow--it's what roosters are supposed to do, or so he must believe.

A small soft wind blowing from the east means rain on the way. It ruffles th windchimes and carries belltones across the ridge to echo against the hills.

In the bedroom my husband shifts in bed, grumbling in his sleep as he pulls the blankets up against the cool night air. A frog croaks down by the creek, but only once.

It's a quiet night on the ridge.

Roots

Roots

watch with me for the coltsfoot bloom
early in the spring
golden harbinger of sun
before the freezing weather leaves

seek out frail spring beauties
softly pink and white
like snow blushing on warming ground
inhale their sweetness
step carefully around wild fragile lives

search with me in dry dead leaves
for larkspur, phlox, trout lilies
break the stem of bloodroot
see the red blood spill
on white waxy blooms

wait for the flame of red fire pink
look under green velvet leaves
for hidden wild ginger bloom
glory in hillsides clothed in trillium
white, pink, and red

love this place
love it like I do
dig your feet into dark damp earth
grow roots
stay
there's still so much to know

The 84 Lumber Goat

You would not think a small white goat
could cause such a terrible row
she ran into the store and then
she stood atop the lumber pile

The two young men who worked that day
gave chase across the parking lot
they tried to catch the goat but still
she stood atop the lumber pile

She ran with clumsy grace and ease
on thin legs built for mountain speed
they ran in boots so heavy, while
she stood atop the lumber pile

No one minded the lumber store
so the telephone rang and rang
customers waited in line yet there
she stood atop the lumber pile

I wish the goat had got away
but finally she was cornered
cell phone photos captured the end
a goat chained to the lumber pile

Sudden Shower

I held for a breath
Spring's essence in my cupped hand
dripping soft warm rain

Two Degrees of Separation

It happens all the time in West Virginia.

Today at work I needed to get estimates for sidewalk replacements . I called the recommended contractor, and we rode together to the site. On the way one of the men mentioned that he'd known our maintenance man for years. A few more questions, and I knew that these guys probably were raised up with my husband. Sure enough, when I came home and asked, my husband knew their father, aunt, and other relations.

Two days ago I mentioned to my oldest son that a colleague in Charleston, where I work, had a niece who taught school in his community. And of course, it turned out that she was his son's teacher this year. Half a state away, the connections hold strong.

In West Virginia, the "six degrees of separation" rule doesn't hold true. It's more like two degrees, and sometimes closer than that.

Porch-Sitting

Porch-Sitting

The sun drifts low behind the ridge
gilding the trees with last rays as
dusk rises from the grayed hollow
and the whippoorwill begins
his evening call to love

We, tired and aching
from stressful jobs and
evening garden toils,
sit quiet, washed in golden light
that pays the toll of the day

On Saturdays We Play!

We've made a pact--we can play on Saturday if we work on Sunday.

Living in the backcountry means there is a lot of work to be done just to maintain a place. Grass, lots of it, to cut. Weeds to pull and cut. Gardens to plow, dig, plant. New gardens to make. Stonework to repair, a new stone-walled garden to build. Deck rail to build. Porch to clean up and paint. Porch furniture ditto. Pruning, transplanting, mulching, fertilizing.
Chicken house to clean out. Get pigs this year? No time. Brushhogging to do. Brush to cut and burn. Get baby chicks? Maybe.

And that's just the beginning of the list. Because all this work also requires trips to hardware and feed stores, lumber yards and greenhouses. A trip to town means an hour on the road, plus time to shop. So trips are consolidated, many errands done in one trip.

But on Saturdays, if I'm not storytelling, we play. We go to the Downtowner for breakfast, visit Rachel to see what new in her antique shop, get good coffee at Court Street Station, talk to friends. If there's an auction we go to that. If we feel like driving, we go to wherever we feel like going.

This past Saturday was about as nice as a day can get. We went in early to mail a package to son Tommy in Germany, then drove out and ordered a new carport-garage building. After that, it was back to town to visit the consignment shop (and pick up $22.50--yay!) to see if there were any work jeans there that fit Larry. He scored two pairs--no sense buying new jeans for a bricklayer.

Then it was on to Court Street to see Rachel and get coffee, and then to an auction just outside of town. It was one of the best I've been to, but I was good--my house is full, and if I buy anything something else has to go. So I bought only a pretty little green enamel teapot, a box of embroidered and crocheted items, a quilting hoop and stand for a friend, and 6 hand-woven rugs.

We had to leave early to meet Donna Wilson, my partner in planning the storytelling series for this summer called Stories by the River. We got a grant from ORBI for this project, and Donna is designing posters, etc. She and our friend Suzy joined us for dinner at the Mexican restaurant, and then we all went to the poetry reading.

This was my second reading this week. Who would think it could be fun to read poetry aloud? What makes it great is being able to share why and how a poem was written. I had a great time and even Larry enjoyed it, to his immense surprise.

We came home to build a fire in the fireplace, drink a glass of wine, and watch the DVD about Junior Holstein, my husband's cousin who is an old-time fiddler. The DVD tells it just how it is, moonshine and devils in the chimney and all. We spent an evening with Junior a year and a half ago, singing and talking about old songs. He's quite a guy, with his own demons and troubles, but one of the last of the old mountain fiddlers.

A great day--and on Sunday, we paid for it by working hours in the gardens and yard. But it was worth every minute.