We all make them. We think we know something, or know something about someone and yet, do we really know?
For example, in a conversation with a friend, I mentioned how much I enjoyed listening to Afropop Worldwide on Public Radio. My friend was astonished. "You like that?" she asked. "I would never have thought it. That has changed my perception of you entirely." In a good way, she added quickly.
Afropop Worldwide traces the origins and impact of African music and plays some of the most intriguing and interesting music I have ever heard. I enjoy the African rhythms and chants too and Ladysmith Black Mombasa is one of my favorites. I suppose that to my black friend who knows my passionate interest in old-time and Appalachian music and ballads, the news that I enjoyed other music was not expected. In fact, I like many other kinds of music, everything from blues to opera and classical to some country and rock. Jazz is on the bottom of my list, but I can still enjoy it at times.
Another assumption was voiced by my friend Janet recently. She follows my eBay sales and was appalled at the cost of shipping. "Why, they could go to the store and buy the item for less than they're paying you for shipping and the cost of the thing they're buying!"
She's right, in a way. For some items, a buyer could get it at the store for the same price or less. But consider this: to buy the item at an antique store or flea market, the buyer would have to get dressed to go out, drive at least 10 minutes and probably a lot longer to get to the store, possibly pay to park, risk a fender bender or parking lot dings to their vehicle, spend time browsing on the chance that they will find what they want, spend time in line paying for the item, then drive back home again. The least amount of time it could take is 30 minutes and I know from experience that going to a store, especially one that invites browsing, will always take longer than 10 minutes! You also have to lug your purchases to the car.
On the other hand, to go online from home, on lunch break at work, or while sipping coffee in a coffee shop requires no special effort or travel. At home, buyers can wear their PJs (well some go to the store that way too these days!) and do their shopping while on the phone, doing the laundry, checking email, writing their blog or whatever. It's easy to multi-task and shop at the same time.
To go to the store, assuming it's 10 miles, will cost $5.20 at the current federal mileage rate, for gas, wear and tear on the vehicle, etc. There is sales tax to be paid too, in many states. So if your item is $15.00, then add $.90 in West Virginia for sales tax. Then add in what you consider your time to be worth. If the trip took an hour, at the current minimum wage rate, your time was worth $7.25. So going to the store has cost $13.45. Compare that to the shipping you will pay for that item. Shipping, of course, varies by distance and weight of the item, but a recent $15.00 purchase by a lady in Missouri cost her $8.14 in shipping.Had she driven to the mall to buy her item, my bet is she would have paid at least $23.00 for it and had the cost of gas and sales tax added to that price, plus possible parking fees. And the investment of her time, which for many of us is a primary consideration.
So the assumption that shipping is expensive is right--and wrong. I am a believer in online shopping. We have our coffee delivered monthly, I buy office supplies and books and many other things online. I love the convenience and the fact that I can find things online that are not available within 50 miles of my home. Often I get free shipping but even if I don't the cost of shipping is usually less than the cost of traveling to the store to buy the item. Travel these days is expensive too, and I think that's something we can all agree on!
I know I have assumed things to be true about people that turn out to be completely false. I remember once thinking a lady was a very unfriendly person because she was brusque to me the first time I spoke with her. We attended classes together and I got to know her better and found that what I took for brusqueness was really nothing more than the fact that she was distracted by something else. She since became a close friend and the last word I would use to describe her is brusque.
This morning I was up in arms because my new internet installer had apparently done something to my computer. Nothing worked properly; the printer had disappeared (well, not actually, it was right her beside me but my computer didn't seem to know that!), programs would not open, the internet was messed up...so I called tech support. I'm sure those people hate me by now. After much rumination, one helpless tech and a second really nice one, we did what I should have done in the first place: reboot the computer. Duh. Problems all vanished. And here I was blaming the installer!
I guess we all have these "duh" moments. Some days they come thick on the heels of each other. Sometimes it's good to stop and think about what we think we know, and be ready to be proven wrong. I don't mind being wrong, but isn't it nice when our correct assumptions outweigh our errors?
Friday, October 28, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Recent Reading
My reading the past few days has been a bit eclectic. Besides reviewing ghost stories for this week's programs, the following have been on my table:
This stack kep me occupied for several hours. These are entries in the local library's Fall writing contest. I am one of the judges so I've enjoyed reading a wide variety of stories and poems.
This little cookbook fell out of the cabinet when I was looking for something else. It's full of old-tim-y recipes, like this one:
That last line would give a cook pause, wouldn't it?
And then there's this, my favorite monthly publication:
Of course, one reason it's my favorite is because I write my column, Granny's Front Porch, for them. Last month's column was about persimmons and included folklore, a story, and other ruminations. Click here to read it. You can subscribe online to Two Lane Livin' too; it's full of articles for those of us who live beyond the interstates.
That's what I've been reading. How about you? Anything interesting on your reading table this week?
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Tuesday's Junking
Don't you love this little dish? This was made by the Hofbauer Crystal Company in Germany. They are no longer in business but they made many bird-themed crystal pieces. This one just sparkles beautifully in the sunlight. I kind of hate to part with it, truthfully, but I don't have room for more glass and I am hoping a bird lover will purchase this one.
These Indiana Glass candle lamps were all the rage in the 60's. This one is clear glass and so pretty when it's got a candle in it.
So that's a little of recent finds. There are many more but I'm sure you;ve had enough by now. And today? Well, I added more to the lot so as soon as my internet is fixed I'll be listing a lot more.
How about you? Any good finds recently?
Monday, October 24, 2011
Ghostly Songs for the Ghostly Season
It's the time for softly haunting old songs, isn't it? The night creeps slowly in, reminding me of this ballad about something else that creeps slowly in:
Sweet William's Ghost (Child Ballad #77)
There came a ghost to Margaret’s door,
With many a grievous groan,
And long he twirled at the pin,
But answer made she none.
‘Is that my father Philip,
Or is’t my brother John?
Or is’t my true-love, Willy,
From Scotland new come home?’
'Tis not thy father Philip,
Nor yet thy brother John;
But ’tis thy true-love, Willy,
From Scotland new come home.
‘O sweet Margret, O dear Margret,
I pray thee speak to me;
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.’
'Thy faith and troth thou’s never get,
Nor yet will I thee lend,
Till that thou come within my bower,
And kiss my cheek and chin.’
‘If I shoud come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man;
And shoud I kiss thy rosy lips,
Thy days will not be lang.
‘O sweet Margret, O dear Margret,
I pray thee speak to me;
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.’
'Thy faith and troth thou’s never get,
Nor yet will I thee lend,
Till you take me to yon kirk,
And wed me with a ring.’
‘My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard,
Afar beyond the sea,
And it is but my spirit, Margret,
That’s now speaking to thee.’
She stretchd out her lilly-white hand,
And, for to do her best,
‘Hae, there’s your faith and troth, Willy,
God send your soul good rest.’
Now she has kilted her robes of green
A piece below her knee,
And a’ the live-lang winter night
The dead corpse followed she.
‘Is there any room at your head, Willy?
Or any room at your feet?
Or any room at your side, Willy,
Wherein that I may creep?’
‘There’s no room at my head, Margret,
There’s no room at my feet;
There’s no room at my side, Margret,
My coffin’s made so meet.’
Then up and crew the red, red cock,
And up then crew the gray:
‘Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret,
That you were going away.’
No more the ghost to Margret said,
But, with a grievous groan,
He vanishd in a cloud of mist,
And left her all alone.
‘O stay, my only true-love, stay,’
The constant Margret cry’d;
Wan grew her cheeks, she closd her een,
Stretchd her soft limbs, and dy’d.
There is another version which I like very well; same story, slightly differently told:
Willie-O
As Mary lay asleeping slowly there came a-creeping
and said so soft and low
Mary dear come open your door
I am your darling Willie-O
So she got up put on her clothing
and opened up her door
and there she saw her true love standing
his face as white as any snow
Willie dear where are your blushes
that I knew some years ago?
Mary dear, the clay has changed them;
I am the ghost of your Willie-O.
They spent the night in deep conversation
about their courtship years ago.
They kissed shook hands and then they parted
just as the cock began to crow.
As they ended their conversation
the tears all down her cheeks did flow.
Mary dear now I must leave you,
for I am the ghost of your Willie-O.
Willie dear when will I see you again?
When the fishes they do fly
and the sea run dry
and the rocks melt in the sun.
Such sad, tender lyrics! There are many other versions of this ballad, and of course many different melodies and titles. That's the fun of ballads, so many choices and ways to sing them.
And for this time of year, so many with a ghostly theme.
Here are some others:
Molly Vaunder: in this ballad, a ghost comes back to save her lover from the scaffold.
The Unquiet Grave: begging a lover to return from the grave doesn't usually have good results.
The Holland Handkerchief: I have found this as both story and ballad; I believe it to be the original vanishing hitchhiker story!
The Cruel Ship's Carpenter: the ghost comes back and revenges her death on her murderer. This is the early basis for Pretty Polly.
And many more! You can find many of this on YouTube. You can also find Pretty Polly and The Cruel Blacksmith, my original ballad based on the story of the Greenbrier Ghost, on my CD Beyond the Grave, available from me or from CD Baby or WV Book Company. And you can also get them as mp3's by clicking here.
Happy listening!
Sweet William's Ghost (Child Ballad #77)
There came a ghost to Margaret’s door,
With many a grievous groan,
And long he twirled at the pin,
But answer made she none.
‘Is that my father Philip,
Or is’t my brother John?
Or is’t my true-love, Willy,
From Scotland new come home?’
'Tis not thy father Philip,
Nor yet thy brother John;
But ’tis thy true-love, Willy,
From Scotland new come home.
‘O sweet Margret, O dear Margret,
I pray thee speak to me;
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.’
'Thy faith and troth thou’s never get,
Nor yet will I thee lend,
Till that thou come within my bower,
And kiss my cheek and chin.’
‘If I shoud come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man;
And shoud I kiss thy rosy lips,
Thy days will not be lang.
‘O sweet Margret, O dear Margret,
I pray thee speak to me;
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.’
'Thy faith and troth thou’s never get,
Nor yet will I thee lend,
Till you take me to yon kirk,
And wed me with a ring.’
‘My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard,
Afar beyond the sea,
And it is but my spirit, Margret,
That’s now speaking to thee.’
She stretchd out her lilly-white hand,
And, for to do her best,
‘Hae, there’s your faith and troth, Willy,
God send your soul good rest.’
Now she has kilted her robes of green
A piece below her knee,
And a’ the live-lang winter night
The dead corpse followed she.
‘Is there any room at your head, Willy?
Or any room at your feet?
Or any room at your side, Willy,
Wherein that I may creep?’
‘There’s no room at my head, Margret,
There’s no room at my feet;
There’s no room at my side, Margret,
My coffin’s made so meet.’
Then up and crew the red, red cock,
And up then crew the gray:
‘Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret,
That you were going away.’
No more the ghost to Margret said,
But, with a grievous groan,
He vanishd in a cloud of mist,
And left her all alone.
‘O stay, my only true-love, stay,’
The constant Margret cry’d;
Wan grew her cheeks, she closd her een,
Stretchd her soft limbs, and dy’d.
There is another version which I like very well; same story, slightly differently told:
Willie-O
As Mary lay asleeping slowly there came a-creeping
and said so soft and low
Mary dear come open your door
I am your darling Willie-O
So she got up put on her clothing
and opened up her door
and there she saw her true love standing
his face as white as any snow
Willie dear where are your blushes
that I knew some years ago?
Mary dear, the clay has changed them;
I am the ghost of your Willie-O.
They spent the night in deep conversation
about their courtship years ago.
They kissed shook hands and then they parted
just as the cock began to crow.
As they ended their conversation
the tears all down her cheeks did flow.
Mary dear now I must leave you,
for I am the ghost of your Willie-O.
Willie dear when will I see you again?
When the fishes they do fly
and the sea run dry
and the rocks melt in the sun.
Such sad, tender lyrics! There are many other versions of this ballad, and of course many different melodies and titles. That's the fun of ballads, so many choices and ways to sing them.
And for this time of year, so many with a ghostly theme.
Here are some others:
Molly Vaunder: in this ballad, a ghost comes back to save her lover from the scaffold.
The Unquiet Grave: begging a lover to return from the grave doesn't usually have good results.
The Holland Handkerchief: I have found this as both story and ballad; I believe it to be the original vanishing hitchhiker story!
The Cruel Ship's Carpenter: the ghost comes back and revenges her death on her murderer. This is the early basis for Pretty Polly.
And many more! You can find many of this on YouTube. You can also find Pretty Polly and The Cruel Blacksmith, my original ballad based on the story of the Greenbrier Ghost, on my CD Beyond the Grave, available from me or from CD Baby or WV Book Company. And you can also get them as mp3's by clicking here.
Happy listening!
Thursday, October 20, 2011
A Storytelling Week
This is a busy week for storytelling. Tuesday evening,s program for little ones kicked it off. YesterdayI presented a talk on storytelling to a high school theater class, contrasting storytelling with acting. Of course I told a few stories too! Tam Lin is a good tale for this age group and I mixed in some sung verses of the ballad with the told story. Rindercella was a good example of a story that must be memorized to learn, siimilar to learning a monologue.vburnt House is ahouse is a good example of a story based in history as well as being. Riveting ghost story. Then last night I met a storytelling friend who is also an enamelist in the Celtic tradition. She lives in Canada so it has been a year since we got together and we talked nonstop. This evening Iwill present another ghost story program. The weekend holds other events.
My internet is down again so I am posting from my phone so please forgive the typos!
My internet is down again so I am posting from my phone so please forgive the typos!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Into the Leaves of Memory
Along the road home
- shuffling through dry leaves that covered sidewalks as I walked to school
- raking huge piles of leaves and then jumping into them until they were reduced to mulch
- or raking the leaves into "rooms" to make a playhouse that provided hours of entertainment
- wandering through the yard collecting pretty colored leaves to dip into wax and put onto a straw wreath for a door decoration
- putting red and yellow leaves between two sheets of wax paper and ironing the paper to preserve the color for a least a little while
- gathering acorns for my mother, who carefully put them into pretty dishes
- looking for wooly worms and predicting the weather by their stripes
- blowing milkweed seeds out of their pods, then bringing the pods inside to make decorations
- looking for ripe persimmons
- searching roadsides for the orange bittersweet berries
- finding my knee socks and cardigan sweaters
- watching shadows stretch across the yards as dusk returned
- gathering clothes from the clothesline in near-darkness as autumns' winds blustered
Further along the road, and closer to home
Monday, October 17, 2011
Corny Cornbread
My corn wasn't really quite dry yet, but granddaughter Grace was visiting and she was so curious about the corn that I decided to try it out. I was curious myself--could I grind corn meal in my blender? I have a Corona Mill, bought in the 1970's when I last grew Bloody Butcher. It has been packed away in the outbuilding ever since, because I knew I would one day want to grow my own corn for meal again.
Grace and I picked a likely looking ear and shelled off about half of the kernels. I do this by rubbing the kernels hard until they work loose. It wasn't as easy as usual because the corn wasn't completely dry and the kernels held to the cob pretty tightly. But in about 3 or 4 minutes we had enough corn to grind. I dumped it into my blender, Grave pushed "puree" and we watched the corn bounce around. This wasn't going to work...or was it? We saw loose powdery stuff begin to fly around in the blender too. I stopped it and shook the blender jar a few times, and after 5 minutes we had corn meal.
This wasn't perfect meal, however--it was more gritty than what you might buy in the store. We forged ahead anyway. I turned the oven on to 400 degrees to preheat.
I tried to sift it but the meal was damp and that didn't work well so we just dumped all of the meal (about one cup) into a bowl, added a cup of self-rising flour and a tablespoon of baking powder, 2 tablespoons of sugar, 2 eggs, and a cup of milk. I heated 2 tablespoons of cooking oil in a cast iron skillet while Grace beat the batter lightly with a fork, just until all the ingredients were moistened and mixed in (about 50 strokes usually). Then we poured the batter into the hot skillet and put the skillet into the oven.
In about 15 minutes we had a nice, browned pan of cornbread. It looked a little different when we cut it though. Uh-oh. Was this going to be edible? And no, it wasn't THAT purple on the left side--the photo came out very oddly, didn't it?
No photo will upload to show the happy faces eating the cornbread (thanks, Blogger!) but it was gone in less time than it took me to write this post. Tasty, with just a few bigger than expected bits, and an interesting color--it really looked like I'd added blueberries to the mix! The guys topped their pieces with butter and honey. I just added butter to my slice--it was delicious.
When the corn is dry I'll be making more, and we'll see how that turns out. As for the blender? I'm not convinced it's any easier than the grinder and I think the blender would wear out a lot sooner from grinding such hard kernels.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Ghost Stories!
Last night was ghost stories night in Sistersville, West Virginia. And what a night it was.
I'd been working on a program to bring to Sistersville as part of the Stories at the River's Edge project. My original plan was to have four tellers in different locations in the town, each telling a ghost story about the area and perhaps another story or two. People could walk from teller to teller to hear the tales, and would end up at the Wells Inn for refreshments and a last story about the hauntings in the Inn.
That plan did not work out. Why? I simply could not find storytellers available! And it turned out for the best anyway as the Wells Inn was booked for a wedding on the same weekend and would have been unavailable to us. I am still planning to do such an event--maybe next year?
Plan B was to have two storytellers to tell ghost stories at the Sistersville Library. A lot simpler to plan! And as it turned out, a very good plan indeed. Storyteller Jason Burns of Morgantown joined me at the library to tell ghost stories from all around West Virginia, with a focus on Tyler County (where Sistersville is located). Jason maintains the website West Virginia Spectral Heritage and has as wealth of knowledge and stories to share (even if he is a young whippersnapper, he knows his stuff!).
Librarian Heather Weekley planned some creepy refreshments like Witch's Fingers and such, and her husband decorated the library. And not simple jack-o-lantern decorations, either. Greg must have a huge personal collection because the library was completely spooky--zombie babies, talking portraits, creepy scarecrows, smoke, strange lights--you name it, he had it. The library looked spectacular--or rather, spooktacular. Granddaughter Grace came with me and took pictures. She's a great roadie to have along.
Jason and I decided to tell our stories in round-robin style-he'd tell one, and I'd follow with another, and so on. This worked very well as we swapped stories back and forth for 90 minutes. And you know, we'd only scratched the surface of the stories we could have told! An audience of about 40 or more people came to listen, mostly adults with 3 young boys and a few teenagers. It was a perfect group for the stories we told.
Sistersville has a colorful history and many stories attached to it. An oil and gas boom town in the early 1900's, the town had its share of violent deaths, drownings in the Ohio River, unexplained events (like a UFO in the early 1900's) and more. It also had more than its share of millionaires as people gained almost instant wealth if a well struck a good vein. Almost 100 oil companies once listed Sistersville as their home location, and at one time the shantyboats of workers were so thick along the shore that you could have walked a mile along the river without ever touch land or water. It's a fascinating place.
And a perfect place for storytelling.
I'd been working on a program to bring to Sistersville as part of the Stories at the River's Edge project. My original plan was to have four tellers in different locations in the town, each telling a ghost story about the area and perhaps another story or two. People could walk from teller to teller to hear the tales, and would end up at the Wells Inn for refreshments and a last story about the hauntings in the Inn.
That plan did not work out. Why? I simply could not find storytellers available! And it turned out for the best anyway as the Wells Inn was booked for a wedding on the same weekend and would have been unavailable to us. I am still planning to do such an event--maybe next year?
Plan B was to have two storytellers to tell ghost stories at the Sistersville Library. A lot simpler to plan! And as it turned out, a very good plan indeed. Storyteller Jason Burns of Morgantown joined me at the library to tell ghost stories from all around West Virginia, with a focus on Tyler County (where Sistersville is located). Jason maintains the website West Virginia Spectral Heritage and has as wealth of knowledge and stories to share (even if he is a young whippersnapper, he knows his stuff!).
Librarian Heather Weekley planned some creepy refreshments like Witch's Fingers and such, and her husband decorated the library. And not simple jack-o-lantern decorations, either. Greg must have a huge personal collection because the library was completely spooky--zombie babies, talking portraits, creepy scarecrows, smoke, strange lights--you name it, he had it. The library looked spectacular--or rather, spooktacular. Granddaughter Grace came with me and took pictures. She's a great roadie to have along.
Jason and I decided to tell our stories in round-robin style-he'd tell one, and I'd follow with another, and so on. This worked very well as we swapped stories back and forth for 90 minutes. And you know, we'd only scratched the surface of the stories we could have told! An audience of about 40 or more people came to listen, mostly adults with 3 young boys and a few teenagers. It was a perfect group for the stories we told.
Sistersville has a colorful history and many stories attached to it. An oil and gas boom town in the early 1900's, the town had its share of violent deaths, drownings in the Ohio River, unexplained events (like a UFO in the early 1900's) and more. It also had more than its share of millionaires as people gained almost instant wealth if a well struck a good vein. Almost 100 oil companies once listed Sistersville as their home location, and at one time the shantyboats of workers were so thick along the shore that you could have walked a mile along the river without ever touch land or water. It's a fascinating place.
And a perfect place for storytelling.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Full, Full Days
Stories, stories, stories. I am wallowing in a richness of stories.
The past two days I was at Jackson's Mill, WV, telling stories to busloads of school children from area elementary schools. I do not have words to describe how it feels to see their eyes intently following the stories, their laughter, their smiles and sighs. And not just the children, but the teachers and bus drivers too.
Storytellers Adam Booth, Ilene Evans, Marc Harshman and I filled the days with stories. Tales of Jack, of Mutsmag, of Tam Lin and more floated on the fall air like the falling leaves of the trees, and were just as full of rich color.
Adam is a young teller, relatively speaking. In this profession many sport gray hair. Adam is not even 30 years old but is one of the fast-rising young stars in storytelling circles. A professor of musicology, he somehow finds time in his schedule to spin some of the best stories I've ever heard. I love to work with him because he is flexible, open to the audience and so joyful in his work.
Ilene Evans has been telling stories for a long time. I was delighted to hear her tell her bilingual story La Hormiguita, the very first story I ever heard from her, this week. Multi-lingual and multi-racial, Ilene is a founder of Voices from the Earth; her current big project is a Civil War saga of an experimental settlement of former slaves during and after the war that set out to prove that blacks could learn quickly and could support themselves and bear arms for their country. It's a huge undertaking and totally fascinating.
Marc Harshman is a children's author with about a dozen titles to his credit. His story called Rocks in My Pockets is one of the finest examples of the mountaineer spirit you are likely to encounter. My favorite book by Marc is called Uncle James, and explores the relationship of a small boy with his alcoholic uncle. It's not for everyone, but I believe it's a necessary, and poignant, story. Marc is a stellar storyteller; his rendition of Mutsmag, the mountain girl who outwits child-eating giants, had the children mesmerized.
And then there was me. Since Adam and Marc did such a great job covering Appalachian tales, I decided to tell some folktales from other world cultures. I started with an Arabic welcome song, done as an echo song so the children sang back each line to me. Then I told a Nazarene story from the mid-East. Nasruddin is a "wise fool" which means he's nobody's fool. I moved on to a song from the Tamil region of India and then to a story from India about how the peacock came to be. From there I told a story from China about how the peacock and the crow got their colors, then went to Scotland to tell the story of Tam Lin in song and narrative--this is a story of a young man bewitched by the fairy queen and how a girl helps him escape the thrall of the queen. It is hands down one of my favorite tales. I ended by bringing the children back home to West Virginia by having them visualize their favorite place in our state, then closing their eyes and imagining that place as I sang a verse from Hazel Dickens' song, West Virginia, My Home.
Ah, what a time it was. Now I am home, catching up on email and Facebook and eBay, and getting ready to leave again tomorrow to do a day of Appalachian stories for a school not too far away. What a life.I love it.
The past two days I was at Jackson's Mill, WV, telling stories to busloads of school children from area elementary schools. I do not have words to describe how it feels to see their eyes intently following the stories, their laughter, their smiles and sighs. And not just the children, but the teachers and bus drivers too.
Storytellers Adam Booth, Ilene Evans, Marc Harshman and I filled the days with stories. Tales of Jack, of Mutsmag, of Tam Lin and more floated on the fall air like the falling leaves of the trees, and were just as full of rich color.
Adam is a young teller, relatively speaking. In this profession many sport gray hair. Adam is not even 30 years old but is one of the fast-rising young stars in storytelling circles. A professor of musicology, he somehow finds time in his schedule to spin some of the best stories I've ever heard. I love to work with him because he is flexible, open to the audience and so joyful in his work.
Ilene Evans has been telling stories for a long time. I was delighted to hear her tell her bilingual story La Hormiguita, the very first story I ever heard from her, this week. Multi-lingual and multi-racial, Ilene is a founder of Voices from the Earth; her current big project is a Civil War saga of an experimental settlement of former slaves during and after the war that set out to prove that blacks could learn quickly and could support themselves and bear arms for their country. It's a huge undertaking and totally fascinating.
Marc Harshman is a children's author with about a dozen titles to his credit. His story called Rocks in My Pockets is one of the finest examples of the mountaineer spirit you are likely to encounter. My favorite book by Marc is called Uncle James, and explores the relationship of a small boy with his alcoholic uncle. It's not for everyone, but I believe it's a necessary, and poignant, story. Marc is a stellar storyteller; his rendition of Mutsmag, the mountain girl who outwits child-eating giants, had the children mesmerized.
And then there was me. Since Adam and Marc did such a great job covering Appalachian tales, I decided to tell some folktales from other world cultures. I started with an Arabic welcome song, done as an echo song so the children sang back each line to me. Then I told a Nazarene story from the mid-East. Nasruddin is a "wise fool" which means he's nobody's fool. I moved on to a song from the Tamil region of India and then to a story from India about how the peacock came to be. From there I told a story from China about how the peacock and the crow got their colors, then went to Scotland to tell the story of Tam Lin in song and narrative--this is a story of a young man bewitched by the fairy queen and how a girl helps him escape the thrall of the queen. It is hands down one of my favorite tales. I ended by bringing the children back home to West Virginia by having them visualize their favorite place in our state, then closing their eyes and imagining that place as I sang a verse from Hazel Dickens' song, West Virginia, My Home.
Ah, what a time it was. Now I am home, catching up on email and Facebook and eBay, and getting ready to leave again tomorrow to do a day of Appalachian stories for a school not too far away. What a life.I love it.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
The Five and Dime
To a kid, it was heaven. A candy counter filled with candy of all kinds, much of it within the budget of a child who relied on cashing in pop bottles for spending money.
Rohr's was about a half a mile from our house, but in the 1950's and early 60's no one thought anything about young children walking that far by themselves. We had a few shortcuts, some that our mother didn't like--through the "colored" neighborhood, and by some low-income apartments. When I type this, I think how odd it sounds today but that was my mother's reality at the time. What is really funny is that we certainly qualified as low income but Mom never saw us that way, and we never felt that way either. Our home was filled with books and records of classical music and popular musicals. The neighborhood was genteel and elderly, with Victorian 4x4 houses lining the street and sporting their gingerbread trim. Everyone had vegetable gardens, fruit trees and flowers, and some had chickens and bees. It was not what you might think of as low income and the neighbors were certainly not. But with 13 children and a lineman's salary, Mom stretched dollars to the breaking point.
Allowances were out of the question. There wasn't enough money for that. So pop bottles it was and we scoured the neighborhood and side streets for gthe precious glass bottles. A bottle was worth 2 cents, and 2 cents could buy 2 pieces of penny candy. Three bottles provided enough for a small bottle of Coke or Pepsi and a piece of candy. Five bottles could buy a pop and a Hershey's bar. Or a pop and a popsicle. Or 10 pieces of penny candy--heaven!
We took our bottles to the local market to cash in. Manassas Market actually delivered groceries back then, in a 1957 Chevy panek truck. The owner, whose name I do not recall, patiently took in or bottles, only objecting to the ones that were muddy or not a brand he could take. Once we had our cash in hand, we walked to Rohr's--it was shopping time.
My favorite kinds of penny candy had to be Kits. Why? Because you got 4 pieces of candy for your penny! Red Licorice whips, jawbreakers and Tootsie Rolls were favorites, too. And of course Double Bubble bubble gum with its comic strip inside. If I was lucky enough to have a dime, the choices were huge. Cracker Jacks and a pop? Twinkies? Candy bars, ice cream, or a little bit of something from the glass cases? A dime could buy a quarter pound of several things--chocolate stars were my favorite.
As I got older I learned that life held something other than candy. For 19 cents I could buy a tiny bottle of perfume called Atom Bomb--and yes, it smelled that strong. I could buy the prettiest hankies for a dime and Tangee lipstick for 39 cents. Pencils, pens, cheap toys, and many other things could be bought for under 20 cents.
I also learned to save at least a little of my precious pennies for Christmas gifts. One year I bought my mother a golden, round glass pitcher for 69 cents. I struggled to buy something for everyone else in the family with the little bit of money I could save. All of my brothers and sisters did the same. The pitcher I bought my mother, I now know, was a pattern called Lido by Anchor Hocking, I believe, and today it sells online for between $10 and $25. Mom was thrilled and astounded that I could afford such a thing. I wonder sometimes if she ever knew how hard we tried to get money and how much we enjoyed buying pretty things for her.
Eventually my sister would work at Rohr's, even behind the candy counter, while she was in school. I was not allowed by my parents to have a job--as the oldest daughter, there were many barriers in my way back in those days. But Judy, only a year and a half younger than me, was able to break some of them down and got her driver's license (another no-no for me) and a job. (Mom, I think, realized that it was helpful to have someone who could drive around--the older brothers were seldom home because they had jobs, and well, they were boys and had a lot more freedom to get out. A each sister reached teen years, the limits softened and they had much more freedom than was allowed to me.)
I do not know if Rohr's Five and Dime still exists, but I kind of doubt it. But the memory of the time I spent walking across its squeaking floors and being amazed at what was within my purchasing power is still strong. I doubt the malls of today provide that same level of excitement as the old five and dimes of my childhood.
Rohr's was about a half a mile from our house, but in the 1950's and early 60's no one thought anything about young children walking that far by themselves. We had a few shortcuts, some that our mother didn't like--through the "colored" neighborhood, and by some low-income apartments. When I type this, I think how odd it sounds today but that was my mother's reality at the time. What is really funny is that we certainly qualified as low income but Mom never saw us that way, and we never felt that way either. Our home was filled with books and records of classical music and popular musicals. The neighborhood was genteel and elderly, with Victorian 4x4 houses lining the street and sporting their gingerbread trim. Everyone had vegetable gardens, fruit trees and flowers, and some had chickens and bees. It was not what you might think of as low income and the neighbors were certainly not. But with 13 children and a lineman's salary, Mom stretched dollars to the breaking point.
Allowances were out of the question. There wasn't enough money for that. So pop bottles it was and we scoured the neighborhood and side streets for gthe precious glass bottles. A bottle was worth 2 cents, and 2 cents could buy 2 pieces of penny candy. Three bottles provided enough for a small bottle of Coke or Pepsi and a piece of candy. Five bottles could buy a pop and a Hershey's bar. Or a pop and a popsicle. Or 10 pieces of penny candy--heaven!
We took our bottles to the local market to cash in. Manassas Market actually delivered groceries back then, in a 1957 Chevy panek truck. The owner, whose name I do not recall, patiently took in or bottles, only objecting to the ones that were muddy or not a brand he could take. Once we had our cash in hand, we walked to Rohr's--it was shopping time.
My favorite kinds of penny candy had to be Kits. Why? Because you got 4 pieces of candy for your penny! Red Licorice whips, jawbreakers and Tootsie Rolls were favorites, too. And of course Double Bubble bubble gum with its comic strip inside. If I was lucky enough to have a dime, the choices were huge. Cracker Jacks and a pop? Twinkies? Candy bars, ice cream, or a little bit of something from the glass cases? A dime could buy a quarter pound of several things--chocolate stars were my favorite.
As I got older I learned that life held something other than candy. For 19 cents I could buy a tiny bottle of perfume called Atom Bomb--and yes, it smelled that strong. I could buy the prettiest hankies for a dime and Tangee lipstick for 39 cents. Pencils, pens, cheap toys, and many other things could be bought for under 20 cents.
I also learned to save at least a little of my precious pennies for Christmas gifts. One year I bought my mother a golden, round glass pitcher for 69 cents. I struggled to buy something for everyone else in the family with the little bit of money I could save. All of my brothers and sisters did the same. The pitcher I bought my mother, I now know, was a pattern called Lido by Anchor Hocking, I believe, and today it sells online for between $10 and $25. Mom was thrilled and astounded that I could afford such a thing. I wonder sometimes if she ever knew how hard we tried to get money and how much we enjoyed buying pretty things for her.
Eventually my sister would work at Rohr's, even behind the candy counter, while she was in school. I was not allowed by my parents to have a job--as the oldest daughter, there were many barriers in my way back in those days. But Judy, only a year and a half younger than me, was able to break some of them down and got her driver's license (another no-no for me) and a job. (Mom, I think, realized that it was helpful to have someone who could drive around--the older brothers were seldom home because they had jobs, and well, they were boys and had a lot more freedom to get out. A each sister reached teen years, the limits softened and they had much more freedom than was allowed to me.)
I do not know if Rohr's Five and Dime still exists, but I kind of doubt it. But the memory of the time I spent walking across its squeaking floors and being amazed at what was within my purchasing power is still strong. I doubt the malls of today provide that same level of excitement as the old five and dimes of my childhood.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
On the Road Again
This is going to be a busy week of storytelling. I'm leaving today for beautiful Jackson's Mill, near Weston, WV, to be a teller for the West Virginia Storytelling Festival for the next two days. It's a beautiful setting and many school bus children to the event to listen to the tales. I can't wait to get started? What will I tell? Well, I have a lovely long list of ideas. We'll see which ones come to the front. Appalachian? World folktales? Family stories? No ghost stories, though--they're not allowed at this event. But songs? Definitely at least one!
Then Friday I will be telling stories at a school not far from home, and on Saturday night I'll be in beautiful Sistersville, WV to tell ghost stories with Jason Burns, the creator of the West Virginia Spectral Heritage website. The library is hosting us. Should be an outstanding evening, with creepy decorations provided by the library staff and refreshments too.
Looks like a fun week. I hope to see some of you along the way.
Then Friday I will be telling stories at a school not far from home, and on Saturday night I'll be in beautiful Sistersville, WV to tell ghost stories with Jason Burns, the creator of the West Virginia Spectral Heritage website. The library is hosting us. Should be an outstanding evening, with creepy decorations provided by the library staff and refreshments too.
Looks like a fun week. I hope to see some of you along the way.
Homestead
I spotted this old homeplace as we were driving back road on Saturday. I liked the footbridge across the creek, leading to the barns and fields. It made me wonder who had lived there. Can you see a tow-headed boy with a bucket and wearing bib overalls crossing that bridge with the morning sun slanting in as it is in this photo? Maybe he's going to milk, or to feed the hogs or gather eggs from the henhouse. Although that last might have been considered "girl's work" in his time. 
I wonder where their garden was--perhaps behind the house? There must be a cellarhouse somewhere too.
The smaller building is built of logs--perhaps this was the chicken house. The logs provide good ventilation as well as shelter from varmints that enjoy a tasty hen. The leaves, as you can see, were just beginning to turn on Saturday, but today they are coming into full color and this scene probably looks a lot different now, with bright golds and red coloring the trees. 
Monday, October 10, 2011
Making Pear Cider With Help from Tillie
Larry got the equipment set up while I rounded up jars and got things ready in the house. Tillie was excited by all the hubbub and helped by being completely underfoot the entire time.
This year I brought the cider inside, heated it to boiling, poured it into canning jars and then processed it in the water bath canner for 10 minutes. We decided last year that we prefer the canned cider--so much easier to use that way. No added sugar, no added anything--just juiced pears. That's the best part of cider--100% natural.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Vintage Thursday: The Morse Code Board
At home, I looked at the board again, and the signature. Jan Fleck. Who was Jan Fleck, I wondered? I typed the name into Google and added woodburning to the search. There seemed to be two Jan Flecks, an artist in Louisville, Kentucky and a rocker in Europe. I clicked on the artist.
This Jan Fleck, I found, worked with her husband Mel to create beautifully intricate Egyptian-themed art using metal etching to create acid prints which we then hand-colored. There was a telephone number listed so I called and left a message, feeling fairly certain that this could not be the same person--and yet metal etching and woodburning were similar, so maybe...
My phone rang later in the afternoon. It was Mel Fleck and he told me that yes, the Morse Code was a piece by his wife, made probably in the early 70's when she was just beginning her art career. He said that a descendant of Samuel Morse, the creator of the code, had purchased one of the board from Jan years ago, and that she sold others at art shows in various places. How did this one end up in a yard sale in West Virginia, I wondered? Mel told me that one of the shows at which they exhibited was in Myrtle Beach--West Virginia's #1 vacation location. I am sure that is where the piece was purchased.
The Flecks developed an interest in Egyptian art and learned to create pieces together, with Jan doing the etching and Mel working with inks' both did the hand-coloring. Jan Fleck passed away in 2008, but Mel Fleck continues to tour the art circuit and still creates new pieces.
"So what you have is an early Jan Fleck," Mel told me. I offered to return the piece to him, but he said he had several; he was just pleased to know I had found this one and had followed up on the signature.
I think I'll be keeping this little piece of art. Thank you, Mel Fleck for helping me solve the mystery of its origin.
I'm linking up today with Colorado Lady's Vintage Thingies Thursday. Stop by her place to see all sorts of fun vintage items and links to other blogs.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Junking and Found Treasure
A Facebook notification told me there would be a giant yard sale yesterday. On Monday? I don't know about where you live, but here that's pretty rare. Rain threatened again yesterday morning but I was up and out anyway, anxious to be at the sale at the start. You know how these things are, if you're into yard sales. The good things go fast and early.
It was worth the early start. Tables were loaded with items of all description. Men were stirring kettles of apple butter and vegetable soup. There was a table of baked goods and there were plenty of happy, helpful workers ready to hand out bags or boxes. I grabbed a box and started loading it up. Here's a sample of what I found:
It's hard to see in those boxes, isn't it? That large fan thingy is made of some sort of plastic--but can't you see it painted white? I'll spray it and then put it in eBay.
Here's a better look at some things that are hidden from view:
These wood canisters are in pretty good condition, they just need cleaning up. The McCoy planter on top of them has a crack in it unfortunately, but is still pretty.
A mug that says "100% Buckeye" on the bottom (need to look that up), a gilt mirror tray, a pale green Anchor Hocking jar, and best find of this lot--a Roseville planter in perfect condition. The tapestry runner was also part of the finds.
Blue Bubble plates, copper-colored aluminum sugar and creamer and a Buckeye root beer mug
Gold ceramic ducks, green planters, brass candlesticks, salt cellars, tulip lamp
Wicker mirror with a storage basket beneath, and a tin tray made in South Africa
Little made-in-Japan lamp (no, I didn't pay $1 for it) and a wood spice rack minus bottles, along with a wood-burned Morse code (more about that tomorrow).
A lovely handpainted Japanese-made tea set complete with china tray, but missing one lid (I think I can find a replacement)
Refrigerator container lids, a funny fish plate an old white ceramic doorknob complete with dirt and vintage salt and pepper shakers that about as old as I am.
Wood candlebra set. They are for hanging on the wall, but I kinda like them put together like this. Painted, these would be very cool.
And a cute yellow and white wood chair that I believe is pretty old under that paint.
That's just some of what I brought home. Now to the real work: cleaning it all up, looking it up and listing it on eBay.
It was worth the early start. Tables were loaded with items of all description. Men were stirring kettles of apple butter and vegetable soup. There was a table of baked goods and there were plenty of happy, helpful workers ready to hand out bags or boxes. I grabbed a box and started loading it up. Here's a sample of what I found:
Here's a better look at some things that are hidden from view:
These wood canisters are in pretty good condition, they just need cleaning up. The McCoy planter on top of them has a crack in it unfortunately, but is still pretty.
A mug that says "100% Buckeye" on the bottom (need to look that up), a gilt mirror tray, a pale green Anchor Hocking jar, and best find of this lot--a Roseville planter in perfect condition. The tapestry runner was also part of the finds.
Refrigerator container lids, a funny fish plate an old white ceramic doorknob complete with dirt and vintage salt and pepper shakers that about as old as I am.
Wood candlebra set. They are for hanging on the wall, but I kinda like them put together like this. Painted, these would be very cool.
That's just some of what I brought home. Now to the real work: cleaning it all up, looking it up and listing it on eBay.
The Waver
He was always there, sitting on his porch and waving at every car that passed.
His house wasn't much, a small one-story place with a cobbled addition that was beginning to sag. The roof on the house was rusty and the place needed paint. He kept his yard moved though; it was just a little patch because his house was so close to the road, and the hill dropped off steeply behind. The outbuildings long ago gave up the battle to encroaching vines and were buried in green graves.
We drove by his place every now and then, on our way to the Ohio side of the river. We looked for him automatically, as one does at a familiar fixture, a landmark along a path. He wore a cloth ball cap and gray work clothes, adding a lined denim jacket in cooler weather. Only in winter would the waver be absent but we waved anyway, certain that he was watching from a window, snug inside his home.
One bright sunny day he wasn't there. The porch looked odd, as if one of its supports had suddenly disappeared. His chair was still there, its wooden slat-bottom showing the wear of years. But the waver was nowhere in sight.
He never returned. Heavy winter snows collapsed the porch. someone strung a high tensile electric fence across the front of the yard and the briars and vines crept into the grass. Windows broke, probably by vandals. The addition lost siding. Vines crawled up to the roof.
Who was he? I suppose I will never know his name, and I don't need to. Where did he go? I will never know that either. But I think of him whenever I pass his former home, remember his hand raising to one and all, creating a bright spot in the day with his simple greeting.
Raising my hand to you, my friends, as you pass by today.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Home Again and Reflections on the Past
The drive home today was beautiful--a wild, windy, rainy cold October day that felt like late November. These mountains can be at their loveliest at such times, with fog hanging on the mountaintops and the creeks and rivers running full. I took no photos because I was focused on getting home this time, but I think you can see these hills in your minds, in their spooky October guise of mist, fog, half-naked trees and shadows of the past clinging to barns and roadsides.
Black walnuts are dropping everywhere, all that good nut protein going to waste in most cases. We have some picked up in feed sacks, and some in the driveway to be run over so the hulls come off. But so many go to waste. In years past a hulling machine would come to each county and set up for a few days. It was an opportunity for children and retired folks to make a little money, picking up the walnuts and hauling them to the hulling station. Roane County began their Black Walnut Festival to celebrate the arrival of the hulling machine, but now the festival lives on even though the machines stopped coming some 15 or 20 years ago.
It's odd how some things disappear, like the hulling tradition. We scarcely note their passing until one day we realize with a jerk that something special has passed out of our lives. Like the molasses cooking that used to be a regular part of the fall traditions in this area. Calhoun County, WV has always had a molasses festival but how long will molasses cooking remain part of it? The cooking relies on people growing sorghum and hauling it in for pressing and cooking. How many people still grow it? I think this tradition may soon become a thing of the past, sadly. Next year I hope to grow some sorghum and take it to the festival to be cooked into molasses. We used to grow it when our sons were young; now we're retired, maybe we'll have time for this labor-intensive crop again.
Putting up hay used to be different too. When we moved here everyone used square balers, the "newest thing" after pitchforks and horses. Now the round balers are the popular thing and kids have lost another income opportunity. Square baling required hands to pick up the bales and stack them in the barns. Round bales can be left in the field and require no one to do anything except drive the tractor and baler across the field.
I remember days of driving our truck across our steep ridge meadow. The 4-wheel-drive pickup would be in "low-low" ( low gear, and low range on the 4WD) and it would crawl across the hill. I'd have to hold onto the door to keep from sliding across the seat because the truck would be at 45-degree angle as it crept across the hillside. It would go forward 3 feet, slip downhill 1 foot. It was a physics lesson, really, in gravity and motion because if the truck stopped? I shudder to think where it might have ended up. But I was young and confident and didn't consider the danger then.
Some of our boys would be in the field, grabbing bales by the strings and throwing them up on the truck to another son who would stack them carefully, again obeying physics so that the load stayed on the truck and didn't tumble down the hill. Of course, when we drove out of the meadow and down the driveway the load might shift and bales fall off, along with a couple of the boys riding on top. They were so tough and nimble they would roll right off and miraculously no one ever got hurt.
Now that meadow is growing up in weeds because I do not want Larry or anyone else to endanger themselves that way. Such steep land should really be forested, not cleared and planted in hay. The meadow was a remainder from the past days of farming in this county when almost all the land was cleared for meadow or pasture. Those old-timers didn't know about erosion or conservation; we know now, but it's hard to let land just go when it's been cleared.
Times change; we change. And yet there are times when I want change to slow down, even pass me by so that these times and these ways remain frozen in place and in memory.
Black walnuts are dropping everywhere, all that good nut protein going to waste in most cases. We have some picked up in feed sacks, and some in the driveway to be run over so the hulls come off. But so many go to waste. In years past a hulling machine would come to each county and set up for a few days. It was an opportunity for children and retired folks to make a little money, picking up the walnuts and hauling them to the hulling station. Roane County began their Black Walnut Festival to celebrate the arrival of the hulling machine, but now the festival lives on even though the machines stopped coming some 15 or 20 years ago.
It's odd how some things disappear, like the hulling tradition. We scarcely note their passing until one day we realize with a jerk that something special has passed out of our lives. Like the molasses cooking that used to be a regular part of the fall traditions in this area. Calhoun County, WV has always had a molasses festival but how long will molasses cooking remain part of it? The cooking relies on people growing sorghum and hauling it in for pressing and cooking. How many people still grow it? I think this tradition may soon become a thing of the past, sadly. Next year I hope to grow some sorghum and take it to the festival to be cooked into molasses. We used to grow it when our sons were young; now we're retired, maybe we'll have time for this labor-intensive crop again.
Putting up hay used to be different too. When we moved here everyone used square balers, the "newest thing" after pitchforks and horses. Now the round balers are the popular thing and kids have lost another income opportunity. Square baling required hands to pick up the bales and stack them in the barns. Round bales can be left in the field and require no one to do anything except drive the tractor and baler across the field.
I remember days of driving our truck across our steep ridge meadow. The 4-wheel-drive pickup would be in "low-low" ( low gear, and low range on the 4WD) and it would crawl across the hill. I'd have to hold onto the door to keep from sliding across the seat because the truck would be at 45-degree angle as it crept across the hillside. It would go forward 3 feet, slip downhill 1 foot. It was a physics lesson, really, in gravity and motion because if the truck stopped? I shudder to think where it might have ended up. But I was young and confident and didn't consider the danger then.
Some of our boys would be in the field, grabbing bales by the strings and throwing them up on the truck to another son who would stack them carefully, again obeying physics so that the load stayed on the truck and didn't tumble down the hill. Of course, when we drove out of the meadow and down the driveway the load might shift and bales fall off, along with a couple of the boys riding on top. They were so tough and nimble they would roll right off and miraculously no one ever got hurt.
Now that meadow is growing up in weeds because I do not want Larry or anyone else to endanger themselves that way. Such steep land should really be forested, not cleared and planted in hay. The meadow was a remainder from the past days of farming in this county when almost all the land was cleared for meadow or pasture. Those old-timers didn't know about erosion or conservation; we know now, but it's hard to let land just go when it's been cleared.
Times change; we change. And yet there are times when I want change to slow down, even pass me by so that these times and these ways remain frozen in place and in memory.
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