Storytellers Christmas: Let's Have an Adventure!

And so we end our Storytellers Christmas with one last tale of adventure-filled Christmas travel. This series has been an adventurous ride indeed, from stories of Bethlehem to family memories and even a few folktales in the mix. Blessings to all my friends out there who have followed along, left comments and celebrated the season with us. Merry Christmas to every one of you!

 Let’s Have an Adventure!

                                                                   Lynn Ruehlmann

                                                      

Every year before my two children went back to school after the holidays, I made sure they wrote thank you notes for gifts.   They were allowed to draw a picture instead of writing.  Then one year I got to thinking how sweet it would be if we had a family record of these holidays.  So I added another element.  They could pick anything about the holidays—something we’d done together, a gift that they especially enjoyed, anything they found memorable—and either write or draw about that as well.

One year we were going to visit family in Rhode Island.  It’s about a 10 hour drive from our home in Virginia to Rhode Island by car.  That year my husband and I thought it’d be fun to take the train instead.   It wouldn’t save us any time, but we wouldn’t have to fight holiday traffic, and the kids would experience a train trip.    It’d be an adventure!

 The night before we left there was an unusually fierce snow and ice storm.  But we were going to spend the day on a train—how much better it would be than driving!  We boarded the train, equipped with food and games and books.  The snow sparkled through the dim early-morning light.  It was a delight because where we live on the coast of Virginia we rarely have snow for Christmas.  All was festive.  That is, it was until our train began stopping and starting and stopping and starting in places that were not stations.  It turned out that during the storm the night before, trees had fallen all along the tracks.  Every time we came to one, our conductors had to get off the train to cut limbs and remove trees before the train could proceed!

And then we arrived in Richmond—still not that far from home--where we stopped midway across a trestle bridge.  We peered out the windows.  The problem couldn’t be trees.  There was nothing on either side of the train but empty air.  Far underneath us was a car dump.

picture by one of Lynn's children of the "big adventure"

It took quite awhile before conductors came through to let us know that the tracks were covered in ice, and the wheels of the train had slipped from their grooves.  We needed to wait for a handcar to come and put things right.   Needless to say, no could get off the train.  There would be no where to step except into empty space. 

We waited.  Children and adults on the packed train grew restless.  The food we’d brought with us ran out.  Train food ran out.  Restrooms became unusable.

I tried to counter child complaints by enthusing, “What an adventure we’re having!”

The handcar arrived, and still we waited and waited.  Then the conductors slunk through the cars again, their faces pinched.  The wheels of the handcar had slipped off the track.  We had to wait for a second handcar to come rescue the first handcar.

Our adventure grew longer by hours.      

Finally, the train was set free and we were off.  When we arrived in Washington, DC, still far, far from our destination, conductors said we shouldn’t get off the train because we weren’t staying long and they wouldn’t wait for anyone.  One desperate fellow-passenger Dad from the other end of our car got off anyway.  We watched in awe as he wove through the crowd at the station and disappeared.   We held our breaths for him.   Just at the very last possible moment--we could hear the train’s engine--he reappeared and hopped back on the train just before it started moving.

His arms were piled high with bags of fast food.  His children were ecstatic!  And then he came down the car, told us that when he’d gotten to the fast food window, he’d plunked down money and said, “Give me anything!  Give me everything this money will buy.”

And then he gave our kids bags of food.  We were as astounded and overjoyed as our children!  He wouldn’t even take any money from us.   Christmas had come early!

We arrived in Rhode Island late that night.  The trip had taken twice the normal length of time, but we all surely had a story to tell.  Ever since then, my children have delighted in teasing me by referring to all iffy experiences as, “Let’s have an adventure!”

About Lynn, from her website:

There once was a girl whose parents named her Lynn, another word for "cascade." She loved to watch people; she loved to lose herself in stories. As years passed, she studied literature and psychology, she played with paints and crafts, and she practiced music and theater. She loved them all, but most of all, she loved stories. As time went by she connected all the things she loved and found that it was called "storytelling." And so she tells cascading stories.

Lynn lives in Virginia but happily travels anywhere for storytelling. She performs a wide range of programs and stories. Some are designed for adult interests; some address student curriculum needs; and some are family friendly entertainment. 

Contact Lynn at: 

      lynn@cascadingstories.com

      www.cascadingstories.com

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Storytellers Christmas: Christmas Baby, 1961

Good Christmas morning to you! 

The day has dawned, a day of birth, renewal, hope and joy. This morning storyteller Megan Hicks brings us a story of another child, and it's a tale to bring tears to your eyes and joy to your heart.

This afternoon, come back for our last story of the series, a tale from Lynn Ruehlmann of Virginia about a family adventure and the kindness of a stranger on Christmas day when she was a young mother.  

And now for our story.

___________________________________________________

Christmas Baby — 1961


by 
Megan Hicks 

1961 was a year you could turn upside down, and it would still read “1961.” It was the year my status as “baby of the family” was turned upside down. At the age of eleven, I became a big sister.

My mom and dad decided to adopt a baby from Korea. My new sister would be delivered, along with about forty other new adoptees, on December 17 at the San Francisco International Airport. I was getting a baby sister for Christmas!

I was really excited. But I was also pretty anxious. I had gotten babies for Christmas before, and it had never ended well.

My first Christmas baby was Raggedy Ann, when I was four years old and we lived in Riverton, Wyoming. I loved Raggedy Ann. Her bright-eyed expression seemed to say, “Let’s have an adventure!” And that little heart hidden under her pinafore — “I love you” — charmed me. For the first couple of weeks, Raggedy Ann and I were inseparable.

One January morning I took her outside to play in the back yard. When Mom called me in for lunch, I ran indoors, but I forget to bring Raggedy Ann. By the time I woke up from my afternoon nap, she was buried under six inches of fresh snow. “Out of sight, out of mind.” When the snow finally melted, there she was, sodden and dingy, lying in the slush. Mom ran her through the washer a couple of times, but Raggedy Ann never fully recovered, and after that it was never the same between us. I let her sink to the bottom of the toy box, and that’s where she stayed.

My next Christmas baby came the following year. It was a Ginny doll, created to resemble a real little girl. She wore a little plaid pleated skirt and a blouse with puffy sleeves; her shoes were black patent Mary Janes; and — best of all — she had real hair, braided in pigtails. 

Before Christmas dinner was even on the table, I was busy restyling my Ginny doll’s hair. But when I unbraided the pigtails her hair went “sproing!” into a headful of frizz that I could not get a comb through. I figured she could do with a trim. So I got my mom’s scissors and ... by the time I was finished Ginny was bald and hopelessly ugly. She joined Raggedy Ann, forgotten at the bottom of the toy box.

It was a couple of years before I got another Christmas baby. When I was almost eight years old, Betsy Wetsy was born. There she was, on TV, being fed her bottle by a pretty little girl in a clean party dress. Betsy Wetsy came with a doll-sized baby bottle, a doll-sized receiving blanket, and two doll-sized diapers. She had a little round hole in the middle of her mouth, where you fed her; and a little hole in the middle of her bottom, where she would pee on you.

I liked the feeding part. But Betsy Wetsy’s little flannel diapers did not absorb much, and I found the peeing part cold and uncomfortable. I don’t know why, but I decided to put milk in the little toy bottle. Of course, she curdled; and before New Year’s Day, Betsy Wetsy ended up at the curb.

After that, there were no more Christmas babies. Until now — December 17, 1961.

Here I was, eleven years old, on the verge of becoming a big sister, and I had blown all my chances to learn about taking care of babies.

Walking from the parking lot into the airport, I thought, What if I drop her? What if I trip and fall on top of her and smash her? What if I let her stroller roll into traffic? What if I forget I’m babysitting her and I go outside to ride my bike?


We found our way through the airport to a lounge where about fifty other people — all grownups — waited to meet their babies. It was standing room only. I looked up into a landscape of shoulders and earlobes. 

After an interminable wait, a man with a clipboard stepped through a door at the back of the room, followed by a nurse who carried a white flannel bundle. Everybody got really, really still. The man called out somebody's last name. From the back of the room we heard, “Oh! That's us.” And a woman came forward to claim her baby. 

I thought, look at that woman’s confidence! Are people born that way, or is it just something that happens after years and years?

One by one, those white bundles were brought through the door. One by one, they were placed into the arms of a smiling (competent!) parent.

And then the man with clipboard called out, “Hicks!”

I jolted to attention. That particular white flannel bundle was my baby sister! That one was coming home with us!

I don’t know what came over me in that instant. Something took charge of my feet. Something filled my heart with … what? … Confidence? Authority? I didn’t ask if it was okay, I didn’t even look at my mom and dad. I just plowed through that landscape of grownups and held out my arms.

“That’s my sister!” I said, and the nurse handed me that bundle.

To this day, I carry the body memory of what it felt like — the weight of my baby sister coming to rest in the crook of my elbow, solid, safe. In that moment, I felt rooted and steady.

She slept through all this excitement. Tiny, skinny, pallid. Just getting over chickenpox, she was all scabs. Her hair was matted and greasy looking. She smelled awful. I thought, This baby’s going to pee on me any minute. 

I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and I couldn’t quit smiling. I was in love. And I knew that this wasn’t just another Christmas baby. I was holding my little sister. She and I — we were in it together. For the long haul.

                                     written draft, December 16, 2015 

Megan and her sister Keun, 2011

About Megan: 

Megan has earned an enviable reputation as a professional storyteller. She was featured as a New Voice at the National Storytelling Festival in 2011, and her credits range from small venues in rural America, to regional stages throughout the United States, and international programs on three continents.

Her awards include a Parents' Choice® Silver for the CD, "What Was Civil About That War…" which was also a 2005 Finalist for an Audies® award in the category of Best Original Work. She received the Parents' Guide to Children's Media Award for "Groundhogs Meet Grimm," a collection of her original parodies that was also tapped for Honors by NAPPA.

Megan is a sought-after workshop presenter and seminar leader, with credits at Florida StoryCamp, the Northlands Storytelling Conference, Sharing the Fire, the National Storytelling Conference, the Virginia Library Association, and ElderStudy, among others.

Contact information:
Email megan@meganhicks.com
Phone: 540-371-6775
Webpage: Meganhicks.com

Storytellers Christmas: Two Short Tales

The day is passing quickly, isn't it? Since our time this afternoon will be limited and probably very busy, here are a few short stories for this Christmas Eve evening.

Storyteller Mary Garrett tells a family memory:

The Truth

Mary Garrett's nieces and nephews
from about the time this story happened

Listening to Michael Lockett's Christmas from the Heart CD, I remembered a family tale.  

Great-nephew Stephen was told by older kids that there was no Santa, and his mom had given him the "spirit of Santa lives in your heart" talk, but my mom and I could tell he wasn't ready to give it up.  On Christmas Eve the local newscast announce some special interviews at the airport, and I got the VCR going in time to catch passengers saying that on their way from Minneapolis they had seen a sleigh pulled by reindeer and a driver in a red suit.  

I took it to Stephen’s house, put it in the VCR and pushed play

"Minneapolis is north, like the North Pole.  There IS a Santa!"  Stephen shouted.

Yes, yes, there is. 

Mary shared a few other favorites:

Reading "The Night Before Christmas" was a favorite when the nieces and nephews were small, and one fall I put some "down of a thistle" in a baby food jar, to show just what that is.

I love telling Chuck Larkin's "The First Christmas Gift" for its spirit of giving, and to remember Chuck.  I have a little sheep toy from England to hold if it's with me.  http://www.chucklarkin.com/stories/Christmas_1.pdf

"Santa's Noisy House" is a variation on the Jewish "It Could Be Worse" tale.  I first heard it told by a Jewish teller at a Christmas gingerbread house event.  http://www.story-lovers.com/listsnoisyhousestories.html shows my version and Marilyn's as well. ;-)

I sometimes tell  Pandora's story, emphasizing the "Do not open" aspect as a connection and Persephone for the connection to winter.

And I read I. B. Singer's "A Parakeet Named Dreidel" with students, to round out the season of holidays. 

 ____________________________________________________ 

Mary Garrett, writer and storyteller, tells folk tales, humorous tales and personal stories.  She shared stories with her students at Francis Howell North High School and has since told at the Kansas City Storytelling Celebration, Texas, Timpanogos (Utah), O.O.P.S. (Ohio), and NSN (national) conferences, the St. Louis and St. Charles Storytelling Festivals, the Greater St. Louis Renaissance Faire, day care centers, parks, scout events, elementary through high schools, and retirement communities.

John Fussner, Mary’s father, was the first storyteller in her life. She credits him with instilling the love of make-believe. Mary believes in the world of story and the power of story to make this world a better place. 

Read more about Mary at http://www.storytellermary.com/ and order her CDs at: 

Frog & Friends and Courage and Wisdom CDs
http://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/mary-garrett/id344525632 

Melanie Pratt, a storyteller from the Columbus, Ohio area, shares the following experience:

I was telling Christmas stories in an Alzheimer's unit of a local nursing home. About 20 residents attended, plus a couple of nurses. I told one of my favorites, "Cat on the Dovrefell" first, followed by several more tales (totaling about 35 minutes). One lady sat there quietly throughout the entire program, not smiling, not moving a muscle. 

When I finished telling, I asked if anyone had any recollections from their childhood, as several of the patients who were listening to the stories were fairly lucid. The silent lady spoke up and told me that her parents were born in Denmark, and this was a tale her mother told her and her siblings every Christmas. 

Our conversation, which she had initiated, lasted about 5 or 6 minutes. As I was leaving the Alzheimer's wing, a nurse expressed her surprise at my conversation with the patient. 

"She's been a resident for two years or more," the nurse said. "As far as we could tell, she was unable to speak anymore. That's what we were told when she was checked in by her family."

The power of story!

A bit about Melanie:

"I've been telling since 1986. It was in 1990 that my interest in the Celtic tales started when Terry Jaworski (my Significant Other) asked me about my heritage and stories. He, being 2nd generation American of Danish and Polish Ancestry, sparked my interest. I then was determined to find a Christmas story from either Denmark or Poland. It has become one of my favorite tales.

I love telling tales of the Celtic nations, they are varied, they are fun, my favorites are from Scotland, but being an eclectic teller, I will tell tales from all over the world that tickle my fancy."

Email Melanie at seanachiemelanie@twc.com. 

Phone: 614-596-7487

Online at the Ohio Order for the Preservation of Storytelling webpage

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Storytellers Christmas: Bride at the Inn

Christmas Eve dawns. The day of much activity--cooking baking, visiting, gifting, and for many church services. Let's start this day quietly, with a family story combined with a tale from days of old from Pittsburgh area storyteller Barra the Bard. 

Later this afternoon we'll have two short stories from more storytelling friends as this series nears its end. Christmas Day will feature stories from two more great storytellers, so do stop by for a fine addition to your Merry Christmas!

Bride at the Inn

Barra the Bard

This Highland Scottish tale was told to me by my granny, who learned it from her granny, Catriona MacNeill Ellison of the Isle of Barra. Bride is the Scottish equivalent of Bridget, but is pronounced “Breed.”

          When I was six-and-a-half and we moved to Mountain Avenue in Hackettstown, New Jersey, we began going to the First Presbyterian church. My father didn’t really care what church it was so long as it wasn’t Catholic (a prejudice he inherited from his father but really didn’t pass on to his children), and he and Mother liked the minister—who left after a year. Mother joined the Senior Choir, and would later be a Deaconess.  Daddy would be a Trustee and a member of the Session. Jeff reluctantly went to Sunday School for a short time and then rebelled. Not only did I go to Sunday School for several years, I joined the Cherub Choir. That meant going to rehearsals every Friday after school, and one Sunday a month rushing from Sunday School to the curtained space behind the balcony to put on a long blue skirt, a white billowy surplice with a scratchy stiff paper collar over a big black silky bow. We would process down the twisty stairs on each side, then down the aisle to the front pew; partway through the service, we would get up on blue wooden steps in front of the Communion Table and sing our song. I was the littlest Cherub; later I would progress through the Junior and Youth Choirs and finally reach the Senior Choir the times I dropped out of college.

            That first year, the church decided to have a Christmas Pageant. We were told about this in Sunday School, and when auditions would be held.

I went, and blithely told Mrs. Whitehead that I wanted to be Bride, pronouncing it “Breed.” Mrs. Whitehead looked blank, and I said impatiently, “You know, Baby Jesus’ foster-mother. She helped him be born of his mother Mary. She was the midwife, the knee-woman. And she had golden hair,” I added as the clincher (I had long reddish-golden curls at that point). If I had known that the Irish call her St. Bridget, I would have said that too. Seeing no comprehension in her face, I said, “St. Bride is the patron saint of midwives and young mothers and children, and of flocks and herds.” That did it—no Presbyterian Church in the 1950s was going to have a Papist saint they had never heard of in their Christmas Pageant! I was sent home in disgrace. 

So I sang as a Cherub, for that occasion seated in the Choir Loft behind the pulpit. I remember the dress rehearsal in the chilly church, watching the costumed big kids being shepherds and wise men and Mary (dark-haired, chosen for her ability to kneel motionless for a long time) and Joseph and a blond angel. Thanks to the fact that all the lights were off except under the balcony and at the Choir Loft, the sanctuary seemed very large and shadowy, the lighted horseshoe-shaped space near the back under the balcony very small and faraway. 

I had my first sense of …numinous presence, and reconciled myself to no one there understanding about Bride as I told the story over to myself, hearing Granny’s soft Hebridean burr in my head:

Bride was a young girl from a large family, and when she got old enough, she decided to go to work to help out. Nobody needed her in her own village, so she set off walking and seeking. She came down out of the hills above a town, and came to an inn. It was small, there were weeds growing in the flower-beds, and the door needed to be painted. A man was sitting mending some harness near the cave that served as a stable, with a well-made wee cart outside.

When she asked him for work, the man laughed. His name was Moise, he said, and no one ever stayed at his inn. He had inherited it from his parents, and when his mother was on her deathbed, she had had a vision that one day it would be visited by the greatest of all kings. She had made him promise not to sell it until after that, but he actually made his living as a carter, going around the countryside delivering goods for people with his donkey and cart.

Bride loved the look of the inn; or rather, she loved the look she knew it could have, with a little help, and she liked the look of Moise, who had kind eyes. So she got him to agree to a bargain: she would stay for a while, for her food and bed, and see could she make the place do better.

That very day, she began to sweep and clean. By the end of the week, she had weeded the flower-beds and started a garden, and gotten Moise to paint the door. In two weeks, she had befriended neighbor children who liked to play in the big yard. In a month, she had gone home for a short time, returning with a young cow and some chickens; from the milk, she made butter and cheese, and with those things and vegetables and eggs, she made delicious meals. The neighbors began to come in the evenings for supper, and Moise began serving the ale she brewed. They soon served midday meals as well. But no one stayed overnight.

Things went on for a year, and the two became very fond of each other. Bride was happy at the inn, and sang as she worked, and Moise watched her contentedly between his trips with the wee cart and donkey.

But one morning, he came to her looking troubled. “I have to go away for several days,” he said. “It is a good chance to make more money than I ever have.”

“That’s wonderful! I’ll pack you a strupach, a wee basket of food to take,” said Bride.

Moise frowned. “But I don’t like leaving you here alone for so long. With that census going on, the town is full of strangers. You remember that I had to throw out that young soldier last night.”

“Ach, he was just fuddled with the drink,” she said.

“I don’t like it,” Moise repeated. “Bride, the only way I can go is if you will promise me that at sunset you will close and bar the door, and not go out of it until sunrise, nor let anyone in.”

She didn’t think there was any danger, but Moise insisted until she promised, because he knew that she would keep her word.

The next morning early she waved him off, and went to her work. No one came for the midday meal, and at sunset, she closed and barred the door. She was just sitting down to some fresh-baked bread and cool well-water—she’d been so busy that she had little appetite for more than that—when someone knocked on the door.

            

            Bride jumped up, and stopped, remembering her promise. So instead of opening the door, she opened the small window and looked out. She saw a man in a dusty robe, and beyond him a donkey carrying a young woman.

            

           The man asked if this was an inn, and if they had any room. He and his wife, who was soon going to have a baby, had come a long way. Every place in the town was full, and it was getting cold and dark.

            

          “I’m sorry,” said Bride. “This is an inn, but my master is away, and he made me promise not to unbar the door tonight and let anyone in.”

            The man sighed. “It took longer than we thought it would to make the trip,” he said. “My name is Joseph bar David. This is my betrothed, Mary. May we rest here for a little while, and have some water from your well?”

            Bride had an idea. “I cannot let you in,” she said, “but you could stay in the stable, if you don’t mind the cow and the chickens and the doves that nest in the rafters. There’s plenty of hay, and I can give you some supper and some blankets.”

            Joseph thanked her, and she climbed out of the window to show them the stable. Soon she was climbing back in to get a pitcher of water, some food and the blankets.

            With a lantern burning, and blankets spread over clean mounds of hay, the little stable looked cozy and welcoming. Mary smiled at her as she lay down, and thanked her as Joseph took care of the donkey.

            Bride went back to the inn to have her own supper—and was surprised when she found that the water in her cup tasted like fine wine. But Joseph came to tell her that Mary was having her baby, and what could they do? He was a carpenter, not a farmer, and knew very little about babies.

            Bride knew that the town midwife was away, so she climbed out the window again to help. Right at midnight, she was the first to hold a tiny baby, even before his mother did. Later she welcomed some shepherds who had some strange tale of being sent there; she didn’t understand it, but brought them food and some ale. It was becoming a very busy night!

            Right in the middle of all that, Moise drove in. He jumped out of the cart, and ran into the stable.

            Bride beckoned him outside. “What about your trip? I know I promised not to go let anyone in, and I didn’t, but they had nowhere to go.”

            “That’s all right,” he said. “I had a vision, telling me that the King of All Kings was here. I came home right away. Thank you for being here.”

            That is how Bride, whom some call St. Bridget, became the midwife and foster-mother to our Lord, and the patron of young mothers and children, and of flocks and herds. She married Moise, who became a fulltime innkeeper, and their inn became famous for its food and good beds. Their oldest son tended it after them, and they had long and happy lives.

_______________________________________________ 

About Barra:

Based in Pittsburgh, Barra the Bard has been a professional, traditional Celtic storyteller and harper in southwestern Pennsylvania for almost 30 years, specializing in Scottish and Welsh tales and tunes. Often she combines telling with playing her Celtic lever harp, Dreamsinger, named for her great-great-grandmother’s harp. Barra also does many multicultural programs, and enjoys doing historical tales, family/personal tales, ghost stories, a very few literary adaptations, and some of her own crafting. She celebrated her 25^th anniversary as the official seannachie (storyteller) of the Ligonier Highland Games this past September, and has published Corries & Creels: Scottish Folktales from the Islands & Highlands. She can be contacted at barrabard@comcast.net; her website is: www.barrabard.com. 

Storytellers Christmas: Festival of Trees

It is easy to overlook the elderly, especially during busy times like the holidays. They can become part of the backdrop, not part of the action. Sometimes it takes a child...

Today's story is from storyteller Mary Murphy, and a timely reminder at this time of year. Her story was originally published in the book, The Solstice Evergreen, edited by Cheryl Karas, Aslan Publishing, 1998. My heart felt this story, and I believe yours will too.
____________________________________________

FESTIVAL OF TREES

The old woman sat stiff and still in a wheelchair, alone in the crowded exhibit hall. It was the opening day of the Festival of Trees. The woman’s face was severe and leathery — a mask of fine wrinkles and liver spots. Her hair was sparse and yellowing. It was held together in a tight bun at her neck. There was a warm-looking mohair shawl about her shoulders and another one covering her lap. She appeared to be very frail, but she had the air of someone who had been important in her time. Her clothes looked expensive. Her wrinkles were expertly covered by makeup. Perhaps she once organized the Festival of Trees. A retired general, reviewing the troops from the sidelines now, but no less dignified than when she led the charge.

Someone had positioned the woman’s wheelchair near the entrance of the big auditorium at the back of the institute. The room contained several decorated Christmas trees, a display of exquisitely detailed gingerbread houses, and a stage where singers and musicians performed at intervals. The old woman had chosen her spot with a purpose it seemed. She was next to a tree that had “touch me, please” printed on a sign at its base. It was the only one offering itself to inquiring hands. This “touch me” tree was decorated for children and ringed with colored lights in the shape and colors of Crayola crayons. The branches held caramel popcorn balls, brightly colored alphabet blocks, wire bicycles with spinning wheels, boy and girl gingerbread people, and small Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls holding out real chocolate kisses to those who came to stare.

 There were also birds — blue, green, yellow, and red — perched with outspread, feathery wings on branches all over the tree. If anyone touched one of these birds, it would sing a high, trilly, real-sounding birdsong. If you touched them all, one right after the other, the whole tree seemed to be singing.

The old woman sitting next to the “touch me” tree appeared to be asleep. Her head had fallen forward and her eyes were closed. It looked like she hadn’t moved for a century or more. The fuzzy mohair might have been cobwebs spun over years of stillness. In fact, so still was she that the youngest of children could stand right next to her, gazing at the tree, with no sign of fear or self-consciousness.

But when a child touched a bird and made it sing, the old woman came to life, suddenly a Snow White responding to the magic kiss. Her head would rise from her chest and she’d smile at the lucky one who brought such music to the world. It was a breathtaking, transforming smile — one in which every wrinkle participated. Her face lightened and all her features rose, gaily defying gravity as they showed her delight. The receiver of such a smile had no choice but to smile back, and so the old woman usually got back as good as she gave.

A little girl of four or five entered the hall with her mother. She spotted the “touch me” tree at once. She’d been searching for it. She knew that this tree was for her. It had been very hard not touching all the pretty things on all the other trees they’d seen. The volunteer ladies had eyed them warily like stern grandmothers always hovering, watching, shaking their heads.

Now the child pulled on her mother’s arm, straining to reach her tree. As they’d remembered from last year, it was near the entrance of the hall. When she saw the tree, she dropped her mother’s hand and stood, filling her eyes with beautiful colors and shapes, and her nose with the scent of gingerbread and pine. Then she touched everything! She spun the ornaments that would spin and lit the ones that would light. Encouraged by one of the now-smiling grandmas, she even took a chocolate kiss from a Raggedy Ann’s gloved hands. When she discovered how to make the birds sing, she quickly stroked every bird within her reach. She worked her way around the tree, singing with the birds, until she was ambushed by the old woman and her smile.

The little girl stared at the woman for the length of time it takes to fall in love. Then she walked up to her. “Do you want to touch the birds and make them sing?” she asked. The old woman’s eyes never left the child’s face. The two might have been alone with the bird-filled Christmas tree. The girl’s mother stood to one side and watched, without interfering, as the woman nodded and whispered, “Yes.”

The child picked up the bent and bony hand from the woman’s lap and carried it in both of hers, gently, as though it were something precious that might shatter if treated roughly. She placed the hand on a red bird’s beak and laughed when it chirped into song. Then she moved the hand to another branch and then another after that. The old woman’s smile, fed by the laughter of the child, grew so wide and light and air-filled that it seemed to lift her whole body right up out of her chair. The two of them danced to the birdsong, whirling and laughing among the beautiful trees, free of everything that had previously held them earthbound.

When the birds finished their singing, the little girl gently returned the old woman’s hand to her lap where the woman cradled the child’s small, smooth one for just one wistful moment longer. Suddenly the girl announced, “I’ve got to go see the gingerbread houses now.” She skipped away in the direction of the display tables. Over her shoulder she called to her new friend, “Maybe you can play with me tomorrow when I wake up.” The old woman watched as the girl’s mother lifted her, the better to see the candy highlights embedded in the gingerbread castles and cottages.

Before she closed her eyes once more, the old woman had a sweet thought: “Wouldn’t it be nice to play again tomorrow?” She slept and dreamed of tiny hands and the singing of birds.

Copyright © 1996 Mary Murphy

About today's storyteller, from her webpage:

Mary Murphy is a writer and teller of stories.

She has performed at the National Storytelling Festival, the Hawaii Storytelling Festival, the Clever Gretchen Folklore Conference, the Philadelphia Fringe Festival, Companions on the Sacred Journey, the Rockland County Storytelling Fesitval, the Dance Flurry in Saratoga Springs, the Riverway Storytelling Festival, the Clearwater Festival, and the Three Apples Storytelling Festival.

Her stories have been published in Give a Listen: Stories of Storytelling in School, edited by Ann M. Trousdale, Sue A. Woestehoff, and Marni Schwartz (NCTE, 1994), The Solstice Evergreen: The History, Folklore, and Origins of the Christmas Tree, 2nd ed., edited by Sheryl Ann Karas (Aslan, 1998), Women Celebrate: The Gift in Every Moment, compiled and edited by Elizabeth Welles (Peace Communications, 2004), The Artful Mind, and Sacred Journey. She has a CD entitled murphy stew.

E-mail: mary.leo@gmail.com  Phone: 518-462-1796

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.