What do lightning and computers have in common?

--The ability to leave you dead without warning.

At least it's only my computer--and the saltellite modem for internet--that are dead, and no real people.

The bad storm yesterday caught us offguard, and the lightning apparently ran in on the satellite and nailed the modem, surge protector and the PC along its path. So sad--it took me weeks to get everything set up to my liking last spring, and now I get to do it all over again!

I spent two hours on the telephone--first with the satellite company support. Guess where they are located? India. It was a struggle to understand each other--her accent was difficult and her choice of words nothing like what I would use. Wall socket? What's that?

After an involved conversation, I tackled HP Support. Guess where? You guessed it, India. An even more magnificient struggle ensued. "I don't understand you," I must have said a hundred times. "Please repeat what you just said." Over and over and over. His reponse. "Right. I am speaking very clearly for you." Over and over and over. Bless his heart, Yesu never gave up or got irritated. Can't say I was as patient.

In the end, Hughesnet determined that the modem was fried (new one, my expense $200). HP decided the PC motherboard was fried (their expense, it's under warranty). I determined that I will try very hard before purchasing another PC to be sure they offer support in the US. I'm not against anyone having a job. But we have got to be able to understand each other, and last night was a lesson in frustration and lack of communication.

I have to admit they probably thought I wasn't speaking English either. They didn't understand hillbilly, that's for sure. I realized that I needed to slow down and use my "professional librarian" voice, erasing as much of my accent and colloquialisms as possible. That is not easy. I wonder if my compadres in this farce were trying as hard as I was to be understood.

Bottom line, I won't be posting much for a week or so, until all the new stuff arrives, I figure out how to install it, and get things up and running again. God help me, Vista was difficult enough the first time around, and now I get to do it all over again!

Sunrise, Moonset, Morning Drive

I was almost late for work. There were too many beautiful things to see on the way out to the highway this morning.

Like the full moon setting...

And the mist rising...

and shy deer grazing...

and the sun rising...

And the morning highway

bathed in light.

So much traffic!

Anniversary Day in New Orleans

Apology

I never saw her in her glory
proud Southern belle
dressed in lacy iron balconies
and pink paint
sultry lady at night
swaying to dark blues
Cajun spiced

I meant to go there
see my father’s childhood home
but never made the time
now she’s gone
drowned in the prime of her life

New Orleans,
I am so sad I never met you

I don't know if it's cause for celebration or not. Most of us remember the horror and helplessness of watching and hearing what was happening to that beautiful old city. My father followed the news closely--this was the place he was born and raised, and he wondered if the house he'd lived in would survive. (It did.)

Some evacuees were brought to West Virginia, to the National Guard training center at Camp Dawson in Preston County. When we learned the evacuees were there, the storytelling guild contacted the center to see if they would like us to come and tell stories--the news had said there were many children at the site. Our offer was enthusiastically accepted--but when we arrived, we learned that the children were gone; indeed, most of the evacuees were moved to more permanent shelter.

We learned however that a wedding was scheduled for that day; two people who had planned to marry in New Orleans were having their wedding, thanks to the generous support of many local people. Quite a crowd gathered--the remaining evacuees, locals, news people, volunteers. We stayed, waiting with all the others for the Governor's helicopter to arrive.

It was a lovely, lovely wedding, one I won't soon forget. Out of such tragedy, happiness managed to survive.

Happy anniversary to this couple, wherever they are. I was glad to part of your day.

This lady gave a blessing, complete with bubbles, to the bride and groom as they walked down the carpet after the ceremony.

Sheltering Katrina’s People:
Camp Dawson, WV September 2005

They do not want to leave their homes
though eight feet of dirty floodwater
covers all they know and own
it’s home, after all, the place
to go for rest
comfort
home

bleak faces haunted by what they saw
they cannot, will not forget
homes flattened by wind
bodies in the streets
there is no rest
no comfort
no home

Airlifts carry them, unwilling, through clear
blue skies to mountains and deep valleys
the only water they can see below
quick rivers coursing over stone
A place to rest, recover
find small comfort
until it’s safe
to go back
home

Evening Sky

The sky tonight was too pretty to let go without a picture or two to remember its colors.


Going....














Going....



















and pretty much gone.



But ah, what a sight.

Coal: A Poetry Anthology

"When you say the word coal, you do not think of poetry." These are the first words in Denise Giardina's preface to Coal: A Poetry Anthology. She's right. The word conjures up instead dark holes, white eyes shining out of blackened faces, strikes, hardship, and big corporate interests. At least, those are the things that come to my mind.

But here the coal sings in words that define a place, a culture, a people, and an industry that is both loved and hated. Listen to the last verse of Kentucky poet James Still's poem, "Earth-Bread":

This is the eight-hour death, the daily burial

In a dark harvest lost as any dead.

He describes in few words the lifetimes of the many men who went into the mines, and the dark fear that hung over them.

Many of the poems are memorials to men lost in the mines; others celebrate them as a group not unlike warriors, who each day enter into battle under the mountains. Others tell the terrbile tales of disasters, like Monongah, WV, the terrible explosion that took over 360 lives on December 6, 1907. This excerpt is from the poem "Monogah" by David Salner:

There's a meadow, filled with threadbare gray

of five hundred women in the snow. They sob

to the heavens, as gaunt as the heavens are

in West Virginia. I ask them to leave,

for we're in danger from another explosion,

but the women won't go.

There's Farmington No. 9, by Lloyd Davis, the terrible disaster that left 19 men entombed beneath the ground. I visited this site a few years ago and will not forget the eerie feeling of realizing we were standing right above their burial place.

The most recent mining disaster in West Virginia, Sago, is also memorialized in the book with a poem by Beth Wellington, told in the words of one of the miner's wives.

I was especially pleased to find a poem by Max Price, a member of our local writing group, included: His "Mountain Travesty" decries the practice of mountaintop removal. Many of the poets are names that students of Appalachian literature will recognize; others may be unfamiliar, but their words ring strong and true.

With chapters titled Miners and Work, Disasters and Mining, Families and Community, Life After the Mines, Environmental Degradation, and Resistance, the book covers many aspects of life in the coalfields. A bibliography and author notes are included for those who want to read more.

Coal: A Poetry Anthology is a compelling, moving collection, one that should be on the shelves of every Appalachian library or home.

Editor: Chris Green

Publisher: Blair Mountain Press, 2027 Oakview Rd, Ashland, KY 41101

telephone 606-324-2266 or email the Press at bettyhuff@alltel.net

website: http://www.blairmtp.com/

The Music of Coal: Music from the Mountain's Soul

It's a black soul these mountains have, and that soul is coal. For years men and women have ventured beneath the hills, feeling the heartbeat of the mountains as they mine the coal that feeds their families.

The Lonseome Pine Office on Youth has put together one of the most amazing, heartrending collections of music I have ever had the privilege to hear: "Music of Coal: Mining songs from the Appalachian Coalfields." From the clear, childlike beauty of Molly Slemp singing "West Virginia Mine Disaster" to the frightening "Dirty Black Coal" sung by Kenneth Davis, I was spellbound.

There is no mining where I live. The coal, they say, is too deep and too thin to be worth mining. My connection to the industry that both makes and breaks West Virginia is through my husband, son of a coal miner and raised in the coal camps of southern Kanawha County, WV. It is so hard for me to envision the life of miner--the days spent crawling through tunnels that might be no more than 30 inches high, never trusting the roof above him, always seeking that perfect place to cut coal. I look at old photos and strain to imagine what it must be like to be in those mines, but always my imagination fails.

But these songs, ah, they tell the story as no photo can. I will listen again and again and again, and I will be astounded each time with the passion and pain in the music of coal.

And added to the music is the book that explains the origin of each song in the 2-CD collection, and all for only $35.00. The set is a fundraising project for the Lonesome Pine Office on Youth.

To purchase a set you can visit their website, call them at 276-523-5064, or write to LPOY, 219 Wood Avenue E, PO Box 568, Big Stone Gap, VA 24219.

I heard about the collection on West Virginia Public Radio. The interview with Jack Wright , producer of the project, was fascinating and sent me straight to the computer to order my collection. Anyone with an interest in coal mining and mountain music will find the collection as magnificent as I do.

Good Luck Pennies

I know how I will die.

It will be in the middle of a busy street. I will be old, and I will be bending over to pick up a penny. It will be heads up—that means good luck.

It will be my mother’s fault. See a penny, pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck. That was what she told me when I was a little girl, and it has been my mantra all these years. I’m not picky about the pennies being heads up, although that is more satisfying than if they are face down. If I find one that is face down, I rub oak as soon as I can to ensure the good luck. It doesn’t matter what kind of oak—a tree, a chair, a table—but it has to be oak. I do this with heads-up pennies too. Why tempt fate?


I read somewhere that finding a penny heads up means you will get money soon. That is why I am so zealous about looking for them. Luck is nice, but money coming to me sounds like something worth bending over for. So I pick up pennies. And not just pennies—I pick up nickels, dimes, and quarters too, although these are harder to come by. Pennies have so little value today that people drop them like litter on the streets. My husband will drop pennies and not bother to pick them up. It irks me, because that is throwing away money. Wasteful. I can see my mother’s disapproving eyes even as I write this. A penny saved is a penny earned. No one has so much money that they should throw it away. If they do, they should give it to someone who needs it. That is what my mother would say.


If finding a penny will bring me money, then it stands to reason that finding a dime or a quarter will bring ten or twenty-five times more money than the penny. Last week I found two dimes on the floor of the coffee house. No money has come my way yet, but I am certain it will—someone is probably planning to send it to me right now. It could be true. One day I found a nickel and when I got my mail there was a check I was not expecting. Another time I found a dime, and my expense check was waiting for me when I got to work. Even if the money was expected, it wasn’t expected today. That’s the beauty of it, you see. The money might be rightfully due to me, but I do not know when it will arrive. Perhaps finding pennies hastens its arrival?


My family thinks I am obsessed with pennies. I pick them up on sidewalks, remove them from caked garden soil, find them in parking garages and in stores. Once we were looking at a chest of drawers in a used furniture store, and when we opened it, there was a penny. I put it in my pocket. We opened another drawer, and there was another penny. My husband looked at me, then picked it up and stuck it in his own pocket. We both got luck from looking at that blue painted chest. We did not buy the chest. We found we did not need it, so in a way, those pennies brought us money because we had the money we would have spent on the chest.


Sometimes I find paper money. That is a real occasion. I found a dollar once, in the stairwell of the parking garage. I bought a good cup of coffee with that. Another time it was a five-dollar bill on the floor of the same garage. I gave that to my son’s girlfriend, spreading the good luck to her. She needed luck more than I did at the time. I do not know what she did with it, or if brought her any luck. But it made me feel good, and that was worth something on a rainy dark day.


It does not matter who is with me when I pick up pennies. Once it was the library director, and we were walking down a street to a meeting. She was talking about something, changing a policy I think. I looked down and there was a penny looking back at me. I stopped and picked it up. I had to—it was face up. She didn’t notice that I’d stopped, and was surprised when I showed her my penny. She does not pick them up, I could tell that from her face. Some people pass up good fortune all the time, and never know what it is they miss.


Only once did I see a penny I did not pick it up. It was in Cincinnati, and we were at a restaurant with friends. I went to the ladies’ room and selected a stall. As I prepared to sit down on the commode, I chanced to look down—and there was a penny. Heads up, in the bowl of the commode. I stared at it. It was brightly copper, shining in the cold water of the toilet bowl. I could not pick it up. I just could not do it. I wanted to, believe me, but a toilet bowl in a crowded restaurant did not seem like the place good luck would reside. I couldn’t sit down, either, not with Abe Lincoln staring up at me. I left that stall and chose another, but I stopped on the way out to stare at that penny one more time. I hated to leave it there, but that is what I did. To this day I wonder about that penny, about how it got in the toilet bowl in the first place, and if anyone else dared to pick it up. All that luck down the drain.


My family may be right—it may be that I am obsessed with pennies. I cannot prove beyond a doubt that the pennies I have found have brought me luck. It’s a feeling, like the anticipation a gambler feels with a race ticket in hand and the horses in the starting gate. This one might be a winner. A long shot perhaps, but until the first horse crosses the finish line, every ticket is a winner. So it is with pennies. And until the day I meet my fate in the middle of a street picking up a penny, I can believe that each one has the power to bring me luck, someday.

That last penny will be face down. I am sure of that.

Homemade Ice Cream and Ingenuity

Ice cream needed-
a lot of it.

Find someone who:

knows how to
make things.

Has stuff-
Gears, wheels, lumber.

Has a do-it-myself
mentality.

What you get is Lonnie and his amazing ice cream machine. Using old gears, new shafts, a long rubber belt, a BIG hand-cranked ice cream maker, various pieces of lumber, wheels, straps and whatever, he built an ice cream maker that can probably churn out five gallons at a time. The power source is the antique John Deere tractor he restored a few years ago (see it in the background?).

I snapped this at the annual Music Jam at the Joe's Run Community Center yesterday. We were on our way out to a storytelling gig, but I'd seen Lonnie earlier and told him I wanted a picture of his machine. I think it's safe to say it's one-of-a-kind, the Johnny Cash Cadillac of ice cream makers.

I love this kind of ingenuity and creativity. Doing what you can with what you have at hand is the mountain way of life, and Lonnie and his machine prove that the old ways live on in new and unexpected ways.

Goodbye, My Friend

Leanne left us yesterday. Her bright spirit fled before the advancing pain of a cancer that grew quickly out of control. In the course of six painful weeks, her journey was over.



Leanne was a magical storyteller; she loved to share her stories and created an atmosphere of magic and expectancy when she told. Her voice, whether singing old ballads or silly children's songs, was a joy to hear--especially when she accompanied herself on her Celtic harp. Her MySpace page shows her energy and love of storytelling.



I remember when she and her husband took their boat down the Mississippi and around the East Coast. Email wasn't as easy to do back then, but Leanne posted regular reports of their journey to those of us interested in following their trip. We traveled with them via her posts, and it was so like her to want to share this wondrous adventure with her friends.



Her delight in living, appreciation of beauty, concern for the well-being of others and eagerness to take on new challenges are the traits that defined Leanne to me. When my mother passed away suddenly, Leanne offered wise words from her own experience; she was there again for me when my father died a few months later. It was just her way--to offer a listening ear to others, words of advice if asked, and love that surrounded all.



I will miss her, but not for anything would I have missed the blessing of having known her, if only for a few short years.



Safe travels, my friend. May your way now be painfree and glorious with light.

They Were Here

They were here when first this land was settled
they rode the wagons, poled the flatboats
hiked the mountain trails
hitched their skirts to wade the rivers
took their turn as lookouts in the night
they were here when trees were felled
they helped to raise the cabin walls
gathered wood and tilled the fields

They labored with the men as equals
through days of hardship and long toil
in forests full of danger
and land brimmed with promise
they helped assure survival
cooking, sewing, caring for the sick
churning, washing, tending all the children
they labored with each birth
of child, animal, and season

And yet their names are not written
in history books or on a marbled wall
they strove and bore their sturdy children
lived lives unknown and unremembered
they were wives of scouts and settlers
men whose lives are oft revered
yet womenfolk who shared the journeys
lay quiet in graves in lonesome places

Sit quiet on some peaceful mountain
as lights begin to gleam in windows
remember the others who built this country
working side by side with their husbands
leaving ghostly traces
of their loving woman’s touch

Remember them

for they were here

Off to College

Jordan and her father, Jonathan

Another generation flies the coop: my oldest granddaughter starts college next week. A generational change: college isn't an option, it's a given. I suppose in some areas high school graduates can find employment right out of school that will pay a living wage, but in West Virginia that's the exception rather than the rule. So it's college or minimum wage, and not much opportunity in between.

So off they go. How many parents and grandparents are standing by this weekend, smiling and waving and feeling a piece of their heart fly away with the suitcases and backpacks? But it's how it must be, and none would deny their child the right to soar.

Good luck, Jordan!

It is Not Normal

My storytelling friend Leanne Johnson is fighting for her life in a Chicago hospital tonight. Her online blog is at

http://itisnotnormal.blogspot.com/

Leanne maintained the blog until the past two days, when things went very wrong. All of her friends are praying hard for a miracle tonight.

Leanne is talented, funny, musical, and a marvelous storyteller. You can see and hear her in action at her MySpace page.

I believe in miracles.

Wind Farms and Blackwater

Yesterday we journeyed to Tucker County, WV to tell stories at Blackwater Falls State Park. Travel north on Rte 219 and you may be startled to meet one of these behemoths as you top a hill.
The wind farm is not without controversy--residents say they are noisy, and deadly to bats. I must admit that the wind generators fascinate me. They seem so out of place, ghostly as the blades whisper through the mountain air. It was a rainy, foggy day yesterday, and that contributed even more to the unearthly appearance of the wind farm.

I can understand why locals might not like these machines. They are visible for miles in an area of almost pristine wildness. I listened very carefully and have to say I did not notice the noise they are blamed for, but perhaps down in the valley below it's a different story. I like the idea of clean energy, yet I have to wonder if our state is actually benefitting or if, like so many of our natural resources, the wind energy is shipped out to east-coast cities, while we continue to pay higher electric bills than surrounding states less blessed with energy resources.

Turning away from the wind farm this idyllic view greets the eye. The rising fog might explain why we have so many ghost stories here. Early evenings when the mist rises in the hollows can trick the mind and the eye into believing something else is coming out of the dark.


The Falls themselves were thundering as we drove away this morning. Heavy rain for the past few days has swollen the Blackwater River to almost flood stage. It's a welcome relief from the summer's drought, and the Falls were at full throttle. The brown color is the source of the river's name--the tannic acid from the surrounding forests color the water a deep, almost black color. When the rain is heavy, the deep amber water is lightened, as in these photos.

I've visited Blackwater Falls many times, but never have I seen them like they were today--no rocks visible between the cascades, and the falling water so forceful that it was creating its own rainstorm in the valley.



A close-up of the falling water. How to describe such power? We stood in awe until an approaching storm drove us back to the car.

Oh, the storytelling? Amazing! A good crowd of about 65 people turned out to listen, and the stories flowed like the water in the river. I'd told Larry that I didn't feel up for it, and he reassured me that it would be fine. He was right. Once again I found people genuinely interested in the coal mining items I'd brought, and several commented later on the ballads. The audience was all ages, children, babies, some handicapped children, adults, and seniors. And yet all listened, and storytelling put its spell on us once again. What magic this is.

Nehi and New Shoes

Some of you may remember collecting pop bottles for spending money when you were young.

When I was a girl, that’s how I got most of my spending money. I was the fourth child in a family of 13 children, so allowances were something we read about in books. But pop bottles—there was spending money free for the finding. All I had to do was go out with my wagon and pick up bottles tossed by the side of the road by those who evidently had more dollars than sense, as my father would say. I could redeem those bottles for two cents each, and since orange Nehi pop was a nickel and so was a Hershey bar, five bottles got me a real treat. But the year I was in fourth grade I turned into a pop bottle tycoon.

My mother believed in “good” shoes—strong, sturdy, supportive Buster Brown oxfords. They weren’t pretty but they lasted and lasted. Wear cheap shoes, my mother believed, and you’d have foot trouble when you got older. I’m not sure what “foot trouble” she meant, but since my feet are still in fine shape 40 years later, her strategy must have worked.

I was in fourth grade when I had my first real crush on a boy. He was tall, dark and handsome in my eyes, the local pharmacist’s son. Imagine how I felt when my best friend said, “You’re wearing the same shoes as Clark.”

“Am not!” I said. “Mine are girl shoes!”

“Are too,” my friend said. “Look.”

I looked. Sure enough, there on Clark’s feet were Buster Brown oxfords exactly like mine. I was mortified, and for the rest of that school year tried to keep my feet out of sight under my desk as much as possible.

In June the Sears Roebuck catalog arrived, and I saw a pair of shoes that stole my heart. They were made of patchwork pieces of leather, shades of brown and green and gold, and I thought they were just the classiest things I'd ever seen. They were $3.89 +shipping. Shipping was sixty-two cents, so for $4.51 I could own those beautiful shoes.

“Cheap,” my mother said. “They’ll never hold up.”

I didn’t care—I wanted those shoes. What did my mother know about that deep craving in my heart? She hadn’t seen Clark’s shoes. How could she ever understand?

Now I’ve never been very good at math, but this time I figured it out like a Math Bowl champion. I figured that if I collected bottles all summer, I'd have enough for the shoes. I needed 226 bottles. I had ten weeks to collect the bottles, order the shoes, and wait for them to come in. The lady at the Sears Roebuck catalog store said it would take two weeks to get them. So I had eight weeks to find enough bottles. Two hundred twenty-six bottles in eight weeks meant that I had to find at least 26 bottles each week. No problem, I thought.

I mapped out a route around my neighborhood and as soon as school let out for the summer, I went into the bottle business. Every day, I'd take the wagon and go out on the hunt. I broadened my collecting area as the pickings got leaner, until finally my route included the road in front of the high school. Now that was a gold mine! Teenagers evidently had lots of money, and since summer school was in session, there were always a few bottles to be found.

Then one day I found it: the mother lode of bottles. The ditch that ran alongside the school property and into a culvert. On one side of that culvert were over 60 bottles! All dirty and muddy, but they were mine--if I dared to wade in after them. And I did. I took off my shoes and socks and jumped in. Visions of those patchwork leather shoes were in front of me as I picked those bottles out of the muck. Of course, when I hauled this bounty to Manassas Market, the clerk took one look and said go home and wash them. I washed the bottles, got my money, and in just a few weeks I had enough to order those shoes.I took my pile of change to Sears and placed my order.

The two-week wait for the shoes to arrive was excruciating. Was I ever proud when I finally picked up my package! The School couldn’t begin soon enough for me, for I was determined that I would not sully those shoes by wearing them before school started. On the first day, I put on my shoes and walked slowly to the bus stop.

They were glorious. They were stylish. They were mine. I wore those shoes every day, carefully taking them off and putting on the old Buster Browns when I got home.

My mother was right, of course—those shoes were poorly made. After two months the stitches began to come loose, and the soles wore out soon after. I was wearing my old Buster Brown oxfords again before Thanksgiving.

These days, every time I see a Nehi bottle in an antique store I think about those Sears and Roebuck patchwork shoes. I remember the many miles I walked in my sturdy Buster Browns, bent on my goal of 226 pop bottles. Nehi bottles remind me of that summer of hope, when happiness surely rested on the purchase of a pair of cheap mail-order shoes.

So What's in the Story Bag?

Someone asked me online what is a story bag, and what's in it.

My bag is a colorful patchwork mix. Inside:

Item and its Story

1 yellow glass bird: Freedom Bird

1 candle shaped like wedding cake : any story that has a wedding!

1 small clear plastic shoe : Rindercella

2 mouse puppets : Town Mouse, Country Mouse

1 Rabbit puppet : Aesop's fable about rabbit

1 granny doll : any story with a granny

1 glass fish : Three Wishes

1 plastic strawberry : First Strawberries

blue bracelet : Bracelets

jeweled broach : Toads and Diamonds

fairy puppet : Old Woman Who Lived in a Vinegar Bottle

small frog : Why Frogs Have no Tails

large gold glass marble : The Golden Ball

Sea shell: Selkie story

button: Just Enough to Make a Story

penny: The Price of a smell

feather: Taking Back Words

These are the usual items in the bag. I add to or take out items as I find things I like better, or add stories to the mix.

The bag is great for audiences of mixed ages, for places where I need to travel light, or just to add a little spice to a children's performance.

Probably the Funniest Thing Anyone Has Ever Said to Me

Michaela is known as Miss Shake 'n' Bake around here, for no reason I can think of. She's a funny little granddaughter, one of those kids who are usually quiet but then say the funniest things unexpectedly.

It's not unusual to find her walking around outside with the dogs, talking to them as if they can understand her. I think maybe they can, because they adore her and follow her everywhere.

Saturday at Tygart Lake Michaela turned to me with complete seriousness and said, "Granny, do you live in the middle of nowhere?"

I have no idea where the question came from, but I had to admit, that yes indeed, I did live in the middle of nowhere. Michaela nodded as if satisfied, and went back to eating her cake.

Storytelling at Tygart

I have to say it was an unusual experience. When I checked in at the lodge, I asked about the site for storytelling that evening. "The fire circle," I was told, "down at the campground."

So Jaime and I drove down to check it out. It was a fire circle, all right, next to a playground. No electric outlet for my sound system (and had I brought the battery-powered one? of course not!). The playground was right beside the fire circle, so I could already envision the challenges I would face trying to tell stories there.

I checked on the power--was there any way it could be run to the fire circle? No, apparently not. The person I'd set the gig up with had left and two others had been in the position in the meantime. Details got lost in the shuffle.

So I took it as I found it. The audience trickled in, two, then three, finally about 10 people at start time. As we sang my opening song, a few more drifted over. I went next to my raccoon puppet since the audience was half young children, half adult. The puppet is always a hit and this night was no exception. More kids and adults came over, a few kids on bikes stopped to listen. The crowd varied between 10 and 25 at any given time.

I had my story bag along, a fall-back measure in case the audience was mostly children (usually in the parks, I have adults, but occasionally there are more children present). A child volunteered to select an item from the bag. We told that story, then another from the bag, then another. The audience swelled and waned. Smoke from the fire was hard on my voice but the evening was chilly so the warmth felt good.

The playground noise grew, the storytelling audience grew, the fire smoked. I told stories for 50 minutes and finally had to stop because my asthma was struggling with the smoke. I thanked the people there for coming and prepared to leave.

That was when the evening turned surprising--and very fun. People came over to ask questions: where did I get the stories I told? did I tell ghost stories? how did I get started telling stories? and on and on. We stayed around the fire talking for almost two hours after the stories were over. No one was in a hurry to leave. When I finally said good night and left, there were still quite a few people gathered around the fire.

It was strange--I worked hard to reach an audience in a setting that was less than ideal. And yet a bond was formed and the diverse group became a community, bonded by stories. It was a hard gig, but also one of the most fun I've ever done.

James' Birthday, Tygart and Grafton

Tygart Lake State Park--a beautiful place. The lake is stupendous, a deep blue-green color and over 5 miles long. A park employee told us that last year a bear would come down the mountain on one side of the lake, swim across, then climb up the mountain on the other side. There could only be one explanation for the bear's behavior--obviously he was cross-training!

View from the dining room at the lodge.

Grandson James was celebrating his 6th birthday Saturday. So we met our son Aaron, his wife Jaime and children James and Michaela at Tygart to celebrate. The food was great, and it was a good place for birthday cake!
The birthday boy enjoys his cake!

Still working on it!

Down at the lake, we all dangled our feet in the water.

When we left Tygart, we visited downtown Grafton. I wanted to see how renovations were progressing at the old train station. It's a real beauty that was almost forgotten until somebody applied for funds to restore it. Thank goodness.

I kept hearing the soft release of...brakes? Steam? I looked behind the old train depot when we stopped there in Grafton, WV and there was a CSX train. The station is no longer open, but the train sitting there on the tracks certainly made me think of the old days when this might have been a bustling place.

Detail over the entrance to the station. A federal grant is making renovations possible. The interior, glimpsed through the windows, is really something--marble columns, wide floors, high ceilings.

The old B&O Station, Grafton, WV

Traveling US Rte 33 and Points Beyond

Once again we journeyed across US Route 33, the old highway that stretches across the center of West Virginia. Our destination was Tygart Lake State Park located near Grafton.

There are faster ways to get to Grafton--we could have taken Rt 50, the four-lane that was obsolete almost as soon as it was completed in the mid-70's. We could have taken interstate 77 to interstate 79 and then north or east to Grafton via several optional routes. But we selected Rte 33, taking the turn onto Rte 119N that would take us to the park through some country Larry had never seen before. I'd been there several years ago, but was more than ready to see it again.

Letter Gap, WV post office in Gilmer County, WV is now closed. One of the apparently dying communities along Rte 33

Rte 33 is a winding trail that passes through many small communities, some lost in time, some nearly dead, and others beginning to recover and rediscover their reason for being. The drive is slower than other routes, but there is little traffic, people wave at you as you pass because almost all traffic on this road is local, and the scenery is the best of rural America.

The old log barn in Calhoun County we have tried to buy from its elderly owner. No luck yet.

Albert's Chapel U. M. Church in Gilmer County, the octagon church with the cemetery where we photographed the stump gravestone and Civil War grave last week.

Weston State Hospital--to be auctioned August 29th, 2007. Lots of reported ghost sightings. Here is one that is very strange.

Courthouse in Philippi, WV--made of red sandstone, and with stained glass over every window. Absolutely beautiful.

An amazing railroad trestle along Rte 119. Still in use, I believe, because the railroad tracks we crossed along the way were in very good repair, and their shiny rails made it obvious that trains were still passing through. I loved the way this photo showed the gaps between the ties on the trestle. This website tells much about the railways in the Grafton area.

Another view of the trestle, showing the way it curved. While I was photographing this, all I heard were birds singing--so quiet.

The two-lane Philippi covered bridge, in use since before the Civil War. Union and Confederate troops used this bridge. An extensive fire in 1989 caused major repairs to be done to the bridge, which still handles daily traffic in and out of Philippi.

(Another interesting--and weird-- thing to see in Philippi-- we missed them this trip, but we'll be back! : the Philippi Mummies.

Driving through the covered bridge.

The Anna Jarvis house near Grafton. This was the birthplace of the founder of Mother's Day, and was also used briefly as headquarters by Union General George McClellan during the Civil War.


So that was the trip to Grafton. More to follow about Grafton itself, Tygart State Park and storytelling there.

A Site Worth Visiting

Operation Poem seeks poems to honor each fallen soldier in Iraq. It's well worth reading.

Where in the World is Tikrit, Iraq?

Click on the map for an enlarged view

It's the birthplace of Saddam Hussein, north of Baghdad and along the historic and ancient Tigris River--the cradle of civilization, or so I was taught in school.

Now my son is there, in a country that seems more concerned with destruction than history.

So here, somewhere, is where he is living and working. At least it helps to know where in this world he is.

It seems like a very long way away.

Tikrit-Be Not Divided Among Yourselves

From a military news story about the meeting of the sheiks in Tikrit to try to work together:

As stated in the Quran, “And hold fast, all together, by the rope which God (stretches out for you), and be not divided among yourselves,” the sheiks agreed to ten conditions.

Will they be able to do it? It seems very doubtful. But still I will hope.

Can It Be This Simple?

I wrote this at least two years ago, I think. Sadly, the situation in the Middle East has not changed much. The poem was inspired by a news story about an elderly woman planting olive trees even though war raged in her homeland and she probably would not live to see the trees bear fruit.

With my son Derek back in the war zone, the poem has much more meaning to me.

SIMPLICITY

Come, child
let us plant a garden
drop our seeds in soil
though all the earth be crazed
with fear and war
We plant
as do old Iraqi women
cleaning ruin of mortar shells
from olive groves
to find new growth
in old dust

We plant
as did our neighbor
who at ninety-three
planted a lilac bush
that would not bloom
for seven years
Come, child
do not listen to news
of mayhem and destruction
drop your seeds carefully
watch with me
for tender shoots
of peace

Mary Garrett

Every night when I check my blog, I see that Mary has dropped by.

There is a circle on the chart that says "St. Louis" and I know that means that Mary has been here to read my latest posts. I know Mary Garrett, though I haven't seen her in a few years. She's one of those tellers that transforms as she tells a tale, the glow from within lighting her face and illuminating her stories. Knowing she visits here is almost as good as sitting in the kitchen and drinking coffee with her. She's far away in real time, but in virtual time we share the same space and stories.

Having faithful readers like Mary, Mike, Tracy and Edmonton keeps me posting. There are others, I think, who come here often to read and stay in touch.

Thank you all for visiting.

What Can Happen in an Evening

Writers Group: after a day of figuring out what's up (or not) with the elevator, how to get delivery to 9 branches when the delivery van is in the shop for a new windshield, when we're required to pay prevailing wage on projects, what asbestos abatement means, why a librarian wants to cancel a subscription to Time, and how to get a brick walk repaired so it doesn't block a fire exit, it's a relief to go to writing group.

A stop at the coffee shop for a fresh brew (okay, they said it was 45 minutes old when I got there so I wheedled a fresh pot--45 minute old coffee can cause premature aging!) and I was still close to on time. I was determined to bring something new to the group this week since I'd missed so many meetings, so last night I wrote a new short story. It was different, I'll say that, and the ending had a strong impact. A little work and it'll be a good story. Seeing everyone again really made my day.

Drive: The sky was ominous--black clouds piling high, big gusts of wind, premature dark. I darted for home, only a quick stop to relieve the "Empty" light on my gas gauge (my little Nissan Sentra is so used to running on empty I think it just keeps going out of habit). I raced the storm, literally. It started to pour at the gas station, but a few miles out and it was a light drizzle, then only wind. I made it to the house just as the first fat drops caught up with me.

That might not sound like a big deal. But I had 6 miles to travel on a small 2-lane highway, 2 more on a one-lane, bumpy country road, then 2 more on a dirt-and-gravel road full of twists, hills and bumps, then 1/4 mile on the driveway. So I was doing some speed on bad roads to outrun the storm.

Storm: I raced raindrops to the porch, ran into the house and unplugged phone and computer. My mind relieved, I went back to the porch with a glass of Chardonnay to sit in my rocker and watch the storm with Larry. It was stupendous, great flashes of lightning and big booms, a tree cracking in the woods behind the house, rain blowing almost horizontal as the lightning show continued.

Storytelling: when the storm passed, we hooked the phone and 'puter back up, and I returned a call to my storytelling friend Donna Wilson. She was working on the final report for our grant for the series Stories at the River's Edge. Because of her efforts, the series was very successful. She is quite a woman, an organizer with a creative streak that reveals itself in storytelling. We talked about stories, how they connect us with people, what they mean. We plan to do the series again next year. With Donna involved, I know it'll be a success again.

Writing: After such an evening, here I am at the computer, trying to capture the best of a very good evening. My full-time job is demanding, but knowing I can come home to good friends, a lonesome ridge, and a loving man makes it all worthwhile.

If only it would flood, or trees fall and block the road so I can stay home tomorrow! But a woman can't have everything, and I'm happy to take what I got tonight.

Historic West Virginia Documents Recently Found

Amazing--these documents, some dating from the beginning of West Virginia's statehood in 1863, were discovered in a fireproof vault at the State Capitol.

I wonder if my father-in-law's birth record is in those documents? He'd always assumed they were lost in the great statehouse fire in 1927.

Chicken Riddles

Chickens are one of my favorite animals. I’ve had a flock almost continuously for over 30 years.What I like best about chickens is that unlike most animals, you can use the product without hurting the chicken.

I like brown-egg hens best, a especially the black-and-white Barred Rocks, or Domineckers, as they’re called around here. When I go looking for new hens, those will be the ones I hope to find. But I'll settle for any brown-egg layer.


Try these chicken riddles—answers below):


What looks just like half a chicken?


Where do hens come from?


Where do chicks come from?


Which side of a chicken has the most feathers?


Why did the chicken cross the road?


What do you get if you cross a road with a chicken?


Why did the chicken go halfway across the road?


Why did the turkey cross the road?


Why do hens lay eggs?


What’s a chicken’s favorite holiday?




(the other half, Hennessee, Chickago, the outside, prove to the possum it could be done, to the other side, to lay it on the line, it was the chicken’s day off, they’d break if they dropped them, Thanksgiving!)

Look Out! The Sisters are Coming!

..and maybe the daughter-in-laws, nieces, cousins and a few other female relatives.

Well, not all of them. But there is a plan afoot. Female relations will pile into vans and other vehicles and trek to my house over Labor Day weekend. Will they actually make it? I think a few will, at any rate.

Larry is already planning an escape route to Kentucky to visit his sister. Too much estrogen and angst in one place for him, perhaps.

I hope it happens. We'll talk and talk and drink a little wine maybe and talk some more.

I can't wait. Even if it's still hot and the gardens look like there's been a 40-year drought. Even if it rains all weekend. Even if we don't cook, or cook the entire time. Even if we don't sleep at night and sleep all day. It will be wonderful to be with my own womenfolk.

Blackberry Cobbler: A Taste to Take You Home

Hot sun, prickling vines, tangy taste, buckets of shining black berries. Berry picking in July and August when the days are long and languid, and the berries hang heavy and ripe in the vines. What better way to use them than in an old-time cobbler?

There are several ways to make cobbler. I've had some that are like an upside-down cake, others like a strawberry shortcake. I still make it like my English mother made it, and it's my favorite. Served with milk or vanilla ice cream, it's hard to beat for a sweet summer treat.

Mom's blackberry cobbler is easy to make, even easier to eat. The topping is really just sweetened biscuit dough, mixed a little thinner that you would to make biscuits. You may want to adjust the amount of sugar in both the topping and the berries, depending on your own taste. This recipe doubles easily; if you double it, use a 10”x14” pan for baking, and allow extra time to bake.

3 tablespoons shortening, butter or margarine
1 ½ cups self-rising flour
1 tablespoon sugar (more or less to your taste)
about ½ cup milk

4 cups blackberries (or substitute other fruit), washed and cleaned
½ cup sugar
1 tablespoon cornstarch or flour (to thicken)

butter (to dot over the filling before adding the topping)

Berry filling:
Spread the berries evenly in the bottom of a 9”x9” square pan. Sprinkle about ½ cup sugar mixed with the cornstarch or flour over the berries, and stir lightly with a spoon to coat the berries.

Topping:
Mix 1 tablespoon sugar with 1 1/2 cups of self-rising flour. Cut 3 TBSP shortening or butter into the flour mixture with a pastry blender or fork. Stir in milk, about 50 strokes with the fork. (Don't stir too much or your topping will be heavy.) Drop the dough by spoonfuls on top of the berry mixture.

Bake at 400 degrees for 25-30 minutes, or until the topping is golden brown. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream or whipped cream, or with milk.

Other things to do with blackberries: make wine, freeze for winter cobblers, eat with sugar and cream, eat fresh, make blackberry muffins, make a quick sauce by cooking blackberries with sugar, water and corn starch and serve over ice cream, waffles, or pancakes, make a blackberry pie, use the juice from your frozen berries to dye Easter eggs…. And if that’s not enough, you can wait for spring to pick the leaves just before the plants blossom and use the leaves to brew some blackberry leaf tea.

A New Use for Duct Tape?

I've used it for many things myself--holding an old truck together, taping pants legs down for beekeeping, sealing windows--even library craft projects.

But as a way to conceal identity to commit a robbery? Now that's new. You've got to read this to believe it. Not quite Darwin Award material, but there has got to be some award for someone as dumb as this. (The photo is by WSAZ TV News.)

And yet...he's someone's son, after all, and surely his mother cares about him. I wonder what he needed so desperately that he'd go to such lengths? And I can just bet it hurt like blazes when they pulled it off. There go the eyebrows!

Three Rivers Storytelling Festival

We missed the workshops, but boy did we hear stories at the Three Rivers Storytelling Festival in Pittsburgh last weekend. Elizabeth Ellis, Dan Yashinsky, Charlotte Blake Alston and Billy Teare were the featured tellers.

I was very happy to hear folktales! These old tales seem to be losing favor in place of the personal story--copyright issues might be to blame, but the old stories still have meaning for today's listeners.

Charlotte Blake Alston playing the kora

Elizabeth Ellis and Dan Yashinsky after the Saturday afternoon sessions.

Larry and WV storyteller Rich Knoblich, who was also an emcee at 3 Rivers

The ghost stories concert on Friday evening offered a good variety of stories, from funny to jump to scary to haunting. I started the program off with the ballad "Pretty Polly" (well, to have ghosts, someone has to die) and West Virginia's most famous ghost story, "The Greenbrier Ghost."

With Elizabeth Ellis, that wild Texas-Kentucky woman!

Although the audiences were smaller than I remembered from my past attendance at Three Rivers, they were attentive and seemed to be enjoying the stories. The final concert was almost full to capacity, and very few people left early. Three Rivers has gained enough corporate sponsorship to offer free admission to most events; I don't know if other festival can offer this, but what a bargain to see these tellers at no cost!