Today's Storytelling: Sutton Elementary

I love visiting Sutton. This little town on the banks of the Elk River is a gem that's beginning to polish itself after a long downward slide. With an active arts studio, a sculpture's studio, a classy bed-and-breakfast, new and promising coffee shop, old brick streets and interesting architecture, the town has some things going for it.

with my friend, Quinton

The elementary school is another one of the towns charms. Perched high on the side of a hill overlooking the town, the school is a busy place. Today, for example, was their Heritage Festival. Children dressed in their Halloween costumes and marched down the hill and through the town. Everyone stopped to watch and cheer them on.

The principal is an interesting man too. A bluegrass musician, he brings a creative flair to his job. Mix that with a great personality and an ability to make a little go a long way, and I think you've got the mix for the perfect school administrator.

I was there to tell stories for the third year in a row. This year I decided to tell Jack stories. I try not to repeat stories for audiences that have heard me before, and these kids had heard most of my tall tales and ghost stories. But I hadn't told them much about Jack, so he was the star of the show today. I chose Jack and Old Fire Dragaman, and one I call Jack and the Ghost (my variation on several tales with a like theme, like this one) for today, along with the short tall tale Jack's Hunting Trip.



An added pleasure was seeing Quinton again. I remember him 3 years ago as a happy 2nd grader. Today he is taller than I am, getting ready to move on to middle school next year. Quinton gave me a funny little rubber monster when I first met him, and I still have it--named after him. Like so many of the Sutton children, Quinton is a good listener, and there is nothing that makes a storyteller's job more enjoyable than that.

Three of my Favorite Blogs

I read several blogs on a regular basis, and others are happy discoveries as I roam about the internet. Here are some of my favorites:

http://www.appalachianwriters.blogspot.com/ offers poetry, stories and a place to hang out with other writers. The forum attached to the site provides opportunities to ask for critique, find information about writing contests and publishing and a lot more. Maintained by Mike Lawson and based in Kentucky, writers on the blog post fairly often (including yours truly).

http://www.ellouisestory.blogspot.com/ is the blog of a good friend and great storyteller, Ellouise Schoettler. A textile artist as well as a storyteller, Ellouise's blog is a rich quilt of her life, her art, her stories and her thoughts.

http://www.threebeautifulthings.blogspot.com/ is what it says: an English girl's desire to see three beautiful things every day. Some as mundane as a puppy playing in leaves, others as magnificent as a National Trust property. If you need a dose of serenity in your hectic world, this blog is the right medicine.

All Souls' Day, Souling and Soul Cakes

Friday is the day the spirits return to their graves, according to some customs--and to my upbringing. I remember All Souls' Day as a somber follow-up to All Hallow's Eve and All Saints' Day. While All Saints' Day honors those who attained sainthood, All Souls Day was a time to remember all those departed, not just the saintly.

photo of All Saints Day in a Polish cemetery, from Wikipedia

Reading up on All Souls' Day on Wikipedia, I see that in some places it's traditional to leave food on the table in the evening for the traveling souls to take with them to wherever they're going. That gave me pause. Did people feel comfortable inviting the old souls into their homes? Did only the dead of that household stop by for provisions? What foods would be the proper kind to leave out? Food that will last a long time, sweets, or perhaps some spirits for the spirits?

In many places, the proper food was Soul Cake, with perhaps a glass of red wine. I found many recipes online for Soul Cake, but this one at NPR seemed like the easiest and their photo looks inviting. (I was intrigued by the recipe for iced pumpkin juice too.)

For more information about Halloween (or all Hallows Eve), All Saints Day and All Souls Day, Wikipedia is a great source.

In the British Isles, people often went souling on November 2. Some scholars believe this to be the precursor to trick-or-treat as people went door to door begging for soul cakes in exchange for prayers for the households' dead.

You may recall the Peter, Paul & Mary song "A-Soaling." Here is an interesting article about the custom, as well as traditional lyrics for the song. I remember my mother singing parts of this little song. She wasn't interested in folklore, but as child in England she followed many of the old traditions without realizing their ancient roots. As I recall, she sang it around Thanksgiving and Christmas, but the "proper" day for it is November 2nd.

The Souling Song
Soul, soul for a souling cake
I pray you, missis, for a souling cake
Apple or pear, plum or cherry
Anything good to make us merry
Up with your kettles and down with your pans
Give us an answer and we'll be gone
Little Jack, Jack sat on his gate
Crying for butter to butter his cake
One for St. Peter, two for St. Paul
Three for the man that made us all

Here is an astounding bibliography of folklore titles on this topic.

As always, seeking a little information has led me deeper and deeper into the maze.

Some Advice for the Haunted Season

Now that we've been out rousing the spirits with stories, trick-or-treat, jack-o-lanterns and such, you might be wondering how to get things settled down again. In mountain folklore there are quite a few superstitions on the topic. For example:

• sprinkle a ring of salt around your home. It was believed that spirits would not cross salt.
• paint the window and door frames of your house blue. Might clash with your green siding, but spirits apparently will not cross a blue threshold.
• hang a mirror outside your door. Spirits must be vain because they must stop and look at themselves in a mirror, and they forget why they came (must have short memories too). A slightly different belief is that mirrors must be covered after a death in the family to prevent the person's spirit from returning through the mirror, thought to be portal to the other side. Some interesting ghost stories involving mirrors are found on the blog Your Ghost Stories.
• Put screen wire over all your doors and windows. Spirits seem to be obsessive-compulsive because they have to count every single tiny hole in the screen. By the time they've counted all the holes, day is breaking and they must return to whence they came.
• hang blue bottles on a bush in your yard. As explained to me, the custom springs from a belief that spirits would be attracted to the bottles and get trapped inside. I found a detailed and interesting history of the custom at a blog called Travis Graphics. This beautiful blog is a place I'll visit again.
• Hang rosemary, tied with red ribbon, outside your door. A twist on this is to put the tied rosemary into a seashell--apparently that can capture a spirit inside the shell!
• Lastly, storyteller Kathryn Windham of Alabama advises her listeners to turn their shoes in opposite directions under the bed at night. This confuses the spirits, she says, because they can't tell if you're coming or going! (Kathryn is a great teller of ghost stories as well as hilarious personal stories, and at 89 is still going strong.)

If you all these instructions, you should feel fairly safe from any ill-intended spirit visits. Of course, by the time you've done all this, it will be daylight anyway and the need for protection will be gone!
For some interesting superstitions, read Haints, Witches and Boogers, Tales from Upper East Tennessee, or Witches, Ghosts and Signs by Patrick Gainer; or the new work by Jerry Milnes, Signs, cures, and witchery : German Appalachian Folklore.

Ghost Stories on the River

What a night for stories. Picture a setting on the banks of the mighty Ohio, huge trees overshadowing the pavilion, lights from the town on the other side blinking in the water. Kids in costumes straggle in with a few adults. It's spookily dim as we begin our tales.

The event was the brainchild of Donna Wilson, a storyteller who has a gift for knowing what will make a successful event. This one was low-key; she provide decorations, a mike and her stories, and I provided my stories.

This was the best performance I have seen from Donna. I've told with her several times now, and keep seeing improvement. One of the best ways to get better as a teller is to tell. And tell. And tell. Another way is to listen to and watch other tellers. and the third important ingredient is watching the audience and being able to read their reactions. Donna's ghost stories were perfect for the group we had tonight, and my tales went very well too.

On the drive home I thought about performance--driving 40 miles through quiet country and a few towns to get there, meeting people and just telling stories to them, then driving dark roads home. What makes me do this, over and over?

What I come to is this: it's the audience. Seeing their eyes, their delight, the memories I trigger. Tonight as I was telling Tailypo a young girl's eyes lit with pleasure, and when I got to the signature chant (Tailypo, tailypo, coming to get my tailypo) she know it and chimed right in! After the first time, I gave the mike to her for the repeated chants. That shared joy in the story is something I can't place a value on, and yet for all of us tonight the little girl's joy increased our enjoyment in a three dimensional way. Not only was I telling and they listening--now one of their own was participating and deepening the experience for us all.

It's On! Storytelling Institute at Fairmont State University

The grant was successful! The West Virginia Storytelling Guild and Fairmont State University will host the first WV Storytelling Institute at Fairmont State University the first weekend of April, 2008.



Big thanks to Fran Kirk of the University, Joann Dadisman of the WV Storytelling Guild and all their committee members who have been working for the past year to make this a reality.



I will post more information about the Institute as it is released. I know the line-up of presenters is impressive, including national and regional tellers and folklorists.



Fairmont State has a long involvement with Appalachian folklore. Ruth Ann Musick, probably the state's most prolific folklore collector, was a professor there for many years. With her students she collected hundreds of stories from around the state. Some of the tales are published in her books, the most popular of which is The Telltale Lilac Bush (referenced in my earlier post about WV ghost stories). Judy Byers took up Musick's work and continued to develop the program into a thriving curriculum.



The University is the site of the WV Folklife Center and is working on a campaign to develop a new location for the Center to house its growing work and collection.

Storytelling for Elderhostel

There is nothing so rewarding as faces listening with rapt attention, voices that laugh at the right times, heads that nod knowingly, and eyes that shine with memories and delight.

That's what it was like tonight at the Elderhostel at Cedar Lakes in Ripley. It was fun to see Gloria again, the activities coordinator--I'd met her years ago, when our sons were young. Now our sons have children.

Telling stories is magic. A connection develops between teller and listener that feels like a long-time friendship, as if we've known each other for years. The stories bring back memories of the past, of people and places and things that happened that might not have been thought about for a long time. Yet those memories are clear as crystal when a story triggers them.

Tonight a man told me a story about being selfish with his brother and stepping on a nail because of it. His mother poured turpentine on the nail hole and chastised him for being selfish! It was my story about turpentine that brought that memory back, and the man's eyes were alight with the memory of his past mischief.

Connections, connections. One lady knew a storyteller friend of mine and needed contact information, which I could give her. A man had made a lovely stained glass kaleidoscope for my boss when she retired. Passing each other on the street, we could not have known the connections we shared. But after sharing a storytelling session, conversation flows warmly and there is a place where we can find our way to each other.

It was a good, good evening.

Short and Spooky Halloween Tale

"Lock up well when we leave," her parents said.

"I will," she promised. She couldn't wait until they left--the house would be all hers!

Her parents walked out the door. She carefully locked up behind them, then checked all other window and door locks. She pulled the curtains closed and sat in her favorite chair to read. When it got late, she stood up, stretched, checked all the locks again and turned out the lights.

Then she went upstairs, checked the window locks to be sure they were
secure and pulled the curtains shut. She went into her bedroom, checked the window latches one more time, twitched the curtains tightly together, undressed and put on her nightgown.

She turned down the bedcovers, closed and locked her bedroom door, and
turned out the light.

It was just as she pulled the covers over her that she heard a voice say,

"Oh good. Now no one else can get in."

We're all alone."

West Virginia Ghost Stories and Storytelling

In our state, stories and storytelling have been a part of our culture since the earliest pioneers crossed the Allegheny mountains. People told stories to while away the time during long winter evenings, or on the porch on hot summer days. Stories were a way to pass on family history, traditions, stories from the “old country,” and to teach children the accepted rules of behavior.

Of all the stories told in our state, the most prevalent is the ghost story. I sometimes think that every ridge and holler in our state has its own ghost. The reasons for the abundance of ghost stories are several. The simplest explanation might be that the mist rising from the hills at night can create a ghostly aspect that might make a person think of otherworldly beings. Some folklorists speculate that the settlers of West Virginia brought with them the stories and lore of their native countries. English, Irish and Scottish folklore is filled with supernatural stories and ballads. Some of these stories were transplanted with the people who told them with new twists introduced in their new land.

Religion might have also played a role. Many settlers believed firmly in the flight of the soul after death, and it wasn’t too much of a stretch to believe that some souls lost their way on this final journey and were trapped here on earth. Usually these lost souls had a specific reason for staying: revenge, relaying a warning to loved ones, or some other unfinished business.

Some ghost stories were cautionary tales, meant to discourage children from dangerous activities. The legends of Booger Hole in Clay County fall into this category, telling of terrible things that were believed to have occurred around a certain muddy portion of a road on Twistabout Ridge. In my county, there is a story of a headless dog that supposedly haunts Tug Fork after dark and chases people. Children in that area might think twice about going out after dark if there is a chance of encountering that dog!

Ghost stories are different than horror stories. Ghost stories tend to be stories with supernatural occurrences, rarely include violent acts committed by the spirit, and are usually fairly short. They are generally more haunting than scary, leaving the listener wondering what might have really happened, if the person really saw what they claimed, or why the ghost chose that place or time to appear. The haunting, unexplained nature of ghost stories probably explains their continued popularity. There is mystery in ghost stories that engages the imagination.

Many ghost stories have been collected and published in books; still others are still being passed down from parent to child. Below is a list of a few collections of West Virginia ghost stories.

People use a variety of words to refer to ghosts. Some used in West Virginia are: Haint, Booger, Revenant, Spook, Shade, Spirit, Apparition

West Virginia Ghost Stories Booklist
This list is not all-inclusive, but includes some of the most popular and easily found collections of West Virginia ghost stories. Many stories are included in old county history books, back issues of the West Virginia Folklore Journal (no longer in publication), Goldenseal magazine, and many local sources.


Author: Musick, Ruth Ann.
Ruth Ann Musick is undoubtedly the First Lady of West Virginia ghost stories and ghost story collecting. While teaching at Fairmont State College, Musick collected stories from her students over a number of years. She also did research and found many stories herself.

Ballads, Folk Songs & Folk Tales from West Virginia. Includes some very strange ghost stories.Morgantown, West Virginia University Library, 1960. Out of Print, but available through libraries.

Green Hills of Magic : West Virginia Folktales from Europe. A variety of stories that includes ghost stories.Publication info: Parsons, WV : McClain Printing Co., 1989.

Coffin Hollow, and Other Ghost Tales
University Press of Kentucky, c1977.

The Telltale Lilac Bush, and Other West Virginia Ghost Tales.University of Kentucky Press,1965

Author: Deitz, Dennis
The Greenbrier Ghost and Other Strange Stories. West Virginia’s most famous ghost story is told from several perspectives in this collection.
Mountain Memories Books, 1990

Author: Roberts, Nancy.
Appalachian Ghosts. Includes several stories from West Virginia, including one about John Henry.

Author: Jones, James G.
Appalachian Ghost Stories and Other Tales. Also wrote “More Appalachian Folk Stories.
McClain Printing Co, Parsons, WV. 1997

Author: Holstein, Susanna “Granny Sue”
Granny’s Ghost Stories. Includes historical, family and original ghost stories. Available from me!

Author: Shepard, Susan.
Cry of the Banshee. A collection of stories by Parkersburg’s resident ghost hunter.

Seeing is Believing: A Story for Halloween

People often ask me if I believe in ghosts. The question is not one that has a simple answer. There are things we know, and there are things we do not understand. I believe that spirits are in that second category. Let me tell you why.


I was driving home late one night. I had been helping my son move into his new house, and I was tired. It was a beautiful August evening, the mist rising from the creeks and the full moon shining silver on the dark earth. I drove slowly because I knew the deer would be out grazing on the side of the road.

My car rounded a curve where many accidents have happened during the years I’ve lived in Jackson County. I laughed to myself as I remembered the time a state trooper misjudged the depth of the curve and his cruiser landed nose-down in the pond just off the road. My eyes strayed briefly to a makeshift monument along the guardrail, a memorial to a teenaged girl who had been killed in that place by a drunk driver.

That was when I saw her. She was leaning over, holding on to the guardrail. Her hair was long and golden, hanging over her bare shoulders—shoulders that gleamed whitely in the moonlight. She was wearing a pale blue sleeveless dress with little yellow flowers scattered across it.

My foot jerked off the gas pedal but I had already passed her. What was she doing out at that hour? My mind raced to find an explanation. The flowers at the memorial had looked dowdy lately—perhaps she had come to change them. But at this hour? The thought flashed through my mind as I looked back in my rear view mirror to see what she was doing.

She was gone; there was no one in sight. The memorial flowers drooped beside the makeshift cross that tilted against the guardrail. My car slowed even more and I felt suspended in a space without time or weight.

I had seen her; I had not imagined her. I saw her fair hair spilled across bare shoulders in the sleeveless blue dress. I saw the little yellows flowers that dotted the thin fabric. But she was gone; there was no one on that dark road but me, traveling through silver moonlight at midnight.

I drove the rest of the way home in a daze. Had I dozed off in that curve, and the girl only a dream creature in my half-awake mind? I was sure I was awake, although there was no denying the strange weightless sensation I had when I looked back at that empty road. I walked into my house, uncertain and shaken by what I had seen.

I told no one about it for several weeks. I was sure that people would laugh at me. Her own tales have bitten the old storyteller, that’s what they’d think. So I kept quiet, but each time I drove past that roadside memorial I looked for golden hair and long white arms.

I never saw her again.

A few weeks later I saw a young woman I had not seen for several years. We chatted and caught up on our families’ news. I remembered that she had bought a house about five years ago, a house close by the spot where the dead girl’s memorial stood.

“How do you like your place?” I asked. “It seems like a nice location, convenient to town.”

“Oh, we really like it. There are a lot of accidents there, though. People are always coming to our door for help.”


“Yes, I can recall quite a few mishaps in that curve. It’s a bad one. Do you remember when that girl was killed there a few years ago?” I asked.

“Yes, we moved in about six months before that happened. It was terrible.”

“Does the memorial bother you? It seems like a sad reminder, right there by your driveway.”

“No, it’s okay. Her family comes out sometimes and they keep it up. I guess it makes them feel better to do that.”

I looked at her for a long moment, and then said slowly, “You know, I had a strange thing happen to me at that spot a few weeks ago.” The words dragged out of me. I had no intention of telling her about my experience when our conversation began, yet the story spilled from my lips.

When I finished, the young woman just stared at me.

“You’re thinking I’m crazy,” I said apologetically. “Most likely wasn’t anything--anyone--there at all. I know you go to church and all and this probably sounds weird to you.”

“It’s odd you should tell me this,” she replied quietly. “My little girl was only six months old when we moved to our house. She was too little to remember what happened, I’m sure. Yet as soon as she could talk, she would ask me, “Mommy, who’s that girl sitting on your Jeep? Mommy, who’s that girl over there?”

"I could not figure out what she was talking about, and then I began to wonder if she was seeing something the rest of us could not.”

I have not seen the girl in the blue dress again. I have not mentioned it to the young woman again about it since that conversation.


Do I believe in ghosts? I can only tell you that I know what I saw in my rear view mirror that night. And I know what wasn’t there when I looked back.

Pumpkin Recipes

It's the time of year for spicy pumpkin treats. I pretty much love anything made with pumpkin--soup, pie, cake, muffins, cookies...

Here are some of my favorites.

PUMPKIN NUT COOKIES
1/2 cup butter 1 tsp salt
1 cup sugar 2 1/2 tsp cinnamon
2 eggs, beaten 1/2 tsp nutmeg
1 cup pumpkin 1/4 tsp ginger
2 cups flour 1 cup raisins
4 tsp baking powder 1 cup nuts

Cream shortening and sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs and pumpkin and mix well. Add flour, baking powder, salt and spices. Stir in raisins and nuts. Drop onto greased cookie sheets and bake at 350 degrees for 15 minutes. 4 dozen.


PUMPKIN CAKE

2 cups sugar
1 cup salad oil
4 eggs
2 cups all purpose flour
2 tsp baking soda
2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp baking powder
2 cups mashed, cooked pumpkin or 16 oz canned pumpkin
1/2 cup chopped nuts

Combine sugar, salad oil, and eggs in a large bowl. Mix well.
Combine dry ingredients; add to oil mixture, beating well. Stir in pumpkin. Pour batter into 2 greased and floured 9' cake pans. Bake at 350 degrees for 35-40 minutes. Turn out onto racks to cool. Frost with cream cheese icing.

PUMPKIN PIE
2 eggs, slightly beaten
1 1/2 cups canned pumpkin (homemade or store-bought)
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp ginger
1/4 tsp cloves
1 2/3 cup evaporated milk (13 fl. Oz.)
1 9" unbaked pie shell (if using frozen pie shells, this recipe makes 2 pies. Bake as pie shell package directs)

Mix filling ingredients in the order given. Pour into pie shell. Bake in a preheated 425-degree oven for 15 minutes; reduce heat to 350 degrees and continue baking for 45 minutes or until a knife inserted in the center of the pie comes out clean. Cool. Garnish with whipped cream, if desired.

SUSANNA'S PUMPKIN NUT BREAD
2 eggs
1/4 cup softened butter
1 cup canned pumpkin
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup milk
2 /14 cups self-rising flour
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1 cup chopped pecans

Beat eggs with softened butter. Add pumpkin, sugar, and milk. Add next three ingredients and mix well. Add nuts.
Spread in well-greased loaf pan (9x5x3in). Bake in 350 degree oven for 45-55 minutes, or until toothpick comes out clean.

Bread may be frozen for later use.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Your blue eyes


sparkled with a story


you wanted to tell me


about when you were a boy


in New Orleans

and dressed like a pirate

for Mardi Gras

or when you stole bananas off the boat


and the tarantula crawled up your leg


when you hid under the porch


to eat your stolen fruit





Then there was the time


you were swimming with your brother


a contest he always won


but this time the water mocassin


swimming beside you


added speed to your legs


and you beat your brother


and the snake


to the finish line





Once you met a pretty English girl


in a teashop in Cambridge


she allowed you to tag along


as she shopped with her mother


you continued to follow her


across the ocean and through


sixty-one years of marriage





Stories of men you worked with


camping trips and mountain hikes


living without much money


making toys and fixing things


how you cared for your tools


water battles and Brer Rabbit


all the memories crowded


behind your bright blue eyes





tumbled out in pieces


like mis-matched jewels, no order


to the bits you told me


during long evenings


or during dialysis


just bits and pieces strung together


along a shining cord leading back


through eighty-four years





I hold the stories in my mind


seeing not the places you described


but your face, your eyes,


remembering.








In loving memory of my father,


William I. Connelly


October 24, 1922 to October 8, 2006





WWII veteran, father,


grandfather, great-grandfather


and storyteller

Goodwill Glasses and Midnight Fiddle

These are two of my favorite poems.

The first one I wrote it after a visit to Larry's cousin Mike, an amazing musician who is content to play when he wants where he wants and what he wants. One evening we were visiting Mike and Willie (his girlfriend) at their house high above the Kanawha River in Putnam County--a lonesome ridge much like our own.

Goodwill Glasses

We drove up late, it was after nine pm.
The road was long, dark and winding
Across a ridge the followed the bends
of the Great Kanawha River.

The light on the porch was on.
Willie sat in the swing, watching to be sure
we didn’t miss the place because the road
took a deep bend and it was a little hard to see.

The little house with blue siding
sheltered under shading oaks and maples,
a work in progress, it was plain to see
and lots of finishing still to do.

Mike pulled out his guitar and a bottle of vodka,
both tools of his musical skill,
and played songs from old country music
about betrayed love, love lost, lost hope,

while Willie sat and listened
and talked about the great deals
she got at Goodwill,the table and chairs
and Old Curiosity Shoppe dishes.

Sing us a song? Mike asked,
and so I did, the ones I like the best,
old ballads and mountain songs
of betrayed love, love lost, lost hope,

sitting at Willie's kitchen table
while Mike picked out the melodies
on his old guitar, sipping vodka
from Willie’s Goodwill glasses.
--------------------------------------------

About a year later I met Junior Holstein at Mike and Willie's place. Junior is Mike's older brother, and he plays fiddle mostly; he was featured by Augusta Heritage Recording on a DVD called Music of Heaven. That night at Mike's house Junior played and sang, and he and I tried to find songs we knew in common. We found a few, and the evening stretched into the early morning hours.

I remember Junior Holstein that evening as a quiet, gentlemanly fiddle player who wore a soft old jacket and a felt hat pulled low over his face. His voice was soft too, rising into the night air like the mountain fog that surrounded us as we huddled around the bonfire.

This past summer we saw Junior again, and the change in him shocked me. Junior believes the superstitions so prevalent in the mountains that link music, and especially fiddle music, to the Devil. He is certain that he is doomed and cannot be saved. It was sad to see this fine musician in such a sorry state. He did not recognize us at first, and when he did his conversation was rambling and disjointed and it was clear he wanted us to leave. Which we did.

I haven't seen Junior since, although I think of him often, and his troubled eyes look out at me right now from the cover of the DVD.

So in his honor, I post this poem,

Midnight Fiddle

Soft felt hat slouches low over darkened eyes,
shoulders curl protectively
as arms cradle the fiddle's curves.
Bow touches lightly and strings reply
with shrieks and whines.
Tune and test fiddle and bow
firelight dances on flying fingers.
Rebel Soldier, Soldier's Joy
Music loosens arthritic hands
and shy tongue.

"I been to church four times this year
because I like to drink, you know.
Told the Lord I'd try to keep away from liquor
but couldn't promise him I'd quit, because
I like it. He knows.
I try and that's all a man can do."

Firelight flickers across his face,
carving lines in shadow.
The fiddler's bow
rises and falls, rises and falls.
Foot-tapping darkness deepens as
sparks fly from fiddle strings and fire.
"Play one more, Junior, play one more!"
I'll Fly Away, I'll Fly Away
Let's Go Down to the River and Pray

Fiddle cries and mourns,
notes hang in the smoky air
and drift away.
"Play one more, Junior.
Do you know Amazing Grace?"

A Storyteller's Weekend Journey

Once upon a time, a storyteller traveled many miles over the mountains to visit her family and tell stories. Along the way she encountered breathtaking fall scenery, pelting rain, lightning, a chance meeting with her oldest son, and a hearty welcome at the home of her second son.

She marveled at the music played by him and a group of his friends, wandering minstrels in the loft of a garage.

The following day she journeyed once again to visit her parents in their "new place." The day was bright and beautiful and the cemetery quiet and restful. There she encountered one of her Seven Sisters who helped arrange flowers. The Storyteller placed roses on the grave of her parents and on the grave of a young fallen warrior, a stranger she had not met in life but grieved for in death. (Stories, as life, are often full of such riddles).

Because the Storyteller had traveled far, distant family gathered that evening to share food, wine and stories. Many of these tales centered on the mythic brother (and third son) Derek, known for wild rides through mudholes in four-wheel-drive trucks, lost trucks and tractors and many other feats of daring.

After a breakfast feast prepared by second son Jon and enjoying the play of his daughters, the Storyteller journeyed once again to the far-off city of Martinsburg to tell stories to strangers. As is always the case, the strangers became friends before the afternoon was over as all listened to tales and ballads from the mountains.

The Storyteller waved a fond farewell to her new friends and set forth yet again to travel over mountainous terrain, along rivers and through valleys, wondering at the beautiful sights that met her eyes. As darkness descended, her faithful husband and driver guided the Nissan chariot safely past wandering deer to the place of her abode. There they rested, to rise again and start yet another work week.

And so the Storyteller's journey ended, and all the memories she carried home will live happily ever after.

The Golden Axe:An Adapted Fable from Aesop

I like telling this story. The images are great, and the moral is simple: don't be greedy, and don't lie. Aesop was one good storyteller.



A woodsman was cutting a tree on the bank of a river, when his axe glanced off the trunk, flew out of his hands and fell into the water.



"Oh what shall I do? That axe is how I earn my living. Without it I will starve!"



As he stood by the water's edge trying to see his axe in the murky water, a woods fairy appeared and asked him the reason for his distress.



"Oh, is that all? I can get your axe for you."



The fairy dove into the river and instead of the woodsman's old work axe, brought up a golden axe.



"Is this the one you lost?"



The woodsman shook his head. "No, it is not. I wish that it was. Mine was not so fine as that one. But mine was a good, sturdy axe, well-suited to my work."



The fairy dove a second time,and came up with a silver axe.



"Is this your lost axe?" the fairy asked.



"No, that is not mine either," said the woodsman.



Once more the fairy dove into the river, and this time brought up the missing axe.



'Thank you!" said the woodsman. "Now I can return to work. You have been very kind to me."



"You are an honest man," said the fairy. "You shall be rewarded for your good heart. You may keep all three axes." The fairy dove back into the water before the astonished man had time to say a word.



Later that day the woodsman told his story to some friends. Now one of these men was jealous and greedy; he thought he might get a couple of gold and silver axes for himself.



So he went to cut a tree at the edge of the river, and of course he managed to drop his axe into the water. The fairy appeared as before, and, on learning that his axe was lost, he dived and brought up a golden axe.



Without waiting for the fairy to ask him if it was his or not, the man cried, "That's my axe! Give it to me!" He reached out to take the shining tool.



"This is not your axe and you know it," said the fairy. "You are a dishonest, greedy man. You will get no axe at all from me."



The fairy dove back into the river, leaving the man standing on the bank.



For his dishonesty, this fellow now had no axe at all.



(adapted from Aesop's Fables by Susanna Holstein 10.2007)

Chairs on Walls and Other Perspectives on Life

James is puzzled when things are not as they should be. At three, he had an ordered view of the world. Breakfast, then lunch, then dinner—that is how meals should be. Sofas and chairs are on the floor, and pictures hang on walls. That is how rooms should be; all things in their place, and all places arranged in expected ways.

Sometimes this well-ordered world gets upset; take for example, my log room. The grandchildren all love that room because it indestructible—heavy old log walls, slate floor, sturdy furniture, stone fireplace. They can play and make messes and no one gets upset. Soon after the room was finished we carved pumpkins in there because it was too cold to do it outside. We finger-paint, glue, color, play board games, build fires and toast marshmallows and no one worries about how it will all get cleaned up.

When we moved the old cabin that was to become the room, we found many interesting artifacts left by previous inhabitants—old letters, lamps, toys, and at least a ton of trash. Among the detritus was an aged handmade chair in fragile condition. I put the chair away to await the completion of the room because I intended to use items from the original cabin to decorate the new space. The chair proved to be too delicate for regular use however, so I hung it on the wall near the fireplace. It made an unusual and primitive feature and looked right at home in its new setting.
My son Aaron and his family came to visit soon after the room was done to see the new addition to our house. James ran into the log room and stopped short.

“Granny? Chair? Chair hanging on a wall?” He could not believe his eyes and looked at me for confirmation that what he saw was true.

“Yes, James. It’s a chair. I hung it on the wall.” I smiled at him reassuringly.

“Chair—on a wall? Granny? On a wall?”

I had to laugh at his expression. It was clear that he had just felt that strong stone floor shift a little under his feet. This was not how things were supposed to be. Chairs stood on floors; they did not hang on walls.

“James sit in chair, Granny? James sit in chair on a wall?” His eyes danced in anticipation as the idea of sitting on the wall grew in his mind.

It took some explaining to make him understand that it would not be a good idea to sit on the chair as it hung on the wall. He finally accepted that fact, but throughout the rest of his visit he looked periodically to be sure that the chair was still hanging on the wall, and that no one was sitting on it.

A few months later we made more changes at our house. Our youngest son moved out and his newly empty bedroom was a perfect space for a home office. We gave his bed away, rearranged furniture and moved in the computer. It was something we’d needed for a long time, but with a two-bedroom house, it was not a possibility until our nest was empty.

The home office shook James’ world again.

“Granny? Only one bed in your house?” Obviously houses needed more than one bed in James’ view. He walked from room to room looking in vain for another bed, but there was none to be found.

“Where Tommy’s big bed go?”

“I gave it to Derek,” I explained. “He needed it for the girls.”

“Oh. Where James sleep at Granny’s house?”

I showed him the hide-a-bed sofa and the air mattress and he seemed satisfied with that, although he still checked several times that day to be sure there was no other bed hiding in the house.

The chair is still hanging on the wall, and now when James comes to visit he runs in and checks to be sure it’s there. It’s a new reality for him, another accepted arrangement of the items in his world. It’s okay for chairs to hang on walls and for beds to hide in sofas—it’s like that at Granny’s and the house is still standing. He laughs as he points to the chair, remembering perhaps his initial amazement at the sight.

As change swirls around us at dizzying speeds nowadays, I think how much better we would all be if we accepted change as readily as James accepted the chair on the wall. The earth might rock a little underfoot, but in the end we all seem to come through all right, just as that chair stays safely on its nail on the wall.

Chairs on walls and beds in couches—I wonder what he thinks about the fact that Granny now has no television in her house. Probably he’ll note the fact and move on to the next thing to catch his attention, like Clayton's name set into the concrete of our sidewalk.

God in the Sky

When I was young, I thought that the rays of the sun came from God--so many pictures depict Him or Jesus with rays like these emanating from them.

Perhaps I was right. Such a sky still gives me peace and comfort.

This photo was taken up on our ridge, just before sunset.

Found!

I think the whole state breathed a sigh of relief when the lost hiker was found today. My oldest son was hiking there only one week before the young man wandered off, so it was a shock when we heard someone was lost in that wilderness.

I know Dolly Sods a little bit. It's beautiful, wild, and rocky. Rattlesnakes, unexploded ordnance from WWII training, huckleberries, blueberries and bears. Not many people.

I remember the last time we camped there. It was August, and I wanted to pick the wild blueberries. We dropped our youngest son Tommy off with his brother Jon, and Larry and I headed up to Dolly Sods. We set up camp and our oldest son George (who lives only 20 minutes away) stopped by with grandson Clayton.

We had a great time. Clayton and I looked for bears and we roasted hot dogs over the fire. It was a primitive campsite so it got dark when the sun went down. George and Clayton left and Larry and I got ready for bed.

That is when the trouble started. I looked for my suitcase but it wasn't in the van. It turned out that Larry had sent it off with Tommy (who would be wondering what to do with my bras!). So there I was, miles from anywhere and no clean clothes. Larry took one look at my face and dodged into his sleeping bag. It was a very quiet camp that night.

The next day, in my dirty clothes (which I slept in because even in summer it gets cold up on Dolly Sods) I picked berries. I was in a better mood--we'd be going home and I could clean up then--until my foot slipped and I ripped the entire seat out of my pants. It figured. I just kept picking berries. There was no one except a few bears to see anyway!

My shirt didn't cover the rip, so on the way home, bathroom stops were by the side of streams or deep woods. It was a quiet trip home too! But the berries--ah, they were worth all the trouble. We made pancakes, muffins and syrup with them all winter, and each time I got a bag out of the freezer, I remembered that trip and smiled.

I hope the young man who was lost will have some good memories of his trip. The best one will probably be the faces of the people who found him. Maybe one day, like me, he'll laugh about it and have a good story to tell.

Visit to the Doctor

And all the news is good. For an old lady of 56, 132/70 ain't bad blood pressure. One day I suppose I'll be on bp meds like the rest of the world, but not yet. It kind of surprised me, with all the stress at work these days (stress at the library sounds like an ozymoron, doesn't it? Ah, how little the world knows! As the Library Turns...).

Maybe the bp is low because my trip to the doctor (10 minute wait in the office, that's why I drive 24 miles the wrong way to get to this office) goes through some beautiful, breathtaking scenery. West Virginia is showing her colors this week. What glory, all around, all for free.

Lead Memories

I wrote this in response to a thread on the Storytell listserve, but my family read this blog and probably share this same memory:

When we were children, my father would melt lead in his little smelter pot and pour it into molds to make lead soldiers for us to play with. The molds had been his father's, and were for WWI-era soldiers. We loved those soldiers, but now I wonder if we were harmed by playing with them. Too late to change it.

One of my sisters, I believe (or was it one of my brothers?), got the molds and the smelter when Dad died. She won't use them of course. It's the memory of being in the basement with him as he melted the lead and carefully poured that molten silver metal into the molds that she cherishes. As do I. Like so many other things, we now know the hazard of what seemed simple enough when we were young.

(To illustrate this story, I googled "lead soldiers" +"World War I" and up popped these little fellows on eBay. Guess who owns them now? They're not the ones Dad made, but very like them. They'll do. )

Okay, This is a Weird Story

Browsing online I found this tale of a strange adventure in Hardy County, WV. (Judy, are you reading this?)

Not a ghost story, perhaps, but weird...perfect for this time of year.

I know this area fairly well; the writer has the route number wrong (it's 259, not 258), but most of what he describes is accurate. It is a little lonesome there and would not be too unusual not to meet a car, but there are houses, barns etc--very few businesses or stores, but signs of habitation. And the road is certainly lined.

After a Day of Meetings

I long
for peace
quiet places
tranquil forests
places without people
serenity silk-wrapped in silence

Fried Apples

I sent this in to the WV Department of Agriculture for their Cast Iron Cook Book, and it was included in that publication last year. It uses sorghum molasses; I described the process by which sorghum is made in my blog on September 30th.

Like most of my recipes, the measurements are "just about" right. Adjust to your taste.

These "fried" apples use no fat for cooking.

Cinnamon and Sorghum Fried Apples

4 cups tart, firm apples, cut into pieces or sliced, core removed.

¼ cup sorghum molasses

¼ tsp cinnamon

¼ cup water

Place apple pieces in cast iron saucepan.

Add water and sorghum and cook over medium high heat, stirring occasionally to keep from sticking.

When apples begin to soften, add cinnamon and reduce heat slightly. Stir as needed to keep from sticking; too much stirring will break apart the apple pieces.

Add more molasses to your taste.

Cook until all water is gone and apples begin to caramelize in the molasses. Remove from heat.

Caution: apples are very hot, so allow to cool a little before serving.

Creative Thoughts on Creativity

There are days when I am barely able to think, let alone be creative. Today was certainly one of them. Two meetings sapped the energy of the day, leaving me frustrated, drained and aggravated.

Then I get home and I want to write. But how to write with such negative emotions still swirling around in me? One way to still them is to read the good thinking of others, to let their words soak into me and cleanse away the badness of the day. Here are some of my favorites about creativity:

One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries.
-A.A. Milne, author (ah, Pooh! So wise!)

Angels fly because they take themselves lightly.
G.K. Chesterton, author (my favorite saying, I think. Now to just remember it on days like today)

You cannot govern the creative impulse; all you can do is to eliminate obstacles and smooth the way for it. -Kimon Nicolaides, artist born in 1892

If I create from the heart, nearly everything works; if from the head almost nothing.
-Marc Chagall, artist (I understand this. It's the intuitive drive that creates)

Creativity is the sudden cessation of stupidity.
-Edwin Land (I like this guy!) invented Polaroid camera

Flaming enthusiasm, backed by horse sense and persistence, is the quality that most frequently makes for success.
-Dale Carnegie (Ah. Not the other flaming thing...)

You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star.
-Nietzsche (got plenty of chaos, where's the star?)

I don't know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody.
-Bill Cosby, comedian (Amen, Bill!)

God will not look you over for medals, degrees, or diplomas, but for scars.
-Elbert Hubbard, author (Okay, this makes sense. Plenty of scars to show.)

Eighty percent of success is showing up.
-Woody Allen, actor and author (Hmmm. I'd rather be creative than successful, I suppose.)

The secret to creativity is knowing how to hide your sources.
-Albert Einstein (bad Al!)

"I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world."
–Albert Einstein (the man is a poet)

"If you are out to describe the truth, leave elegance to the tailor."
-Albert Einstein again (well, he was one creative dude, but I sort of hunger for elegance.)

Tall Tales: Book Review

Meg could spin a tale with the best Liars Contest winners. The trouble was that she told these tales to people who believed the stories were true. Moving from place to place with an alcoholic father who kept the family stressed and secretive, Meg didn't really know how to make friends, and so she told fantastic tales.

But when she met Grace, she realized that her tale-spinning could come back to haunt her. As life at home became more difficult and dangerous, it also became harder to keep the family secret. Loving and hating her father, wishing to protect her mother and siblings, and all the while trying to convince herself and the kids at school that her life was normal and fascinating, Meg finally works herself into a corner.

This is a late elementary--early middle school book, but it's great reading for older readers too. The first book by author Karen Day, the immediacy of the Meg's predicaments ring with truth, pain, and hope. A fine story, well told.

The Woodshed is Full

...and it's no thanks to my efforts. Larry has been hard at work getting the wood in, and now only needs the "extra" pile of wood we always gather to take care of the fireplace.

In some ways, it was easier this year because so many trees died. The drought, you know, and a few struck by lightning. It's been a tough year for trees and other plants.

In 2003, the ice storm that devastated so many trees that we've been cutting those for the past 3 years.

Now the drought has provided us with dead, dry wood for the stove. Even the heat and dryness has some small benefit, if dying trees can be called a benefit.

We will be warm this winter, thanks to Larry's work. Perhaps by next year we will have run the

lines for the free gas adn he won't have to worry about so much wood anymore. I'd bet he'll miss it.

Comfort Against the Cold

They always cut wood together,
leaving when the day was new
and morning chores were done.
The wagon, loaded with chainsaw,
gas, oil, log chains, axe,
and the circular cut-off saw
that attached to the three-point hitch,
followed the ancient tractor
that knew Dan’s touch, and always started
on those cold October mornings
though it would not do the same for his sons.

On back of the wagon
Belva (call her Belvie) rode,
legs dangling over the edge.
She never wore socks, only cotton tennis shoes
when they worked in the woods,
kept her feet from getting hot, she said.
They spent the day, those two old people,
dropping trees, cutting lengths
just right for the Warm Morning stove
or smaller for the cookstove in the kitchen.
The acrid smell of sawdust and exhaust fumes
burned in the clear October air
as the cutoff saw buzzed and whined,
biting wood with ragged teeth.

They never stopped for lunch
but worked right though
Until at last the wagon was full.
Dan would drive the old Ford tractor
down the hill to the house
where Belva went inside
to light the stove for cooking
while Dan unloaded that day’s work.
Outside the kitchen window
neatly stacked ricks of cordwood
lined up against the fence, comfort
against the coming winter cold.

Book Festival Day 2

(No photos today--I forgot my camera)

I thought I was tired last night!

It felt luxurious to sleep in until 9am today. The ringing phone woke me--it was son #5, Tommy, calling from Germany. We have a system: he calls when he has time to talk, and I call him right back to save outrageous charges on his cell phone.

He sounded great, full of plans for the future. He's in the Air Force, but has gotten into health and fitness and is studying to be a personal trainer when he gets out. It's too funny to hear this son, the pickiest of eaters when young, extolling the virtues of chicken sprinkled with pepper and flax seed, steamed broccoli, and other very healthful foods. I'm proud of him and the efforts he's making on his own to learn about nutrition. And he's learning to cook too!

Grandson Jared and I made it to the book festival by noon and manned the booth for a while. A wide variety of folks stopped to talk, sign up to receive more information about storytelling, and pick up brochures.

I've created a new brochure called "So You Want to Be a Storyteller" that was popular with booth visitors--I took 50 with me on Saturday, and had only 3 left at the end of the day. I made more when I got home. I also spiral-bound more copies of my ghost stories book--I started with the only four I had left, and was out of those early in the afternoon. The storytelling guild's membership form needed revision too, and I made brochures for that. So I burned the midnight oil Saturday night, getting everything printed, bound and ready to go. (Which is another reason why sleeping until 9am felt so good.)

Today we had the Storytellers Concert. Five tellers agreed to perform, and I was MC. The turnout was disappointing, only 15 people, but then attendance at the festival seemed to be down in general, especially today. And Robert San Souci, a well-known children's author, was presenting at the same time as the concert, so we had heavy competition for audience.

But even though the audience was small, the telling was excellent. Fred Powers started our set with a riveting coal mining story. He brought many coal mining tools for display which added to the atmosphere as he crawled into the room in his miner's outfit. I sang the ballad "WV Coal Mining Disaster" after Fred's story as a tribute to miners and the women who love them.

Suzi "Mama" Whaples followed with a new story with a lot of punch--a personal story about an encounter with a homeless woman years ago. Her point was made with grace and few words, no preaching but a truth so evident that all of us felt the power of her tale.

Donna Wilson demonstrated the art of the traditional tale with her telling of "Old Dry Frye," one of my favorite Appalachian tales. Her story reminded me a local humorous story by Delmar Hutton of Jackson County that is supposedly true, and absolutely hilarious. I told that tale and then we moved on to Michael Kasony-O'Malley, our guest performer from Columbus, Ohio. His personal story of making chocolate chip cookies and a disastrous science experiment had us all in tears with laughter.

I did a "science" ballad after Michael, "The Bricklayer's Lament," surely as much about physics as anything!

Karen Vuranch ended our set with a fantastic telling of another traditional tale, "The Two Old Women's Bet." Too funny! And a fitting tale to end the concert.

Another two hours in the booth talking to visitors, and then it was time to take down our displays. This is the hardest part for me--we're tired and drained, but the booth must be disassembled and the car loaded up for the trip home. Larry calls the car my little pickup and he's not far wrong. By the time we'd stopped for groceries, the car was completely full from the front seats to the back bumper.

Of course, I bought some new books, and a DVD on the process of coal mining. I want to learn more about mining and I am looking forward to watching the DVD. I now have a big stack of books to read and review, and will be posting the reviews as soon as I can.

Storytellers and Books

It was a great day. Books, people, books, storytellers, books. Did I mentions books? I am dog-tired but satisfied.

I began the weekend with storytelling for the Society of School Librarians International. I followed a History Alive presenter who portrayed Andrew Monteur, a half-French half-Indian who played a strong role in the early history of this country. He was excellent, and I wondered how my storytelling would follow his without jarring the audience.

So, of course, I started with a song, my version of the Carrion Crow that includes audience participation. I figured since they'd been listening, they were ready to make some noise. The group, from all over the US, joined in with great humor and we were off on an Appalachian exploration.

The time passed quickly and then I went over to the Civic Center to hbegin getting the storytelling booth ready for the Book Festival. Several guild members arrived and after a good dinner we got to work. The booth was done in no time.

Today the festival began. Over 500 people waited to get into the used book sale in the morning, and even at 10am the sale room was packed. I browsed a little but the crowds were daunting and the lines at the registers long.

The WV Storytelling Guild's booth was busy all day with visitors. One thing I noticed: no one asked "what is storytelling?" Yay! Perhaps the word is finally getting out? We handed out storytelling information, sold books and talked to many people. Storytelling workshops were offered all day. Attendance was low at some of them, which was disappointing to our presenters, but those who attended got quality information.

We sold books, CDs and DVDs too. I ran out of my Ghost Stories book and came home this evening to get more ready to sell tomorrow.

So all in all a good day, but a long one. I'm tired and ready for bed!

Penny Pincher

There was a dime on the floor
of the corner coffeehouse.
I stared down at it
as the cappuccino machine whirred
behind the counter.
I bent and picked up the dime.
People were watching;
I could feel their eyes on my back.
I didn’t look around as I dropped the dime
into the tips jar.
There was a penny on the floor too,
under the edge of the counter.
Heads up, that means good luck.
I left it, passing the luck on
to a stranger who might need it.
Or was it the watching eyes that stopped my hand
from groping for a penny?

The next day another dime rested
on the coffeehouse floor.
I stooped to get it and saw
the penny, still lying
under the edge of the counter.
I picked up the dime,
put it in my pocket,
then reached for the penny
and put that in my pocket too.
The good luck was meant for me, I think.

Originally posted at http://www.appalachianwriters.blogspot.com/

Taking a Walk

The blooming sourwood tree reminded of this piece I wrote a few years ago. It's still relevant and still tugs at my heart.

My husband and I took a walk up on the ridge, out to the church and the graveyard. The evening was cool and crisp, definitely a night for the wood stove to warm us. The trees were just beginning to turn, and there was a sourwood tree with blossoms and red leaves shining in the late evening light.

When we reached Mt. Hope church, I suggested walking through the graveyard. It had been a few years since I 'd taken the time to do that although I drive by almost every day. I don't have any family buried there and neither does Larry, so in a way it felt intrusive to look at the gravestones, like watching someone else cry with a grief not our own.

But as we walked and read the stones I realized how many of the names were those of people I have known in my 30 years here: Hugh Simons, with the big ears and big smile to match, who loved for me to come and sit with him when he moved back to his old homeplace to live with his brother and brother's wife; the young Hinzman boy who was killed in a four-wheeler accident; my friend Wetzel who gave my son Jon beer when he was only 16 --I threatened to do the same to Wetzel's daughters! Wetzel died when he was only 30 and we still miss his wild humor.

Then there's Doug's stone--he was also only 30 when he died, a young father electrocuted on the job.

My neighbor Louise lays in a well-kept grave--my friend who shared my birthday. Her quiet, religious life is honored by her children and husband who visit her often in this resting place.

Dan, my very good friend and great gardener, who is remembered by us all for his quiet ways and hard work.

And Olive who never missed seeing a car go up the holler and reporting to anyone who would listen.

John used to mow his grass with a scythe as neatly as any mower could do.

Orville loved to dance in the old mountain way. His old homeplace still stands, simple, austere--so like him.

As we walked, I saw more and more names that held places in my heart and memory.

I left feeling sad, and yet connected. So many friends over the years, so many memories, so many roots that hold me. There is a generation of the old folks who still knew how to do things the old way in the graveyard, and I felt the loss of a great store of memories and knowledge, laughter and kindness, shrewdness and stories.

There are also many graves for the young men who left too soon, and left their friends and family to miss them.

I'm glad they're close to home though, in graves well tended, in a peaceful cemetery on top of the ridge with quiet and beauty all around.

It's where I want to be when it's my time, surrounded by these old friends, beneath dirt I know and love, with those who still live passing by each day--and perhaps, now and then, stopping by to say hello and spend a few minutes remembering me and the time I spent with them.

Coonhunters

They stood outside
the Hilmart store
two men and two boys
one boy in his early teens
the other one much younger.

In dirty work clothes,
and worn old caps
they talked of dogs,
of the habits of coons
and places to hunt.

The young boy’s face
looked up at the others
as they spoke and spat
listening, not speaking
soaking in every word.

He looked so young,
soft almond eyes
of clearest blue,
blond-haired towhead hatless
tilted up, admiring.

I wish I was a painter
and could capture that boy
before he too wears dirty caps
and spits as he speaks
and goes off hunting
into shadowed night.

c2005 Susanna Holstein

Old-time Apple Cider: Strange Ingredients

We didn't make any cider this year. The apple trees were hit hard by frost, and the drought that has continued from summer into the fall months ruined any crop there might have been.

But at Rachel's Antiques in Ripley I happened on a 1919 text called Homemade Beverages, by Albert A. Hopkins. The variety of drinks offered to an industrious maker is astounding. A whole chapter is devoted to cider--and not just apple cider. There is orange cider, cherry cider, pineapple and quince cider, raisin cider, cheap cider (hey, that's what the author calls it!) and artificial cider.

The apple cider recipe had ingredients that raised my eyebrows--isinglass, (in cider?) calcium sulphite (to keep it sweet) and olive oil. And then bisulphite of lime to stop the fermentation when it's reached the proper point. And glucose to sweeten if desired. Sounds like a chemcial bath!

The "artificial cider" is really interesting: something called Catechu, alum, honey, water and yeast are suggested to make "a very pleasant drink."

(Catechu, according to the Wikipedia is "(also known as cutch, cashoo, or Japan earth) an extract of any of several species of Acacia—but especially Acacia catechu—produced by boiling the wood in water and evaporating the resulting brew.)

Then when fermentation of this artificial cider is complete, the author advised the addition of a solution of oil of bitter almond, oil of cloves, caramel, and alcohol (which can be replaced by "any good Bourbon whiskey"--ouch).

Now if this entire concoction doesn't sound deadly to you, it sure does to me. I wonder how on earth people got their hands on such ingredients? I doubt that today we would have access to most of them--and probably a good thing!

A quick search online revealed that this book was reprinted in 2001. Scary thought, although there are other recipes in it that sound pretty harmless.

A safer-sounding recipe called Apple Water Ice that actually might be very refreshing is offered in another tome from Rachel's called Household Discoveries and Mrs. Curtis' Cookbook, published in 1908.

Here's the recipe. Try it at your own risk:

6 large tart apples, 2 cupfuls sugar, 4 cupfuls water, 2 lemons. Put the apples, sugar, and water on to boil, added the grated yellow rind of one lemon. Cook until the apples are reduced to a pulp, take from the fire, drain carefully without squeezing. Add the juice of the lemons. When cold, freeze.

There are lots of other recipes for "ices" too and all of them sound like they might be tasty--or at least, safer than the cider recipe above!

She offers a Cider Ice too--combine 1 quart cider, 1 cupful orange juice, 1/2 cupful lemon juice. Dissolve 1 1/2 cupfuls sugar in the cider, add the juices, mix the ingredients and freeze. Sounds simple, and somewhat similar to my own favorite fall punch.

The Cider Punch I make is a recipe given to me by my friend Suzy McGinley. It's quick and easy and kids love it:

Combine cider, orange juice and ginger ale to your taste. Add apples and oranges sliced crosswise and cinnamon sticks to float in the punch bowl for garnish, and there it is. How easy can it be? And it sounds a lot safer than Mr. Hopkins' concoctions!

West Virginia Book Festival

It's coming! This weekend, October 13 and 14, at the Charleston Civic Center in Charleston, WV.

With Karen Vuranch and Sarah Kezman at the storytellers booth in 2005

What is it? Books, authors, used book sale, publishers, workshops, poets, storytellers, kids' activities, Dance Dance Revolution at the Teen Zone, Storybook Parade, and lots more. This event is a blast for anyone who likes to read, write, listen or have fun.

I'll be there, with other storytellers, at the West Virginia Storytelling Guild's booth. There are sessions on storytelling on Saturday and Sunday, and a storytelling concert on Sunday at 2:00pm.

For a complete schedule, contact information, directions and anything else you might want to know about the festival, go to the festival website.

See you there!

Volcano Days

The days have gone by so fast, I almost forgot to write about the Volcano Days Festival in Wood County, WV. The festival celebrates the oil boom town of Volcano, named for the geyser-like oil wells discovered there. There is a rich history of drilling in this state, and in recent months the activity has picked up once again as gas wells are being drilled all over the western side of the state. We traveled the back way, driving from the Molasses Festival in Arnoldsburg through Calhoun and Ritchie County to the back side of Wood County. On Rte 16, the sign on this house didn't seem like a good omen for the trip--I wonder what happened here to prompt the sign? The house looked deserted, although the grass had been mowed. Weird.

Still on Rte 16, we spied this swinging bridge. My patient husband turned around so I could take a picture of it. Turns out there were quite a few of them along this road, but I liked the sign on top of this one. (Click on the photos and they should become full-screen).

Little green car (registering 209,000 miles on this day)and patient husband, waiting for me to take my pictures. Not much traffic.

We turned off the paved road to take the back way to the festival, passing this abandoned house. What a shame that such a beauty is being left to ruin. There were many outbuildings around the house, signs of a prosperous farm at one time. The straight roofline means the house isn't doomed yet, but someone better do something for it soon or it will be lost. Probably tied up in heirship, and probably a relic of the boom days in the area. (The camera was crooked, not the house!)

We finally made it to the festival after a couple of hours traveling some of the most beautiful country imaginable. Men and their toys filled the grounds, old engines chugged, puffed and smoked all over the place. It was a wonderful sight!

A working oil well, brought to the festival on the back of a flatbed truck. I remember many of them still in operation when I moved to West Virginia in the 70's but these old wells are gone now.

Inner workings of the well. The craftsmanship in these wooden wells is astonishing.

Inside the visitor's center, I happened on these fellows talking about the glory days of drilling in West Virginia. I listened, fascinated to find that there is another aspect of this state I have yet to learn about--oil and gas drilling history.

Brownie Amick (left) and James Richards agreed to let me take their picture in front of the working model of an oil well, built by Brownie. Although he never worked in the oil fields himself, he's become an expert on their history because his wife's father worked in the fields for years. I realized that I was in the presence of history, and that someone better capture what these two know before it's lost. Mr. Richards worked many years in the oilfields, and could tell many a tale. They both told stories of drilling outfits that would get New York investors to back them and come to West Virginia to drill. But what they would do was set up the rigs, bore a small hole, pull up, and move on without actually drilling a well. The outfits collected from the New Yorkers who were none the wiser, and the poor landowners were left with shallow holes and no royalties.
Gas engines of all kinds were on display. Larry drooled over this old-timer, while I liked the juxtaposition of old and new (and I'm not talking about Larry!) in the photo.

Finally, on the way home, the sky gives us one more treat to enjoy. I snapped this through the windshield, which produced some interesting effects.

Volcano Days are held at Mountwood Park in Wood County, WV the last weekend of September. There were lots of things to do: a Civil-War era encampment, live music, flea market, local history books for sale, a "madam" running about propositioning the men, exhibits of all kinds, and many old-timers willing to share their history with a willing listener. Add a beautiful setting and good food, and the festival becomes a must-do for next year.