Tales from the Tapestry

Storytelling: The Oldest Art

2012-01-31T16:07:00.000-08:00

Talesfrom around the world told by Cris Riedel

Website:www.storiesconnect.com

$15.00 includes shipping& handling. To order email: cris@storiesconnect.com

Reviewed ByLinda Goodman

This delightful CD, recorded live at Debbie’s Caféin Wayland, New York, features familiar multi-cultural tales given new life bythe strong voice and enthusiastic telling of an intuitive teller who grabs theessence of each tale and makes it sing.

Cris Riedel clearly treasures thesestories. From England’s LazyJack, the folktale predecessor of Forrest Gump, to Europe’s CleverManka, who outsmarts the men in her life at every turn, the listener inengaged and eagerly anticipates the next chapter.

Do some folks really believe thatmen work harder than women? Let themlisten to the perils and pratfalls of Sweden’s The Husband Who Minded the House. That will set them straight!

Little Rough Face, a Mic Mac Versionof the Cinderella theme, and Japan’s The Boy Who Drew Cats both featureoutcasts whose hearts and talents win for them both love and honor.

The First Strawberries is a pourquoi tale about how that delicious fruit came to flourish in Cherokee country. If an angry woman does not notice the firstenticement, make the next one irresistible. Having the Sun as a friend ishelpful.

Friends Always, from India, details thestrong bond of friendship that develops between an elephant and a dog. An elephant is also involved in the ChinesetaleElephant and Hummingbird, which reminds us that if we all do our part,the impossible may become possible.

Riedel’s stories are nicecomplemented by Karen Wollscheid’s colorful CD design. The wise owl on thecover seems particularly appropriate. Kudos to Brandon Pender, recording engineering, for manufacturing a livecafé CD that sounds flawless enough to have been recorded in studio.

As Riedel states both in herintroduction and on her CD jacket, these stories are “so old on one knows whotold them first.” Such things do not really matter. With talented tellers likeRiedel sharing them, these tales are given a life of their own. They will livein the hearts of listeners and be passed along until time’s end.

No Tricks. Just Magic - CD Review

2012-01-03T07:41:00.000-08:00

A collection of fairytales as told by Megan Hicks

Available from CDBaby

$15.00 per CD; MP3Download $9.99

www.MeganHicks.com

Magicyou are promised and magic is delivered in Megan Hicks’ latest CD NoTricks. Just Magic. Concerningthe tales shared on this CD, Hicks states , “I strongly feel that they chose meto be one of their voices to keep them alive.”

Livethey do! In Hicks capable hands(voice?), they become so real that the listener forgets that the world theyshowcase is not real, though it is just as frightening. Consider these things:

· In The Shoemaker and the Elves, a shoemakerwho is both skilled and honest cannot find enough work to sustain his family.

· Twelve Dancing Princesses are lockedaway each night, held prisoner because their father is more concerned about hisown happiness than theirs.

· Mollie Whuppie’s parents abandon theirthree young daughters, who must fend for themselves. Unfortunately, they end up in the hands of avillain who means to do them harm.

· Davy and the Devil tells of a youngman who loses his job because he performed an act of kindness. He meets a legendary con man who plots tobetter his own situation at the young man’s expense.

Suchtragic stories appear in real world newspapers every day. In real life, thereare rarely happy ending to such scenarios. In the fairy tales on this CD, however, happy endings are guaranteedwhen selfless elves take pity on a good man, a kind elder wins a king’schallenge, a brave and clever youngster outwits a giant, and a rescued fishprovides answers just when they are needed most. Magic trumps trickery every time.

As abonus, Hicks has included The Shoemaker and the Groundhogs,her “gently satirical take on the quest for ‘happily ever after’.” This new perspective on the shoemaker’splight brings the album full circle, for a very satisfying journey,indeed.

Hickshas never been in better voice. Thesound on this CD is flawless. Thestories are tight. When the rollercoaster stops, the good guy has won. Ifonly real life could guarantee the same.

The Radio: A Christmas Story

2011-12-20T18:02:00.000-08:00

Christmas was a heartbeat away. Dressed warmly in my frayed winter coat andhat, my hands snug inside and old fur muff, I waited patiently in line to talkto Santa Claus. The line of chatteringchildren seemed endless, and I knew that I was just one face amid this sea ofhopefuls. Was Santa such a genius thathe could remember what all these children wanted? And the children of the day before? And the day before that?

Ihad decided not to confuse Santa with a long list this year. After all, whenever I did that, I got onlysome of the things on the list. Andusually the things that were omitted were the things I wanted most. And so this year, I was going to ask Santafor just that one thing that I wanted more than anything else. And that one thing was a radio.

Ofcourse, my family already had a radio. But it was a huge console radio that sat in the living room, the sameroom as the television. Whenever I wouldturn that radio on after school, my mother would protest, "Now, Linda, youknow that I watch The Guiding Light at this hour. So, turn that thing off, now, youhear?" Or if I turned it on aftersupper, my father would inform me, "Linda, Walter Cronkite is on thetelevision, and I have got to know what's going on in the world. Turn that thing off, now." I thought that if I could get Santa to bringme a small portable radio for Christmas, I could take it into my bedroom andplay it whenever I wanted and never again have to hear the words, "Turnthat thing off!"

Atlast it was my turn to sit on Santa's pudgy knee. I looked up into his twinkling eyes that satatop rosy cheeks surrounded by a cottony white beard. He looked just like my picture book.

"Hello,little girl," he greeted me. "What is your name?"

"Linda," I replied.

"Linda, have you been a good girl thisyear?" he queried.

"Oh,yes sir!" I attested. (Of course, there had been the ordinary,everyday indiscretions. But everybodyknows that they don't count).

"Good. And what do you want Santa to bring you thisyear, Linda?"

"Aradio," I replied withouthesitation.

"Andwhat else?"

"Nothingelse. All's I want is a radio!"

"Well,then, ho,ho,ho! We'll see what Santa cando about that." Then he reached hishand into his bottomless bag and brought out a ring for me. As he did that, a bright light exploded in myface, and I could hear my mother saying in the background, "I’m sorry, Idon't have any money for pictures today."

Thenmy mother took me by the hand and we began our long walk home. As we walked, I asked her if God was anythinglike Santa Claus. She replied, “Notreally. God is more like a lovingparent. His love is unconditional andself-sacrificing, though sometimes hard to understand. I sure feel mighty lucky to have it.”

Home was about a mile away, and itwas the coldest day of the year. By thetime we got there my fingers were purple. But my poor mother, who went without cap and gloves so that we childrencould have the things we needed, was practically frostbitten.

Weentered our apartment building and hurried up the stairs to our apartment. As we pushed open the door a great wave ofheat rushed out to greet us, and it felt good. But we knew it wouldn't be long until that heat was unbearable.

Welived in an apartment building that was heated by a huge furnace in the back,and that furnace had only two settings: off and on. Once it was turned onin October, the temperature would reach ninety-five degrees in a matter ofminutes and stay there until late April. In the dead of winter, I used to open my window and hang my head outsidefor relief. But whenever I wouldcomplain, my father would say, "Now, Linda, you ought not to complainabout the heat. Why, many's the timewhen I was a boy, back on the frontier (my father always referred to hisboyhood home in Virginia’s Appalachian Mountains as the frontier), that I liketo froze to death. My ten brothers andsisters and me used to sleep in one room huddled around a coal burning stovejust to keep warm at night. You wouldn'tcomplain about the heat, Linda, if you knew what it was like not to haveany."

Myfather had been born in a little coalmining camp in Virginia City, Virginia. In order to help support his family, he had gone to work in the mines atthe age of fourteen. He was there only afew years, though, when he saw a good buddy killed by a falling rock. It was then that he decided that he"could think of better ways to die."

Fromthere he embarked upon a series of occupations. He had his own newspaper column for a while. Then he was a gander dancer for therailroad. During the Great Depression hewas hobo, then a forest ranger for the CCC. After that, he went to work in the "scorching hot sands" ofthe foundry in Richmond, Virginia. That's where he was when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. As soon as he heard the news, he walked offhis job and marched straight to the Navy recruiting office and tried toenlist. He was turned down due to highblood pressure. Upon seeing thedisappointed look on his face, the recruiting officer consoled him, "Don'tworry, Bub. The army'll take you."

Myfather didn't enlist in the army. Hedidn't have to. They drafted him. At the age of thirty-seven, he became PrivateTheodore Alexander Wright.

Afterthe war, my father came back to his mountain home. Virginia City had become a ghost town, so hesettled in Saint Paul. There he marriedmy mother and had four children. Once hehad a family, he started thinking about financial security. That is what made him decide to leave themountains and accept at job at the Norfolk Naval Shipyard in Portsmouth,Virginia.

Andthat is how we came to live in this rundown apartment complex. I can still remember the look on my mother'sface when she first saw the apartment: she was delighted. After all, she had never had indoor plumbingor electricity before. Now there waswater at the turn of a faucet and lights at the flick of a switch. Minor annoyances, such as the occasionalcockroach or rodent, could be overlooked, because life in general was mucheasier.

Whilemy father had the job that brought home a paycheck, my mother had the job ofmaking that paycheck stretch from week to week. I can still remember watching her work up her weekly budget on Sundayevenings. "We're riding a bicyclenow instead of walking," she oncesaid, "but it's still uphill all the way."

Sometimes when my mother and I would goshopping downtown, I would catch her gazing longingly in the windows of thedress boutiques that we couldn't afford to even go into. And that would make me wonder if perhaps shemight have been better off if we had stayed in the mountains, where it seemedlike everybody we knew was poor and she wasn't reminded so often of the thingsthat she didn't have.

Tobe honest, though, there were lots of people in our neighborhood who were worseoff than we were. Charlene Miller, forinstance. Her husband had taken off onespring morning and never returned. Nowshe was raising six hungry children by herself on welfare. Charlene just happened to be in our apartmentthat afternoon that my mother and I got back from seeing Santa Claus.

"Mr.Wright," she was complaining,"It just doesn't seem fair. Here Iam able to work and willing to work, but I can't find a job that will pay meenough to hire someone to take care of my young’uns while I'm working. Why don't those politicians up in Richmond orWashington do something to help people like me, who want to helpthemselves?"

Myfather’s reply stayed with me for a long time. "Now Charlene,” my father chided, "You know that thepolitician is the friend of the rich man. He doesn't care about little folk like you or me."

Twoweeks later, it was Christmas Eve. Mymother sent me to bed early, just in case we were the first stop on Santa'strip. But I couldn't sleep because Icouldn't stop thinking about the radio that Santa was going to bring me. I was imagining how much fun I was going tohave turning it on to WGH AM and listening to the top forty hits. Or I could even put it on the talkie stationand listen to tales about the folks down in Mount Airey.

Thena chilling thought occurred to me. Whatif I was the last stop on Santa's trip and he ran out of radios before he gotto me! Sleep was impossible now.

Atabout one o'clock in the morning, I could stand it no longer. I quietly got out of my bed, tiptoed across thefloor, cracked my bedroom door, and peered into the kitchen. The plate of cookies and glass of milk that Ihad left for Santa were empty, a sure sign that he had already come and gone!

"Mama,"I hollered.

"What?" she answered sleepily.

"I have to go to the bathroom!"

"Well,all right," she assented. "But don't you go anywhere near thattree, now, you hear?"

Idid as I was told. I didn't go anywherenear that tree. But she didn't say Icouldn't look, and look I did. There,illuminated by the Christmas tree lights, was a box with the letters RADIO emblazoned across it! I had gotten it! I had gotten that radio! I started to dance a little jig, but then Iremembered that I was not supposed to know yet. So I returned to my room and fell into a peaceful sleep full of blissfuldreams. For the first time, I really didsee sugar plums dancing in my head.

Thenext morning my mother gently shook me by the shoulders to awaken me. "Ain’t you ashamed, you sleepy head?” sheasked playfully. “Are you going to sleepall day? It's Christmas!" she announced.

Ijumped out of bed and ran to the tree in the livingroom. There were three packages there for me. I decided to save the best for last.

Inthe first package was underwear. Normally, I would have been upset to get underwear for Christmas, but,somehow, this year it didn't seem like such a bad idea. " A girl can always use newunderwear!" I affirmed.

Inthe second package was a gift I truly loved: a set of Winnie the Pooh books. "You know how I love to read!" Ilaughed.

Ofcourse, the next package had the radio inside. I looked at my parents. They weremore excited than I was! I put my handin the box and pulled out its contents. "A radio!" Icried.

Thensomething strange caught my eye. Thiswas an unusual radio. It had only onedial. I turned the dial and a familiarchildhood tune began to play: JohnBrown had a little Indian. It wasn'ta real radio at all! It was just a toy,a music box that played only one tune while small pictures of Indian childrenrotated around the dial. Santa waseither not very smart, or he was playing a cruel joke on me.

Inthe afternoon, company started dropping by, and in the midst of all theChristmas cheer, I forgot about my disappointment over the radio. In fact, I had no trouble enjoying the restmy Christmas vacation.

Buton January second, I went back to school. The school was abuzz with chattering children talking about theirwonderful Christmas gifts. I noticedthat the children who lived in my neighborhood faired about like I had. But the children who lived in the rich partof town had gotten some fantastic gifts. Joe Sam Delpino, whose father was a doctor, had gotten a bicycle that Ihad seen in the window of Miller's sporting goods for $150.00. And Gloria Hempel, whose father owned thebiggest and most exclusive department store in town, had gotten a colortelevision! I lied and said I got astereo.

"Youdidn't get a stereo!" tauntedGloria Hempel. "Why, I bet Santa isafraid to go into your neighborhood after dark. I bet you didn’t get anything at all."

"Howwould you know?" I retorted. "What have you got? A crystal ball?

Iwas seething with anger, but I wasn't about to let anyone at school know that,and I managed to contain my hostility throughout the school day. But by the time I got home I could contain itnot longer. I ran into my room, slammedthe door, threw my books against the wall, threw myself on the bed and startedsobbing

Withinseconds, my mother had marched into my room. "What's going on here? Youknow that I don't allow this kind of behavior in my home!" she scolded.

"SantaClaus is a politician!" I screamed. "He brought Gloria Hempel a colortelevision, when her own daddy could afford to buy her three of them if hewanted to. But me - I couldn't even geta lousy radio!"

Mymother stood there in stunned silence. Then she turned her back to me and said quietly, "Honey, this world is a rough row tohoe. We just have to do the best wecan." Then I heard a sound that Ihad never heard come from my mother before. It was a sniffle. A sniffle? My mother never cried.

Igrew up a little in that moment. Suddenly, without being told, I knew that it was all a myth. There was no man in a red suit flying throughthe air in a sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer on Christmas Eve. My mother had gotten me what she thought Iwanted, and with precious little money to spare.

Iwalked up to my mother, put my arms around her, and looked up into hertear-stained face. She looked back at mewith wet eyes, and I could see that she knew that I knew that she knew. "I sure do love you, Mama," I whispered.

Andshe cupped her hands under my chin and said, "We don't have much money,but we've got lots and lots of love. Andthat make us the richest people of all."

Andthat little toy radio became my most prized possession. Today it sits on the dresser in my bedroom, whereI keep it as a symbol of a parent's love for a child: love that is unconditional andself-sacrificing, though sometimes hard to understand. I sure feel mighty lucky to have had it.

Conversation with a Telephone Solicitor

2011-12-09T17:15:00.000-08:00

©Linda Goodman2011

Irecently read True Grit by Charles Portis. I had seen both movies and was particularly taken with the 2010 versionstarring Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon, and the amazing Hailee Steinfield. The book was even better. I cracked up at the outlaws, who emittedanimal or bird noises as greetings. I thought I might like to try that myself sometime.

YesterdayI received two phone solicitations ON MY CELL PHONE!!!

TodayI got another one.

“Hello!”a male voice greeted me. “This is John Doe calling from the Bank of (supplyname). I want to tell you about our wonderful new credit card.”

“Cock-a-doodle-do!”says I, channeling an ancient outlaw

“Youare right to crow!” replied John Doe. “This deal I am offering your will changethe way you do business.

“Gobble,gobble!” I responded

“No,no!” John Doe protested. “My friend, this deal is no turkey.”

Ibarked like a dog.

“Nowyou have it!” Joe Doe gushed. “This dealis so amazing you will become as loyal to us as your faithful dog is to you.”

Iwas so impressed with John Doe’s quick-thinking, clever responses that I finallylistened to his spiel. I figured I owedhim at least that much.

Itold him I did not want another charge card.

Hehowled like a heart-broken coyote baying at the moon.

Ihope he calls back.

I Am Somebody

2011-12-02T10:23:00.001-08:00

CD Review

Stories written and performed by LindaGorham. $10.00, plus $2.00 shipping & handling.

www.LindaGorham.com,

email: Linda@LindaGorham.com

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

In theintroduction to her life-affirming CD I Am Somebody, Linda Gorham sharesthat she is descended from many people, including a grandmother who lovedplastic, a grandfather who was a Pullman Porter, and a father who lived by themantra “proper prior planning prevents poor performance.”

Gorham wasraised to be morally responsible. It’s In the Book is a tribute to her father, who used thatphrase to verify values. A typical gooddaughter, Gorham did not buck her father’s standards until she was ateenager. Using popular songs from thelate sixties to good effect, Gorham decides to do her “own thing.” Ultimately,this leads her on a journey that culminates in a tender scene in which herfather interrogates her future husband in an effort to assure himself that theman can be trusted with such a valuable treasure. Ultimately, secrets arerevealed that make Gorham see family members in a new light.

Dog loverswill enjoy Juno, Not My Dog, a touching tale of a pesky dog that graduallycreeps into the heart of a child who claims to resent it.

In PlasticGlory, childhood adventures in a house where everything is covered withplastic lead to a somber moment when a father returns from Viet Nam. This story is as relevant to today’s militaryas it was to the military of the sixties and seventies.

APrince of a Man features Gorham as an independent, self-sufficient,strong woman who discovers that having a Prince Charming around can have itsadvantages. Clearly, a woman can be a feminist and feminine at the same time.

In a cleverparallel to the old story of the tailor who becomes obsessed with a piece ofcloth, Sofa to Cotton is an ode to reducing, reusing, and recycling.Being environmentally conscious requires some thinking outside the box, but itis worth the effort.

Realizingthat life is short, Gorham ponders life’s treasures and dumps life’s garbage inRedLight Reflections. Favoriteline: “I can open my own doors, but do it for me, because I’m worth it!”

I AmSomebody is a loving tribute to ancestors, family, and self. This CD isa verbal monument to Gorham’s heritage, and it encourages its listeners tobegin building monuments of their own.

A Note from Diane Edgecomb

2011-11-17T16:19:00.001-08:00

Those of you who know storyteller Diane Edgecomb are aware of her devotion to the Kurdish people and the reverence and joy with which she shares their tales. I recently received the email post below from her. Please read it and assist her if possible. The task she is undertaking is a daunting one. Many hands will make the load lighter.

Linda Goodman

November 10, 2011

Dear friends,

It is with a heavy heart that I am writing to you about the situation in Van, Turkey where another major earthquake just happened.

Van and Ercis (area most hit by the first quake), Turkey form the hub where I begin all of my storytelling journeys among the Kurdish people. They have been rocked by major earthquakes. Another one happened today. This last Sunday I was at a meeting of the New England Kurdish Community. There eyes were hollow with sorrow and they do not even know how to reach out with their fund raising efforts. They are new immigrants and they also have no country of their own to support any efforts.

The community is decimated by the way the Turkish government has interfered with humanitarian efforts. In an effort to make sure it has absolute control over this region, Turkey delayed relief efforts offered from Israel and other well-equipped countries for six crucial days. Family members of my friends texted from under the rubble "I am here, I am here" until they finally fell silent.

I have worked with these resilient and wonderful people for over ten years and am going to be heavily involved in trying to raise funds as quickly as possible. Tents are arriving for the homeless, but can you imagine living in a tent during a New England winter? Winters in the Kurdish region are much more fierce. They need wooden houses and my friend, Memet who is in the area, of his own determination and sense of service is already building these structures in a tremor free zone. I hope that some among you will consider helping in the effort I need to launch. Any help in any way is so appreciated.

If anyone has ties to any religious or other group that supports humanitarian aid and would ask on behalf of this cause, please please let me know. I can go anywhere to speak, show slides, and invite the Kurdish community whenever they are available. It is such a horrible situation. And it seems that everywhere I turn there is a cruel reminder. Yesterday driving home I saw a billboard "Can you imagine not having a home to go to?" I again imagined and also imagined winter descending.

Please let me know if you have any thoughts or ideas or can help in anyway.

Diane Edgecomb

www.LivingMyth.com

617-522-4335

PS here was the latest news on what people are suffering in the Kurdish region of Turkey today, hours after the second quake ....

"Riot police in the Kurdish region fired tear gas and used batons to disperse protesters angry at the state's relief efforts after the second earthquake in eastern Turkey in three weeks. Rescue teams searched for survivors after the 5.7 magnitude tremor on Wednesday night heaped misery on the predominantly Kurdish region where many people died following a major quake on October 23.

"How can you fire pepper spray on people who have already suffered so much?" said Abdulrahim Kaplan, 32. He had gone to the crisis center for a tent when police began firing tear gas, he said. "Our people are freezing. We are sleeping outside -- all seven of my family," he said, complaining bitterly over the alleged unfair distribution of tents. "Some people take five tents, some 10 and others get nothing. This is wrong." Thousands of families are living in makeshift camps with temperatures falling to freezing with the onset of winter. The latest tremor cut power to the area.

Mama's Wreaths

2011-10-09T18:21:00.000-07:00

ByJulia Taylor Ebel with M. Joann Moretz

Publishedby Canterbury House, $10.95, www.juliaEbel.com

Reviewedby Linda Goodman

Thisenchanting story poem is a loving tribute to the knowledge, traditions, andstories that richly infuse the North Carolina Mountain culture.

Usingthe character of Joanie, a young mountain girl who wants nothing more than tomake Christmas wreaths as beautiful as her mother’s, Julia Taylor Ebel guidesus through the autumn and early winter seasons of a people who value characterabove wealth.

Ruled by the “I’ll bebeholden to nobody” attitude that she learned from her daddy, Joanie will notrest until she can pay back the nickel (milk money) that her teacher gave herto replace the one that she lost. Particularly moving is the Lost episode in which Joanie, given theresponsibility of delivering one of her mother’s wreaths, loses the money that shecollected for it. Her resulting distress is caused by her knowledge that thelost money was to have been used for necessaries: flour, sugar, and shoes. Whenshe finds the money, she experiences not only relief, but true joy:

not joy about the money

but joy about a job seen through,

about a trust kept,

about the smile I expect

on Mama's face

MakingChristmas wreaths, we learn, requires skill, teamwork, and sacrifice. Listeningto instructions is essential. Joanie hangs her own wreaths around her home,declaring that:

We may not have much money

to spend for Christmas,

but this is a Christmas house.

Ebelcredits Joann Moretz, who shared her memories of making wreaths in WataugaCounty, North Carolina, as her information source for this book. As a nativeAppalachian, I particularly appreciated Ebel’s simple black and whiteillustrations, which took me back to a time when life moved at a slower paceand Christmas was magic. No expensivepresents required: family and friends sharing the holiday spirit was theultimate and most sought-after prize

After the story’s end, Ebel adds information aboutthe history of wreath making in the North Carolina Mountains and instructionson how you can make your own evergreen wreath. A study guide and bookdiscussion starters are available on Ebel’s website.

Thisbook, recommended for ages eight through adult, would make a wonderfulChristmas present for both young and old. The young will delight in the intimate peek at a culture often taken forgranted. Adults will garner sweetmemories of a time when Christmas was neither rushed nor expensive. The book is one that children and adults canread together and equally appreciate. What better way to spend precious timeand revel in the Christmas spirit?

Hidden Treasure at The Mountain Spirits Art Festival

2011-10-02T16:48:00.000-07:00

Ihave always preferred community theater productions to professional onesbecause I love being one of the favored few to witness a stellar performancegiven by an actor who is relatively unknown. You know what I am talking about – that performance that is soconvincing it consumes the stage and makes you forget that what you arewatching is acting.

Thispast weekend, I had that same experience at the first annual (hopefully)Mountain Spirits Art Festival at the Franklin County Library in Rocky Mount, Virginia. In addition to painting, quilts, music, andregional authors, four storytelling performances were featured.

Iwas one of the four storytellers. Theother three were Charlie Lytton, David Bass, and Linda Hartman.

Ofthe other three tellers, the only one that I had heard before was Charlie Lytton. I had the pleasure of hearing him shareAppalachian tall tales at the Galax Book Festival, where he graciously invitedme to share the stage at the end of his set. As a performer, I found him to beboth charming and captivating. As aperson, I found him to be both a gentlemen and a generous colleague. I am trulyenjoying my copy of his book, New River: bonnets, apple butter, andmoonshine (The Raising of a Fat Little Boy).

I am happy toreport that Charlie is not a one-story wonder. At Mountain Spirits, he shared abeautiful yet tragic true ghost story about the specters of two little girlshaunting the Appalachian Trail. I wasleft heartbroken by the image of these young giggling ghosts, seen by hikers onthe trail from time to time.

David Bass, a dead ringer for HalHolbrook, followed Charlie onstage to share a funny, endearing tale of GrandpaHurt, who was so entranced with the new “horseless carriage” that he decided toget one of his own. This well-researchedand expertly constructed story made me appreciate modern times, where a simpletwist of a key in an ignition will start a car. Bass certainly knows how to usemovement, body language and facial expressions to enhance a story. I almostsplit my sides laughing at Grandpa Hurt unsuccessfully trying to crank his newcar and get in the driver’s seat before he had to crank again.

Linda Hartman was the only storytellerwhose set I was able to watch in its entirety (I had customers wanting to buymy book during the others). Lindaactually became the characters in each of her stories, expertly changing her voice,body language, and facial expressions for each one. Watching her face progressfrom reluctance to surprise to downright delight as her character chewed agooey substance from an unknown flower was pure magic. Her command of her voicewas phenomenal. Amazed at her mastery of the stage whisper, I was so enrapturedthat I jumped several times when she pumped up the volume. Her stories wereabout the importance of listening and about courage in the face of dangerousodds. The children attending were rivetedto her performance. Even the adults werecaptivated.

Unfortunately,attendance at the festival was small, probably due to the unusually coldweather and competition from a Virginia Tech home football game. Library staff,though, seemed to enjoy the event and hope to have it again next year.Congratulations and thanks are due to the Franklin County Public Library forhosting this event.

Dark Matter

2011-09-18T13:16:00.000-07:00

CD Review

Written and performed by Lynne Duddy. Musical soundscape by a cappella singingsensation Emily Post. Available from CD Baby (www.cdbaby.com/cd/lynneduddy)for$10.00 (CD) or $9.99 (MP3)

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

“Have youever been afraid of the dark?” Lynne Duddy asks in the introduction to herpowerful and thought-provoking CD Dark Matter. Her haunting, hypnoticvoice then proceeds to guide the listener on a trip through the dark side, ajourney filled with wonder, science, love, and more than a little mystery.

The storiesbegin with an Amazon Creation Mythabout an anaconda that introduces light to the world through song. Substance,we are told, comes from nothing and it takes faith to believe in this concept.That faith is the central theme of the stories on this recording.

9 to 4 takes us to a cemetery at night,where a large, seemingly foreboding, stranger awaits. Can we trust withoutevidence of trustworthiness? Can we have faith in ourinstincts? The shades of truth in this story are subtle, yet powerful. I listened to it over and over, just for thebeauty of the telling.

Vera’s Story shares the history of VeraReuben, the woman who in 1951 unlocked the mystery of stars rotating in spiralgalaxies. Sadly, Ms. Reuben was born in a time and place where astronomers didnot take women’s research seriously. Her work did, however, lead to thediscovery of dark matter in the 1970’s. Can we have faith in our destiny, even when society contradicts all thatwe hold dear?

Lightning features two young girls whosefascination with lightning leads them to become “blood brothers.” This sacredmoment taken in secret leads to harsh punishment and the revelation of an uglytruth. Can we have faith that all will be well, in spite of that truth?

Into the Mist is a beautiful story aboutthe misunderstandings between a woman and her dying father, and how those misunderstandingsare resolved before it is too late. How sad to have such a heavy weight liftedso late in life’s journey! Can we have faith that our loved ones understandthat harsh words are just old hurts turned hard?

Lost and Found is a tale of stumblingupon an old memory on a country drive that spurs a quest for a missing piece ofthe past. Can faith mend a tear in our personal fabric?

The storieson this CD are well-written and wonderfully told. There are no breaks between stories, solistening to them feels like being at a concert. The musical soundscapeprovided by Emily Post is grand, but often threatens to overwhelm the stories.At times I felt that the music was competing for attention, when I would havepreferred that it accent the stories.

I fear thedarkness, but at the same time I yearn for it. These stories helped me realizethat darkness makes the light more brilliant, and I take comfort in that. Duddytells us that we should “have faith that everything will be all right, and evenif it isn’t, everything will be okay.” Ibelieve her.

Encounter With a Door Knocker

2011-09-09T14:58:00.000-07:00

In September of 1971, I had been married for just over oneyear, and I was four months pregnant with my daughter, due to be born duringthe same month that I would be turning twenty.

At fourmonths, I was just pregnant enough that my clothes no longer fit. I was a full-time student who had just beendismissed from my part-time job because I was pregnant (yes, that was legal in1971), and my husband was a full time musician with a rock band. On a good week, he brought home $15.00 (Ididn’t say it was a successful rock band).

Therewas no money to buy maternity clothes, so my sister, who was heavier than me,had given me a pair of her elastic-waist pants. That pair of pants, coupledwith a few of my loose fitting shirts, was the only clothing that I couldcomfortably wear.

At alate morning hour, I was attempting to clean my small apartment without wakingmy husband, who was still sleeping off a late-night gig. A knock at the doorinterrupted me, and I opened the door to welcome a well-dressed older woman whosaid she was doing visitation for a church down the street from my house. In other words, she was a door knocker.

“We’vejust started a Bible study at the church,” she announced enthusiastically,“and we want to invite everyone in our neighboring communities to join us as wediscover the joys and blessings hidden in God’s word.”

I havealways enjoyed good Bible discussions, even when they lapse into arguments, whichthey often do. The time mentioned was good for me, so I told her that I wouldbe delighted to attend her church’s study.

“Wonderful!”she exclaimed, as she clapped her hands together with delight.

Thenher manner changed. She looked me upand down before continuing, “By the way, you do have a dress you can wear,don’t you?”

“No,” Iresponded, “at this particular time, I don’t own a dress that fits.”

“Noworries,” she countered, “we’ll just get you a dress from the church thriftcloset.”

“Why isthat necessary?” I questioned her. “Can’t women wear pants at your church?”

“No!” She was quite firm, almost militant, with heranswer. “We voted that women wearingpants and men wearing blue jeans will not be allowed to enter our church.”

“Do youthink Jesus would have denied church entrance to those people?” I wondered.

“Jesuspreached in the wilderness.” She informed me. “He wouldn’t expect people todress up in the dusty desert. You don’thave to worry, though. I am sure that wehave several dresses in your size in our thrift closet.”

“I donot accept charity,” I insisted. “Idon’t need it.”

“Well,then,” she countered, “You will not be able to attend our Bible Study.”

“I canlive with that,” I replied.

Suddenly she was livid. “I will neverunderstand this younger generation! Allthe women wear pants, even in sacred places like churches! And all the men want to wear their hair longhair! It’s disgraceful!”

“Nowwait a minute,” I protested, thinking of my husband and his waist long mane ofblond curls. “Jesus had long hair!”

Sheglared at me. “We don’t know that. All we know is that the Bible says in 1Corinthians 11 verses 14 and 15 that it’s a sin for a man to have long hair.”

My mindprocessed what she said and I could not help but debate the issue. “Do youagree that Jesus never sinned?” I asked her.

“Absolutely!”she affirmed. “Jesus was God incarnateand the Bible says that he was without sin.”

“Do youhave a picture of Jesus in your house?” I questioned her.

“Ofcourse I have a picture of Jesus in my house!” she said proudly. “I love theLord. I have a picture of Jesus in every room in my house.”

“Doeshe have long hair in those pictures?” I inquired.

Shepaused. I could see panic racing in hereyes. “Well, yes he does, but –“

Istopped her mid sentence. “So you havepictures in your house of Jesus sinning?” I demanded to know. “Isn’t thatheresy?”

She didnot answer that question. She stared atme for a minute or two and then very slowly and calmly she whispered, “Yourhusband is going to leave you. You will have to raise your child alone. May Godhave mercy on you.”

Andthen she left. I watched as she knockedon the door of my neighbor’s house and began her spiel anew.

She wasright about some things. My husband dideventually leave me. I did raise mydaughter alone for the first eleven years of her life. God has indeed been mercifulto me. But I still will not attend achurch that discriminates against people for something as ridiculous as the waythey dress or wear their hair. I don’t believe that God would be there either.

The Last American Gladiator

2011-09-04T11:43:00.000-07:00

By Slash Coleman

CD Review

Available from CD Baby. $14.95 for the CD; Download MP3 for $9.95.

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

With his latest CD, The Last American Gladiator, Slash Coleman revisits his childhood and shares stories and songs that run the gamut from chasing impossible dreams to realizing his worst fears. His self-effacing delivery and captivating way with words entice us to come along with him on this journey. Enthralled listeners will gladly travel with him as he relives earning his degree from the school of hard knocks and gladly shares the wisdom learned therein.

The Last America Gladiator, the first story on the CD, extols the virtues of having to “wait it out,” as a young Slash schemes to become a gladiator and, simultaneously, get the attention of his third grade teacher, on whom he has a crush. This story delivers the best story quote I have heard in a while: “Every dream should come with a comma.”

Major League Pop Fly is a humorous yet touching tale of baseball, love, and “white man’s perm.” This story is followed by Perpetual Underdog, a dark tale of misplaced trust that almost destroys a family, set in a time where picking up hitchhikers was the norm. As a fan of the dark side, this is the story that settled in my head and traveled with me for days.

The Acquisition of Skipper highlights a clever use of “extreme marketing” at a flea market type event that ends with mom getting a hero and dad becoming a pirate. High School Musical features Slash as a football player wannabe who finds release in the marching band and wrestling, before realizing that he is his own worst enemy.

The CD also features two songs. Believe is an ode to faith in oneself. Flying Lessons is a musical celebration of living one’s dreams.

While I found minor problems with the sound in a few places, the stories are tightly written and memorable. Slash’s delivery is heartfelt and endearing. The responses of his live audience clearly show that they love his tales, as well they should. First and last, Slash Coleman is a gladiator. He knows his arena, and he is not afraid to welcome others into his world.

Quilt of Joy

2011-08-29T12:48:00.000-07:00

By Mary Tatem

Book Review

Published by Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group
ISBN 978-0-8007-3364-3
www.revellbooks.com $12.99

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

I met Mary Tatem at the Galax Book Festival in June 2011. She had brought forty books with her and had sold out completely within a day. That was quite a feat. Most of the authors there sold between five and ten books the entire weekend. Clearly, the public loves Mary’s Quilt series.

Quilt of Joy, Mary’s latest book, follows the same pattern as her earlier books. Each of its twelve sections spotlights a particular quilt pattern, followed by four stories that involve that pattern in some way. The first section, for instance, begins with a black and white illustration of a Pickle Dish Quilt, a pattern inspired by the cut glass dishes popular between the late eighteenth and early twentieth centuries.

The illustration of the Pickle Dish Quilt is followed the sweet story Sleeping Stitches, in which a man shows his true affection for his dog under cover of his pickle dish quilt, where he is unaware that his wife is listening; the nostalgic Quilted Protection, about Amanda, who wraps her most precious belongings in a pickle dish quilt before leaving home for good with her new husband; the heart-wrenching Ruined Quilt, which finds two girls becoming friends as they share the heartbreak of absent fathers;and Prisoner Stitches,set just after the Civil War, about a stubborn Confederate who refuses to pledge her allegiance to the Federal Government.

Each story is followed by a related Bible Verse, Mary’s thoughts on how the verse and story mesh, and a short prayer.

The stories come from various sources: friends, quilt festivals, quilting guilds, and seeds found in historical stories buried in quilt instruction books.

“When I see a quilt, I feel the tug of the past,” Mary states in the book’s introduction. “Before I begin a quilt I look through my cloth scraps, browse in a fabric store, and leaf through pattern books to plan and dream about the outcome I want to achieve. I find encouragement in knowing that when God created me, he planned me with even more care and foresight.”

This book will be treasured by those who long for comfort in trying times. I gave a copy to a friend whose husband had recently been diagnosed with a serious illness, and she said that reading its stories gives her hope and peace. I felt those same emotions as I read them. This is a good book to have on hand when life gets to be too much with us. Its stories make the reader believe that, in spite of life’s turbulence, everything will be okay.

The Woman Who Sold Winds & Other Tales of the Sea

2011-08-06T12:50:00.000-07:00

By Ralph Chatham

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

Available from
Curmudgeon Story & Whistle Works
703-698-5456
email: Ralph.Chatham@verizon.net
$10.00 + postage

I was particularly excited to listen to Ralph Chatham’s CD The Woman Who Sold Winds & Other Tales of the Sea, not only because it boasts a story that Ralph’s telling presented to perfection at March’s VASA Gathering, but because it was not recorded using the usual professional route. The stories on this CD were recorded with Apple’s Garage Band and imported into iTunes, all standard software with Macintosh computers these days.

The CD begins with an introduction detailing how “compost heaps and pounding in tomato stakes” directly led to the narrator’s love affair with the sea. That love is clearly evident as one listens to Thar She Blows, a whale hunting adventure sprinkled with humor that is generously provided by a cantankerous captain. Humor also reigns in Ma’am Hacket’s Compost Heap, in which a first mate tries, in vain, to take charge when an ailing captain with a heightened sense of taste takes to his bed. Both of these stories are told with a thick Maine accent that can be difficult to understand if you are not familiar with it. Also, sea terms are used that may not be understood by land lovers. I found it helpful to listen to each story twice.

The crown jewel on this CD is the story that was told at the VASA Gathering, The Kelpie’s Bride. This haunting story alone is worth the price of the CD and more. Using a wonderfully deep and silky voice, Chatham flawlessly spins this love story of the beautiful and spoiled Constance and her step sister Sarah, a young woman whose beauty takes time and effort. Showcased is the Cinderella theme without the Cinderella villains. Constance and her mother, we are told, are not cruel; only indifferent. Enter a king who puts his true love’s happiness above his own, and fairy tale magic is made. I listened to this story three times just for the beauty of its rich detail and breathtaking images.

The Yarn of the Nancy Bell is a story poem about cannibalism at sea. The Nautilus and the P-3, a funny story about a cultural exchange during the cold war, was recorded live at a story slam held during the 2008 National Storytelling Conference in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Chatham should be proud of the 8.5 score he received.

The CD’s title story The Woman Who Sold Winds is set in Maine, where a witch uses her wares to convince a local captain to bet that his ship will reach Boston ahead of a foreigner’s. Adventure ensues, as the witch works behinds the scene.

With a disclaimer that I have no technical recording expertise whatsoever, I must say that I am impressed with the sound produced by Apple’s Garage Band, coupled with iTunes. I saw no difference between the sound quality of this CD and that of others I have reviewed (though my husband did). This CD would have benefitted from some editing on a few of the stories to eliminate stray um’s and ah’s and the like. There is also too much dead space between stories. These, however, are minor details and, since Chatham churns these CDs out one at a time, can be easily fixed for your listening pleasure. His telling of The Kelpie Bride is now on my short list of haunting stories. This story will lurk in my mind and inspire me to work harder at my own art. Such excellence makes me proud to be a storyteller.

Hellfire and Suicide

2011-07-24T18:29:00.000-07:00

I recently read Jay Asher’s heart wrenching book Thirteen Reasons Why, about a teenage girl named Hannah Baker whose downward slope towards suicide begins with rumors that a boy spread about her. My granddaughter had read the book and could not put it down. She passed it on to me.

The book does a good job of allowing the reader to see inside the girl’s head. I felt her agony and her confusion. In fact, forgotten memories from long ago began to haunt me.

Once I moved to the city, when I was six years old, I became involved with the Methodist Church. The bad thing about the Methodist Church in those days was that if you had a preacher that you LOVED, you knew he would be gone in two years. The good thing was that if you had a minister that you hated, he would be gone in two years.

Pastor Jimmy could not be gone quick enough for me. I had nightmares every time that I heard one of his sermons, which often included graphic depictions of hell delivered melodramatically to a trembling congregation.

“Have you ever burned your finger on an iron?” he would ask. “Remember the agony and the duration of the pain you felt?”

I surely remembered it. Listening to him fooled my brain into making me feel it all over again.

“Just imagine,” he continued, “your entire body being ironed! Imagine the constant, agonizing pain to continue forever and ever! Imagine your throat so dry, so desperate for water which will never be given to you, no matter how hard you beg and cry! That is what hell has waiting for you if you do not follow God’s path!”

I begged for mercy even though I did not know that I had done anything wrong.

Fast forward to my first year of high school, when I developed a serious crush on RT. He was the lead singer in a local band and he had a Beatles haircut. That was enough to float my boat.

I made the mistake of telling a “friend” about my puppy love, and she promptly wrote a made-up love note from me to RT on the blackboard of her homeroom class, which she shared with twenty-five other students, including RT.

I was teased for a few weeks, and I learned that good friends were few and far between. After that, I kept my feelings to myself.

A few months later, however, RT claimed to have been on an actual date with me. He told everyone, “It was cool! She let me do anything I wanted.”

Several weeks passed before I realized why my classmates were avoiding me in the hallways and ignoring me in class. The popular girls would point at me and giggle derisively. The boys would make raunchy suggestions whenever a teacher was out of earshot.

A girl in my homeroom told me what had happened. As it turned out, RT did go out with Linda Wright (my maiden name), but it was not me. He went out with a Linda Wright who went to a rival high school. He never clarified that point, however, and was happy to let everyone think that I was the girl he was talking about.

The more I denied the rumors, the more people believed them. “If the rumors aren’t true, why are you so upset?” they asked. “If you were innocent, you wouldn’t care what people are saying.”

Even those I believed to be my closest friends believed the rumors. Or claimed to believe them. I remain convinced that even those who did not believe the rumors pretended to do so, because the gossip game is intriguing.

Some of my friends actually believed in my innocence, but told me that they could no longer hang around with me because of the potential damage to their own reputations. I became a pariah. I walked the hallways of my school always looking straight ahead, never embarrassing any of my classmates by saying hello to them. I believed myself to be the most hated girl in school.

The rumors followed me through my senior year of high school. I was an outcast because of rumors started by a boy who had never even been in the same room with me, unless you count the auditorium or the cafeteria. The sweet puppy love I had eagerly nurtured had become deadly.

I can understand why the fictional Hannah Baker committed suicide. I seriously considered it myself. Life was a chore, a drudgery to be endured alone with no hope of redemption or happiness.

What stopped me? Pastor Jimmy’s sermons! He said that a person who committed suicide would go straight to hell. No matter how bad my life was, Pastor Jimmy had convinced me that hell was a lot worse. Being scorned and ignored was definitely preferable to being ironed and perpetually thirsty.

I hated Pastor Jimmy’s sermons when I was a child, and I hate them now. And this is a real problem for me, because if I had not heard them, I would have had no reason to stick around. Thanks to those sermons, instead of going the suicide route, I just wished that I had never been born.

I wish that when I was a teenager I had realized just how small a part of life and how insignificant high school is. That is the sermon I wish I had heard. That is the sermon that could have pulled me out of the black hole that was my lot in high school.

I hope that my granddaughters never hear a sermon like the ones Pastor Jimmy delivered and I pray that they will never fall victim to rumors, which are stories meant for harm. I would like to tell both of them what I wish someone had said to me: You are special. You will change the world in ways you cannot imagine. The pettiness of small people will seem laughable when you achieve your success. This world is a better place because you are here.

If the right person had said that to me, I would have believed it.

Second Daddy

2011-06-18T09:17:00.000-07:00

By Linda Goodman
©2011

My first time around, I married a musician who became so besotted by life in the limelight that his family became his albatross, a weight that pulled him down and kept him from living his dream. He walked out on our marriage after three years, our daughter barely two years old.

I was quite naïve in those days. Even though our marriage had been rocky from the start, I was shocked when he left. But I was flabbergasted when he seemingly forgot that he had a daughter, a child upon whom he had doted since the day of her birth. There were no visits, no phone calls, no birthday or Christmas presents – not even a card!

I was doing well financially. I had a decent job that more than met Melanie’s and my material needs. In fact, once I recovered from the shock of being left, life was pretty good. I was single and on my own for the very first time in my life, and I was enjoying the freedom.

Melanie seemed fine, as well. She did not seem to miss her father at all. She was a happy child….until she started school. That is when she became acquainted with other children of divorced parents and realized that their fathers visited them: actually picked them up and took them to exciting places like the zoo, the movies, ball games. In the summer, their fathers took them on great vacations.

“Why doesn’t my father visit me?” she asked.

“He lives in New York,” I told her. “It’s too far away.”

“But,” she countered, “he could call on the phone, couldn’t he?”

“Well…..yes,” I stammered. “I guess he could call.”

With that she began a ritual. Every evening after supper, she would pull her little chair up to the telephone and wait: hoping, praying, willing the phone to ring. It never did.

I swallowed my pride and asked my ex-husband’s mother for his phone number. “Melanie really wants to talk to you,” I told him. “Can you give her a call?”

“It’s long distance,” he told me. “I can’t afford it.”

I was not about to let him off that easily. “Call collect! I’ll accept the charges.”

“Uhm…..I can to that,” he agreed.

The call never came, and night after night I would lie in my bed listening to my daughter cry herself to sleep in the next room.

After Melanie finally accepted the fact that her father was not going to be a part of her life, she made up a story to tell her friends. “My father works for the CIA. He spies on Communists! He can’t come and visit me because it would put my life in danger.”

My friends asked me if I thought I would ever remarry. “Only,” I replied, “if I meet someone who loves Melanie as much as I do.”

They shook their heads. “You’re setting your sites too high. You’ll never find anyone like that.”

That did not concern me. “I’ll just stay single then,” I insisted.

In fact, I had decided that I would not date at all until I had my head on straight. I did not want to be one of those needy women who hastily remarry because they cannot bear to be alone. I wanted to be confident that I could take care of myself, so that any man I welcomed into my life would be my equal, not my superior. Attaining that level of confidence took two years.

When I finally did start dating, it seemed that I met every jerk on the East Coast - men who expected me to cook them a gourmet dinner and pay a babysitter to keep my daughter while we dined. There were a few scary experiences, too – scary enough to make me decide not to date anyone again unless I was given a recommendation by a trusted friend.

I met Phil at Jerry’s, a singles bar/disco on Military Highway in Chesapeake, Virginia. I normally did not hang out at such places, but my friend Pat was nursing a broken heart and thought that going there and dancing Friday night away would make her feel better. I decided to go with her.

Things were going well at Jerry’s. Pat had hooked up with other friends and a line of potential dance partners was waiting its turn to twirl her around the floor. I was envying her marvelous dancing as I waved goodbye to her.

Suddenly, I felt a light tap on my right shoulder. Not expecting anyone to ask me to dance, I responded with a shrill scream and quickly turned around to look up into the face of man who looked like John Ritter on stilts. His face was crimson as he stammered, “I’m sorry. I…I didn’t mean to scare the hell out of you. I just wanted to ask you to dance.”

Embarrassed by my hysterical scream, I responded, “Well, then, let’s dance.”

I have never been a good dancer. In fact, during this age of political correctness I have discovered that I am rhythmically impaired. Fortunately, though, a slow song was playing that night, and I managed to get through it without stepping on his toes (though he did mention years later that I had “led”).

The song ended and, still blushing, he asked if he could sit at my table. Being intrigued by a man who could actually blush, I replied, “Sure!” We talked for a while. My instincts said that he was a nice guy.

Pat came back to the table and a smile spread across her face when she saw him sitting beside me. “Hi, Phil,” she greeted him. “I haven’t seen you in years.” As it turned out, Phil used to date Pat’s sister when they were in high school. Pat pulled me aside later and enthused, “Linda, that is one nice guy!” I had my recommendation from a trusted friend!

Phil lived in the Washington, D.C. area and was in town for the Labor Day weekend, so I invited him to dinner Saturday night. As I opened the door to let him in, Melanie peered at him from behind me.

Once again, his face reddened. “I didn’t know your daughter was going to be here,” he said.

Taken aback by that comment, I inquired, as sarcastically as possible, “Is that a problem?”

He shook his head. “Oh, no!” he insisted. “It’s just that….well, I brought this bottle of wine.” He pulled a bottle of Chardonnay from behind his back. “And I don’t believe in drinking in front of children.”

I liked this man! “No worries,” I insisted. “We can drink it another time.”

During dinner, after he had assured Melanie that he liked Star Wars (“I’ve seen each episode three times!"), Melanie was won over as well.

After that, Phil came to see us every other weekend. I was managing a furniture store in downtown Portsmouth at the time and worked Saturdays. He insisted that I give my mom (who kept Melanie while I worked on weekends) Saturdays off when he was in town so that he could spend time with Melanie.

Phil took Melanie to all her Saturday soccer games (her girlfriends thought he was a dream). He took her to what had been his favorite fishing hole when he was a boy in Virginia Beach. He bought her a bike and taught her how to ride it.

Once Saturday evening, as the three of us were having dinner, Melanie asked him “Phil, is it okay for me to call you Dad?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he replied, blushing, “You can call me Dad as soon as your mom and I get married.”

I asked him later if that was a marriage proposal.

“I guess so,” he answered.

On the night before our wedding, Phil took Melanie to dinner, just the two of them. After their meal, he presented her with a ruby and diamond ring. “Tomorrow,” her told her, “I will be giving your mother a ring to symbolize my commitment to spend the rest of my life with her. I am giving you this ring because I want you to know that I am making that same commitment to you.”

When Melanie came home that evening, with tears in her eyes she showed me her ring and recited what Phil had said to her.

I drew her into my arms for a hug and said, “I think that Phil is going to be a pretty good father.”

“He’s better than a father,” she whispered. “He’s a daddy.”

Phil and I have been married for twenty-eight years now. Phil is a wonderful grandfather, and he still performs his daddy duties admirably.

When people refer to Phil as Melanie’s second daddy she always corrects them, “He’s not my second daddy.” She insists. “ He’s my only daddy.”

The Bone Spindle

2011-06-15T13:09:00.000-07:00

By Anne Sheldon

Available from Aqueduct Press, $9.00
Website: www.aqueductpress.com

Book Reviewed By Linda Goodman

On June 4, I had the pleasure of hearing and seeing Anne Sheldon tell stories at the 31st Annual Washington, D.C. Folk Festival. She and storyteller Jane Dorfman partnered to tell three different versions of the Rumpelstiltskin tale. All were delightful, but it was the third tale, Rumpelstiltskin’s Lament, told from his point of view, that convinced me I needed to buy Anne’s book, The Bone Spindle, a collection of fourteen stories, most in poetry form, centering upon women whose lives are spent working with spinning wheels, spindles, and knitting needles.

“Why is it such a bad thing to want the child?” Rumpelstiltskin asks.
“Straw into gold? I would have taught him spin straw into moonlight!” he laments. Such beautiful imagery is scattered throughout each story, leaving the reader aching with the raw emotions so delicately brought to the surface.

The Story of Arachne is gut-wrenching as we see her father running to and fro, doing her bidding in spite of her nasty disposition; sobbing uncontrollably as he stands by helplessly while Athena exacts a too cruel revenge. Told in verse, it is an ethereal warning against taunting the gods.

Dream from My Mother’s House tells a haunting story, one that will visit me in my dreams. Susan, a young girl who has lost her brother, a friend, and a possible suitor to a terrible accident, is trying to cope with tragedy. When a crow leads her to a circle of ghosts on Halloween night, she wants to hug her brother, but she cannot, because she wonders“…what if I hugged him and my arms were empty?” And her suitor? Of him she says, “he wasn’t the Lewis I missed the most, and this Lewis didn’t miss me.” While this story is prose, verse is sprinkled throughout, to amazing and heartbreaking effect:

Slip the needle through and up.
Tuck the yarn around.
Dip the needle under.
Someone’s in the ground.

A man and wife lose their daughter, a young girl who appeared at their door one day to weave their life of poverty into one of riches in The Crane Maiden.

In fairy tales,
there’s a thing you must not do
if you love someone
who’s not of your own kind.

The bone spindle is an instrument capable of bringing both danger and comfort. This is a book that should be kept by your bedside, for those nights when sleep will not come; when you need assurance that even in the darkest hours, beauty can eclipse the pain.

Stuck

2011-06-13T13:57:00.000-07:00

By Becky Mushko

Book Review

Available from Cedar Creek Publishing. Phone: 800-431-1579.
Email: cedarcreekbooks@aol.com. $15.00.
Also available through Amazon.com and other online distributors
Becky Mushko’s website: www.beckymushko.com
Cedar Creek Author Page: www.cedarcreekauthors.com/Becky Mushko.html

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

Eleven year old Jacie Addison barely has a chance to deal with an obnoxious classmate and grieve her dead mother when she finds out that her father plans to marry again and move to a rural part of the state that is hours from her friends and her home. Understandably, she feels stuck in a situation over which she has no control and makes plans to run away. What child wouldn’t harbor such feelings in this situation?

Three weeks in a summer horse camp give her a new motto in life: “go forward and believe in it.” As long as she uses this as her mantra, things seem to work out. She makes new friends, wins a blue ribbon, and develops a love for horses.

Such wisdom does not apply, however, where her new stepmother, Liz, is concerned. To Jacie, Liz is a wicked witch who is trying to take who mother’s place. To add insult to injury, Liz also has temporary responsibility for her bratty twin nephews, and Jacie has to watch over them while Liz works. Could a girl’s summer get any worse?

Time passes, however, and Jacie is a smart girl. She gradually realizes that she is not the only one who is stuck. In fact, almost everyone in her life is stuck, including a ghost that she meets in the woods near her new rural home on Smith Mountain Lake. Before life can go on, they must all “go forward and believe in it.” That is the only way that they will get unstuck.

While Mushko wrote this book for middle grade students, I found it to be an enjoyable read for adults, as well. A good portion of this book’s plot takes place at horse camp, and Mushko, a third generation owner of her family farm in Union Hall, Virginia, knows her way around a farm. I learned a great deal about horses from this read. As one who has never ridden a horse, I appreciated Mushko’s careful attention to detail as she chronicled the chores, anxieties, and joys of learning to care for and ride a horse.

Mushko wisely makes Callie, the ghost in this story, a mother who is in search of her child. Callie helps Jacie understand that, when a mother can no longer take care of her own child, that mother can be happy that a nurturing stepmother is willing to take over her duties.

A study and discussion guide at the end of this book lists questions for each chapter and assures a good understanding of the book’s themes for younger readers. Musko’s experience as a middle school, high school, and college level teacher are evident.

Blended families and those who have lost loved ones will readily identify with Jacie and her predicament. Jacie is a child we have all known. She is endearing and memorable. She makes us realize that it is indeed possible to “go forward and believe in it.

The Other Linda Goodman

2011-06-05T14:27:00.000-07:00

© Linda Goodman 2010

I began my career as a professional storyteller in January of 1989, just two months after attending the first Tellabration!, which at that time was a Connecticut event only. In November of 1989, I appeared as a teller in the second annual Tellabration! in Enfield, Connecticut. The story I shared was The March, which was about my father’s participation in a Civil Rights march in 1966.

I guess the audience enjoyed the story, because the next day my phone started ringing and by the end of the next week I had over a dozen performances booked. I was on cloud nine! As the months passed, I developed a confidence in my storytelling abilities that prompted me to start making cold calls to various venues.

One of the venues that I visited was the Congregational Church on Main Street in downtown Hartford, Connecticut. The good folks there agreed to let me audition to perform at their Wednesday lunch time series, which was very popular with those who worked downtown. The audition committee decided that I should be their entertainment for the Halloween lunch on the last Wednesday in October. I was psyched!

About a week before the Halloween performance, I got a phone call from the Director of the church series. She was so excited she could hardly contain herself. “I can’t believe it!” She squealed. “We are completely sold out!”

I did not know what to think. “Well…...” I stammered, “Storytelling is pretty popular at Halloween.”

“That’s not it!” she retorted. “Almost everyone calling is asking about you. They all want to know if Linda Goodman is really going to be here. They are coming because of you!”

I was astounded. I had been telling professionally for only one year. This would be my first performance in Hartford. How in the world did they even know about me? My vanity answered: When you’re good, word gets around.

On the day of the show, I walked into a room with an audience that had standing room only. Their reactions to my stories were intoxicating. They laughed at all the right spots, gasped and screamed in the appropriate places, and applauded wildly throughout. The response was so overwhelming that my program took twice the amount of time that was allotted. At the end I received a thundering standing ovation that lasted for a good five minutes.

After the show was over, a long line of audience members stood waiting to speak to me. I noticed that many of them had books in their hands. The first woman was so effusive in her praise that I was actually embarrassed. Then suddenly she thrust a book into my hands. “Will you please sign my copy of Star Signs?” she pleaded.

I looked at the book. Sure enough, the author was Linda Goodman, Astrologer.

“I’m sorry, “I told my disappointed new fan. “I’m not that Linda Goodman.” The fact of the matter was that I had never even heard of Linda Goodman the Astrologer.

Word of my true identity filtered back through the line and several angry outbursts occurred. After I recovered from my horror, I actually found them to be amusing:

“You Imposter!”

“How can you call yourself by her name?”

“That’s like saying you’re Wyatt Earp just because you have the same name!”

“But you must have enjoyed my show. You gave me a standing ovation!” I responded.

“That’s because we thought you were her! You’re a fraud!”

“I’m not a fraud!” I protested. “I am Linda Goodman!”

One smug woman summed it all up: “You may be A Linda Goodman, but you’ll never be THE Linda Goodman!”

In the years since then, I have been mistaken for THE Linda Goodman many times. People just hear the name and make assumptions. It has happened so often that when I get a call or an email from someone I don’t know, inquiring about my work, I make a disclaimer early on: I am not Linda Goodman the Astrologer.

Last week I got a call from someone in Oregon who wanted to know if I would sign her copy of my book if she sent it to me with return postage.

“I’m not the astrologer,” I told her.

“What astrologer?” she asked. “I’m looking for Linda Goodman the Storyteller, the author of Daughters of the Appalachians.”

If only I could see that smug Harford woman again, I would tell her a thing or two. I may not be THE Linda Goodman, but I am certainly THE OTHER Linda Goodman.

Second Hand Rose

2011-06-01T13:48:00.000-07:00

Compact Disc Review

Available from Ellouise Schoettler

Email: ellouise9112@ellouisestory.com. 301-951-1213 $15.00
Recommended for teens and adults.

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

This CD, recorded live at Strathmore Hall Arts Center in Rockville, Maryland in April, 2007, embraces an environmental theme: reduce, reuse, and recycle. All the stories on this CD extol these virtues.

The Thrifty Tailor is an ancient folktale about a man whose love for his beautiful coat prevents him from discarding it when it gets worn out. Creatively thinking outside the box allows him to preserve the fabric he cannot do without.

In the story Handmade, a news article that claims young girls are learning to sew again brings back nostalgic memories of treadle sewing machines and explains the difference between handmade and homemade.

The Wedding Dress recalls the memory of a bride who finds the wedding gown of her dreams in a second hand shop after the wedding. She buys the dress anyway, planning to save it for her daughters. Of course, younger generations have varying tastes that do not necessarily value old world quality or style. What to do? I won’t give away the ending, but suffice it to say that art plays a big part in solving this dilemma.

The Cussing Cover, collected by folklorists Randy Russell and Janet Barnett and recorded with permission, tells the eerie tale of Mavis Estep, who was born in a thunderstorm and, therefore, fears a death by lightening. She extracts promises from her husband, and disaster results when those promises are not kept.

What could be worse than traveling to a funeral, only to discover that one’s suit has been left behind? Good Will Mourning reveals that the solution to this problem lies in thrift, artistic vision, and a little help from friends.

The last story on this CD, Secondhand, is cute, short, and funny – the perfect ending to this delightful recording.

Live recordings often sacrifice sound quality for the sake of the energy that only a live audience can bring. In some places, this CD’s sound fades in and out, but the stories are so well written and so well told that the few sound flaws are easily forgiven. Ellouise Schoettler has once again produced a well-rounded and enjoyable recording. It pays homage to history, folklore, and environmental responsibility. It is educational, entertaining, and endearing. Those who love such stories will be glad to hear this CD.

Linda Goodman Tells The Bobbie Pins

2011-05-30T13:17:00.000-07:00

Hurtful Hospitality

2011-05-14T08:50:00.000-07:00

©2011 Linda Goodman

When my daughter, Melanie, was seven years old, I began a tradition of allowing her to have an overnight pajama party on her birthday. The first year I allowed her to invite any and every little girl that she wanted. I even went a step further and invited girls that she did not even know. A good time was had by all, but it took me three days to clear the debris and make my apartment feel like a home again.

On the occasion of her thirteenth birthday, I decided to make a change. That year I told Melanie that she could invite on six girls to her party.

Melanie, of course, protested. She insisted that she had too many friends to invite only six. “How do I decided who to invite? Is it fair to leave someone out?” she asked.

I replied, “People get left out all the time. It’s part of growing up. Just pick the six girls you like best and be done with it!”

Melanie’s birthday brought six lovely girls to my townhouse in Baltimore. My husband and I gave them our recreation room in the basement for the night. There was plenty of food, lots of videos, loud (but not too loud) music, and, I am sure, plenty of stories exchanged as they readied their sleeping bags to settle down for the evening.

In the morning, my husband served up a nice breakfast of eggs, bacon, and pancakes. By late morning all my daughter’s guests had departed for home. I declared that this had been the best party ever. Melanie, however, was strangely and uncharacteristically silent.

In the early afternoon there was a knock at the front door. When I opened the door, I found Ruth standing there. In her hands she held a present wrapped in red paper.

Ruth had not been invited to Melanie’s party. She was a young girl who was awkward in social situations. She and Melanie got on quite well when just the two of them were together, but she grew shy, almost to the point of invisibility, when other girls joined them. Perhaps that is why Melanie chose not to include her among the six girls that she invited to the party.

When Melanie saw Ruth, the two girls ran to one another and, without speaking, hugged. The hug was followed by tears: Ruth’s because she had not been included among the favored few; Melanie’s because she had caused her friend pain; and mine, because I was ashamed of my own thoughtlessness, which had harmed, not only my daughter, but also a young girl whose life was difficult enough before she realized that she did not rank high enough on the scale of friendship to be invited to a my daughter’s party.

The gift that Ruth had brought was a musical jewelry box with a tiny ballerina dancing atop its mirrored lid. I could tell it was not new. I am sure that Melanie, too, recognized this. Ruth had brought Melanie one of her own most treasured possessions, and Melanie declared that Ruth had brought her the best birthday present she had ever gotten. Was she talking about the jewelry box? Or was she talking about Ruth’s forgiveness and unconditional friendship?

In just a few hours, I had our basement back in order. Its quick restoration to my meticulous standards, however, did not feel as good as I thought it would. To have offered no hospitality, I realized, would have been a better choice than offfering hurtful hospitality.

On Melanie’s fourteenth birthday, I allowed her to invite any and every girl that she wanted.

Diving and Emerging

2011-05-03T07:53:00.000-07:00

Compact Disc Review

Available from Regi Carpenter at www.soaringstories.com. Email: soaringstories@gmaill.com. $15.00 (includes shipping and handling) Recommended for teens and adults.

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

As I listened to Regi Carpenter’s CD Bendable Barbies, I thought to myself, storytelling doesn’t get any better than this. Too bad lightening doesn’t strike twice.

But sometimes lightening does strike twice. Diving and Emerging goes a step beyond Bendable Barbies to combine Carpenter’s glorious singing voice (think Judy Collins), her beautifully crafted stories, and Peter Dodge’s haunting, lovely instrumentals. Diving and Emerging is a CD that I will listen to over and over again (a rarity for me). It is a work of art and it deserves accolades. Carpenter has gone deep into the waters, pulling from its murky depths the heart and soul of life’s rawest moments and making them palatable for the uninitiated. Not everyone will understand, but just because I do not understand Picasso does not mean that he is not a great artist. Those who recognize the spoken word as an art form will be captivated by these soul-wrenching tales.

The first story on the CD, The Lucky Caul, begins with Carpenter’s rendition of Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child before segueing into the story of her difficult birth, one in which both mother and child died and were brought back. Questions that began that day still haunt mother and child today. One cannot help but wonder if having the answers would make a difference. Life is a quest that is not meant to be tied into a tight little bundle.

Dead Man’s Float is set on the St. Lawrence River, the largest fresh water seaway in the world, where Carpenter walks on fifteen inches of ice in the winter and sneaks fishing trips in the spring and summer, all the while birthing and sharing childhood myths. The river, she tells us, is like a mother, both loving and treacherous. The joy it births is tempered by sorrow. And yet a little girl who can demonstrate perfectly the proper form for the dead man’s float cannot stay away, anymore than she can stop breathing.

Woman of the Sea is a Selkie tale that speaks to loneliness, star-crossed love, and the magnetic pull of home. We may have children and we may nurture a family, but that does not change who we are at our core. Like the woman in this story, some cannot resist returning to that from which they came.

Hidden Treasures presents as a metaphor for life a recurring dream set in water that is the texture of “parfait in a Tupperware cup.” Life is a constant diving and emerging in a search of one’s self. Sometimes it can take years to find the truth of what you are looking for.

The music that Peter Dodge composed to accompany these stories perfectly sets and sustains the dreamlike quality of the recording. It is soothing, like a calm river on a still summer’s day. Dodge and Carpenter are a well-matched team.

I cannot wait to share this CD with my friends. There is much substance in these stories that will keep us chewing for hours, perhaps even days. They may even prompt us to bear our own souls in an attempt to answer life’s never-ending questions. These are the kinds of stories that give birth to more stories. What a rich and wondrous gift!

Charity on Hold

2011-04-29T14:58:00.000-07:00

©2011, Linda Goodman

In March, while telling stories at the Tales of the Lonesome Pine Bookstore in Big Stone Gap, Virginia, I came across a copy of Studs Terkel’s Hard Times, a book of first person stories about life during the Great Depression. One of the stories was about a father who refused to take charity, even refusing to let his wife accept milk for their baby. The baby died of starvation.

That story brought back long buried memories to me. I was born in St Paul, Virginia, a coal mining town in the Appalachian Mountains, in 1952. People who know how my family lived say that I was born into “abject poverty.” My father was a licensed electrician, but there was no work; actually there was work but no one had money to pay for it. My family of six lived in a rented one room shack. Daddy got $30 a month disability from the Veterans Administration. He hunted, fished, and planted a garden to put food on the table.

My parents felt that it was all right to do charitable works for others, but they were too proud to take charity themselves. That is why we children were never allowed to go meet the Santa Train at Christmas time. That is way we never accepted help from Save the Children.

When I read the story in Hard Times, I wondered what my father would have done in the same situation. Would he have accepted charity if it meant the difference between life and death for one of his children? I mused on this for several days, not liking the feeling that I was wrong about my father; that he was perhaps not as wise and reasonable as I had always believed.

Finally, a story that my mother had once told me came to my mind. When I was five years old, I was sick and there was no money for a doctor. Momma treated me herself with home remedies, but after a day or two I became incoherent, babbling on about strange hallucinations of giant cats and rabid dogs. I actually remember parts of this, the strange dreams and my mother’s frantic ministrations.

The February air was bone cold and there was snow on the ground. My father put on his tattered overcoat and walked to town to get a doctor. I do not know how many miles he had to walk, but my mother said he was gone for hours. The doctor he found drove my father back to our home and diagnosed me with pneumonia. He gave me a shot of penicillin (I sure remember that!) and my parents some tablets to give me later. He said I was near death, and he hoped that I would recover.

My father offered the doctor a smoked ham that had been given to us by his brother, but the doctor refused to take it. My father then offered some of the fruits my mother had canned. The doctors said not to worry about it. “Just pay me when you can,” he told my father. Then he left.

As poor as we were, my father had vowed that he would never leave the mountains. He had lived with the land all of his life and would not live apart from it.

After Dr. Cox left our home that day, however, my father made the decision to apply for a job at the Norfolk Naval Shipyard in Portsmouth, Virginia. He did so as soon as I hit the road to recovery. Six weeks later, he was called to come to Portsmouth for an examination. He was offered a job immediately. It was his first steady job. He was fifty years old.

The first thing he did when he got his first paycheck was to pay Dr. Cox’s bill. He did that even before setting aside money to bring our family to the city. Dr. Cox was astounded. He sent back a letter thanking my father and saying that he was the first person who promised to pay him later who ever actually did so.

That memory comforts me. It makes me realize that my father valued his family’s well-being above his pride. He would not accept straight-out charity, but he could live with accepting charity on hold.

The 10th Anniversary VASA Gathering

2011-03-28T18:20:00.000-07:00

March 18-20, 2011

Massanetta Springs Camp and Conference Center
Harrisonburg, VA

The Blue Ridge Mountains were lovely, and the 10th anniversary VASA Gathering was sweet!

A Friday evening concert featuring Lynn Ruehlmann, Donna Will, and Joan and Mac Swift kicked of the event. Lynn shared her experience of adopting her first child. We, the audience, felt her joy and her apprehension, while at the same time learning quite a bit about stage managing an opera. Donna made us laugh as she told a personal story involving a practical joke on a Volkswagen bug’s puzzled owner. Joan and Mac did what they do better than anyone else: perform a Jack tale in tandem.

Following the Friday concert, Megan Hicks did a special performance of her story The Book of Joe Bob, which paid tribute to those whose lives have been disrupted by natural disasters.

Saturday morning began bright and early with a keynote by Michael Reno Harrell. He made several points that hit home with me. Like most others, I had bought into the myth that the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tennessee began in 1972 with 20 people gathered around some haystacks and a wagon. Not so, according to Harrell. Bill Monroe kicked off the festival in a gymnasium filled with 500 people. The wagon, featuring Ray Hicks, appeared the next day and our story began. I found it ironic that our own history was a story. Dramatic license, as always in the storytelling realm, ruled.

Other points in Harrell’s keynote:

The average age of a person attending the National Storytelling Festival in 2010 was fifty-five. The average age of a person attending the festival twenty years ago was also fifty-five. I found this comforting. I had thought that our audience was getting older and that there was no new blood coming in. The truth of the matter, it seems, is that people don’t really have time to spend an entire weekend at a festival until the kids are grown.

The distinction between storytellers and comedians: Comedians tell funny stories; Storytellers tell stories funny. I thought that was a good analogy, though I prefer stories of a serious nature.

Regarding the current bankrupt status of the International Storytelling Center, storytelling will win because those of us who love it will take care of it.

Harrell’s keynote was followed by his workshop on using humor in stories. Did you know that, according to Mark Twain, the humorous story is American? Quotes from other famous men on humor:

“Humor can be dissected as a frog can, but the innards are destroyed.” E.B White

“Humor is emotional chaos to remember in tranquility.” Thurber

Saturday afternoon was filled by two workshops and an alternative space. I heard good things about Ellouise Schoettler’s workshop Putting Flesh on Old Bones, a lesson in how to mine stories from genealogy. Susanna Holstein’s ballad workshop was also well received. I did not get to attend either workshop because I was performing stories from my show Shattered Silence, which was well received. I did catch the tail end of Susanna’s workshop and got to hear her beautiful voice sing a few of those enchanting ballads.

Saturday night’s concert was Aces! Ralph Chatham opened with a haunting version of the Kelpie Bride. Geraldine Buckley followed with two hilarious stories, one about the first time she went to prison (you had to be there!) and another about being bored in paradise.

The end of the evening belonged to Michael Reno Harrell, and he OWNED the stage. I loved his story about the time he was the recipient of one Christmas miracle while initiating another.

Story swaps were held throughout the weekend. I am not a night owl, so I missed the Friday and Saturday night swaps, but I did get to attend two hours of swaps on Sunday morning. As usual, several stories that I will cherish were told in the swaps. I will never forget Dr. Mwizenge Tembo’s story of his brother visiting from Kenya. His brother was so excited about the things that he learned in the United States that he could not wait to get home and bring some of the technology to his people. As a result of what he learned here and took home, including ways to make water more accessible for his people, he became a leader in his village.

The weekend ended at noon with puns, bouncing around like rubber balls. The cool thing about a small conference is that by the end of the weekend, you have heard each person attending tell at least once. By the end of the weekend we were a family. I cannot wait to get together again.

Shattered Silence

2011-03-17T14:20:00.000-07:00

A Performance Showcase to be presented at the 10th Annual VASA Gathering

Massanetta Springs Camp and Conference Center, 712 Massanetta Springs Road, Harrisonburg,Virginia 22801
March 19, 2011

1:10 p.m.

I am the child of two parents who were abused as children. When I say abused, I do not mean that they were spanked. My mother literally went to bed at night not knowing if she would live to see another day.

When my grandfather, my mother’s father and abuser, passed away, my mother refused to attend his funeral. On the day he was buried, I went to my parents’ apartment after work. I found my mother sitting in her bedroom rocking in the dark.

I sat down on the bed beside her, and by the light of the moon, I could see that her face was streaked with tears. I took her hands in mine and said softly, “Mama, he was a sick, sick man. But in own way, he did love you.

She looked at me like I was out of my mind! She quickly leaned forward and raised her hand in a fist. I fully expected her to strike me. But then she let out her breath, leaned back against the rocker, and sighed, “I reckon he did. I reckon he almost loved me to death.”

Thus began my journey to try to understand the violent heritage from which I had been spared. Several women who had lived through similar circumstances, and who shall remain nameless, answered my call and took me on journeys that changed my life forever. They had walked through the fire and had come out victorious. Their strength is amazing.

Shattered Silence consists of four stories. In this presentation I will be sharing two of them. Parts of these stories may be offensive. I make no apologies for that. While not graphic, these stories are not pretty. They are not fairy tales. They are real life, and real life can be ugly.

If you take this journey with me, know that no matter how narrow or how long the tunnel, there is a light at the other side. Regardless of how it begins, life can be so sweet!

Shattered Silence is a love letter to my mother, and to all innocents who were robbed of their childhoods by monsters.

The 2011 VASA Gathering Schedule

2011-03-17T13:27:00.000-07:00

At Massanetta Springs in Harrisonburg, Virginia

Friday, March 18: All activities in Greenwood

7:30-8:45 Welcome & VASA Tellers Concert: Mack & Joan Swift, Donna Will, Lynn Ruehlmann

9-9:45 Social

9:45-11:00 Midnight Cabaret story swap

Saturday, March 19:
8-breakfast All meals served in dining hall of old hotel

9:10-10:05 Announcements

Keynote: Michael Reno Harrell Greenwood (Gathering room in Lodge)

10:05-10:20 Break

10:20-11:50 Workshop 3: Michael Reno; What Makes a Story Funny?”
Greenwood

12-1:00 Lunch

1:10-2:40 Workshop 1 “Put Flesh on Old Bones” Hastings (small room in Lodge)

Workshop 2 “Turning Singing Tale into Told Tale” Greenwood

Linda Goodman Showcase: “Shattered Silence” Knox (lower level of Stewart)

2:55-4:25 Workshop 1 Hastings
Workshop 2 Greenwood

4:45-5:30 General VASA Meeting w/elections Greenwood

6:00 Dinner

7:30-9:15 Concert: Ralph Chatham, Geraldine Buckley, Michael Reno Harrell

9:15-10 Basket Auction/Social

10:15 until… Story swap Greenwood

Sunday, March 20

8:00 Breakfast

Rest of activities in Greenwood

9-10 Swap

10-10:30 Break

10:30-11:30 Inspirational stories

11:30 Closing with PUNS

Penny for Your Thoughts

2011-03-01T16:38:00.000-08:00

CD Review

Written and performed by Diane Ferlatte, with Erik Pearson. Order by emailing diane@dianeferlatte.com or visit www.dianeferlatte.com

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

Diane Ferlatte has a rich, silky voice that is full of soul and heart. I could listen to her recite multiplication tables for hours and never feel board. Imagine how pleasant it is to hear her telling stories.

I first heard Diane at the Three Apples Storytelling Festival in Harvard, Massachusetts. I was spellbound by her gentle wisdom, coupled with spurts of energy that had me springing upright in my seat. I have heard her many times since, and she never fails to delight her audience.

Three of the stories on this CD are ones I have not heard before, including Next Town, in which Ferlatte shares a tale about a family road trip from California to Louisiana in the midst of a steaming, hot summer in her childhood. Her wise mother prepares food for the trip, but it disappears much sooner than expected. In the segregated south, when many restaurants refused service to black people, Ferlatte learned that people can hate others without even knowing them.

My Black Day, also new to me, relates an encounter with a French exchange student that leads to a deep friendship. Friendship and love, we learn, transcends cultural barriers. And singing a familiar song, by the way, can make everything all right if we put our problems behind us and concentrate on the music.

You Never Know What the End’s Gonna Be is the story of how the African American Ferlatte and her English husband won over her mother-in-law, who refused to attend their wedding. What was their secret? Patience, persistence, conversation, and two irresistible grandchildren. They included this reluctant grandmother in their lives, despite her resistance, and won her over. This story speaks to the comfort that only a loving family can provide.

I Got Your back begins with an instrumental version of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, morphs into a folktale about an old woman who sacrifices everything to save the people of her village, and ends with a tribute to the late, great J.J Reneaux. Sweet memories…how they linger.

Penny for Your Thoughts, the third story new to me on this CD, shows how two cultures, as well as two generations, can come together if they talk honestly to one another. “The most important person in your life is the one you are with right now,” Ferlatte affirms. Lean on Me is the perfect song to end this series of stories about lessons learned on life’s journey.

Ferlatte’s stories, vocals are songs are well complemented by Erik Pearson’s deep vocals, banjo, guitar, and bass. Together they shine a light on interactions between people who are open to new understandings of old philosophies. Even in this chaotic world, they make peace seem possible.

Making the Best of a Taxing Situation

2011-02-20T11:42:00.000-08:00

by Linda Goodman

In less than two months, federal tax returns for 2010 are due. As some of you know, in addition to being a storyteller, I am an accountant. This tax season I am helping out at a small CPA firm. Some issues you should be aware of:

1. According to a letter to the editor titled No Coercion? Tell That to the IRS in the February 20 issue of The Richmond Times Dispatch, the federal government is hiring 16,500 more IRS agents and purchasing Remington riot shotguns for that agency. I personally know that 112 extra agents were hired in Richmond alone (don’t know about any shotguns here, though). I know a few of them very well. They are good people, but they have been hired to do a job and they have to do it.

2. An article titled Tax Collection Conundrum on the front page of the Moneywise section of the same issue states that the IRS is steadily increasing the number of tax liens and levies it files against taxpayers, “despite the high number of Americans who are unable to pay their taxes.”

3. This same article states that the IRS is “going after anyone who owes money, not just the wealthy who may have found loopholes or people who hide money in offshore accounts, and the practice is inflicting unnecessary harm, according to National Taxpayer Advocate Nina E. Olson.” Tax liens damage a taxpayer’s credit and stay on a taxpayer’s credit report for 7 years, once resolved. Tax liens can put a small business out of business, as they render inaccessible the credit necessary to do business.

4. The IRS is claiming that it is taking steps to help taxpayers who are victims of our recession ridden economy. From what I am hearing, that is not true.

Some Advice:
Word has it that the IRS is scrutinizing schedule C’s. If you are a self-employed storyteller, you must file a schedule C. Make sure you keep all documentation for any income you have received and all expenses you have recorded.

The IRS is in some cases disallowing mileage logs. Make sure you mileage log is written and that it contains all the necessary requirements, which you can find on the IRS website: www.irs.gov.

The IRS is also scrutinizing non-cash donations. If you make non-cash donations, keep a detailed list of what you have donated. The list should include:

1. Date the item was acquired
2. Original cost
3. Name and address of agency accepting the donation
4. Date of donation
5. Fair Market Value at the time of donation
6. Method used to determine the fair market value

Storytellers cannot deduct the price of the clothing in which they perform unless it is exclusively for particular shows and cannot be worn elsewhere. For instance, someone who does historical storytelling in period costumes can deduct the cost of costumes; If you tell stories wearing a colorful cloak because you want to wear something eye-catching, however, you cannot deduct the cost of the cloak. Rule of thumb: When you are dressed in your storytelling garb, if someone doesn’t look at you and think, hey! That’s a performer! – don’t deduct the price of your outfit.

You can deduct miles traveled to a free performance for a 501(c)(3), but your time cannot be deducted. You get no deduction for the travel time or the show.

Be sure to include all your income on your tax return. A hiring agency must send you a 1099 MISC if it paid you $600 or more. You, however, must declare the income, regardless of the amount.

If you should get audited, and taxes and penalties are unjustly assessed, it can take a year or longer to get the problem resolved. Take deductions to which you are entitled, but don’t take chances.

A few years ago, when I was teaching my workshop Making the Best of a Taxing Situation at a storytelling conference, I was asked if I actually knew any storytellers who had been audited. I replied that I knew two. By the end of the conference, I knew six. Six out of the 200 people at the conference had been audited. None of them had pretty stories to tell.

At that time, only .58% of this country’s population was audited, on average. Today that percentage is 1.01%, almost double. If you have a red flag (a schedule C, non-cash donations), your odds of being audited are greater. This country has a huge deficit. Collecting taxes through whatever means is possible is being seen as a way to reduce that deficit. Beware.

The Bully Billy Goat

2011-02-16T16:25:00.001-08:00

DVD Review

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

By Priscilla Howe. Available at www.priscillahowe.com. (click on Listen to My Stories and from that page click on the CDBaby link to buy this DVD) Email: Priscilla@priscillahowe.com. $12.00. Suggested ages: 3 - 10 years

I first saw Priscilla Howe in April 1989 at the Connecticut Storytelling Festival. She was telling a story about a dragon who loved peanut butter, and everyone listening to her was enchanted. More than twenty years later, Accompanied by her puppet Trixie, she is as enchanting as ever.

The Bully Billy Goat is a collection of five stories, one song, and a movement activity. There is also a bonus story.

The stories come from around the world. The title story, from Poland, is about a billy goat that stations himself in a fox’s den and threatens to head-butt all those who try to make him leave. Luckily for a fox, a wolf, and a bear, a little hedgehog turns the tables on the bully.

The Pancake, from Holland, is reminiscent of The Gingerbread Man, as a pancake accidentally flipped to the floor decides to run away to see the world. Howe allows members of her young audience, to their delight, to choose the animals that the pancake encounters on its journey.

The Bellybutton Bird, a story from Japan, tells of a desperately poor man who, rather than feeling sorry for himself, delights in being serenaded by a bird that later saves him from execution and helps him gain great wealth.

France’s entry on this recording is Drakestail, a duck who is determined to get back money that the king borrowed from him. Drakestail is successful because he understands that no one can have too many friends.

The Village of No Cats, set in Bulgaria, is about a trickster who helps rid a village of its overwhelming mice population. A misunderstanding occurs, however, and a comically sad state of affairs is the end result. No good deed goes unpunished.

Small children often need breaks to dissipate energy between stories, and Howe provides such breaks with a hand exercise and a song that she teaches the children to sing though lenses of anger, sadness, and happiness. She even has them sing the song “under water.”

The bonus story is The Ghost with One Black Eye, a delightfully funny tale about a baby who wants apple juice and a ghost who will not let anyone get it. When the baby takes matters into his own hands, the ghost learns the meaning of trouble.

Watching Howe’s young audience enjoy her stories is as much fun as watching Howe and her puppet entertain them. Howe expertly keeps her audience engaged by including participatory activities and by maintaining a relaxed presence that allows the children to have fun.
Indeed, I would recommend that anyone who is uncomfortable telling stories to children use this video as a primer. This storyteller knows her stuff.

What Barbara Lipke Left Behind

2011-02-13T12:49:00.001-08:00

By Tony Toledo

Her trademark storytelling vest.
An empty theater seat.
A half eaten box of Chilmark Chocolates.
A bathing cap.
An old beat up beach bag.
A dog eared book of Norwegian folk tales.
A welcoming home of brick and laughter.
A puzzle in the corner with one missing piece
Toast that sits when it wants to fly.
A simple straight forward salad.
Schencken. (Who knew snails knew German?)
Figures, Facts and Fables.
A hole in Martha's Vineyard.
An empty potluck pan.
World's longest 3/8 of a mile.
A Chilmark floor yearning for her footsteps.
Waves at Windy Gates wondering when she'll be back.
36 years of Herb's good night kisses.
Binky and Bobby, nicknames un tethered.
A certain bend in the road that holds her voice.
The last time I saw her.
10 great grand children.
7 grand children.
4 children with her chin. (and heart)
New England Storytellers (who miss her terribly)
A world of admiring friends.
One less skinny dipper.
One less storyteller.
One less teacher.
One less friend.
Her laugh.
Her grin.
Her love.
A ripple in the water.

Inspired by the Charles Coe poem What He Left Behind (for his father).

Deirdre of the Sorrows

2011-02-12T12:59:00.000-08:00

Compact Disc Review

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

Deirdre of the Sorrows, by Diane Edgecomb with Margot Chamberlain, compact disc available from Diane Edgecomb, P.O. Box 16, Jamaica Plain, MA, 02130 (617) 522-4335. Email: dedge@livingmyth.com. $15.00, plus $1.50 S&H. Suggested age range: 12 years through adult

To see Diane Edgecomb perform Deirdre of the Sorrows, accompanied by Margot Chamberlain on the Celtic harp, is to watch poetry in motion. Hearing this haunting story on this exquisite recording conjures up images of both beauty and horror, leaving the listener breathless. Do not plan on listening to this recording and then going back to business as usual. It may take a while to recover composure.

Edgecomb and Chamberlain first met to work on Deirdre in 1989. The hauntingly beautiful musical arrangements by composer Tom Megan and Edgecomb’s extensive research into the life and world of the pre-Christian Celts have produced an unforgettable adaptation of this ancient tale. It begins at the Feast Samhain at Emain Macha, where Deirdre is born suddenly while her mother is serving the harsh and demanding High King at his banquet. A druid predicts the child will have a beauty so powerful and yet so destructive that it will bring about the ruin of Ulster. .

Though warned by a kinsman that he should take heed of the prophecy and destroy the child, the High King, perhaps feeling himself above prophecy, selfishly decides to send her to be raised in the wild by Lavarcham, a woman servant he deems to be trustworthy. No man is to touch Deirdre until she becomes old enough to be sent back to the High King.

The name Deirdre means sorrow, and sorrow is what she brings to all who love her. Deirdre has visions of the man she will love, and she holds onto her dream until she finally meets him in the flesh. Edgecomb skillfully paints their love affair in a way that makes us feel we are spying on secret lovers who do not know that we are there. Chamberlain’s Harp takes us back in time, and we cannot help but get caught up in the passion. The intensity between the two young lovers is palpable and real. We do not doubt their love for an instant.

Of course, only sorrow can follow such an all-consuming love. Omens of betrayal and tragedy appear throughout the story, and we know that it will not end well. But it does not matter that we know. By the time that Deirdre and her naive lover journey back to Emain Macha, we cannot help but go along with them and witness their last moments together as they seal their fate.

This story is timed perfectly to rise and fall with the crescendo of the harp. The characters are distinct and vivid. They will visit you in your dreams. Even though they break your heart, you will not be able to let go of them.

Mischief

2011-02-03T18:56:00.000-08:00

CD Review

Written and performed by Lynn Ruehlmann. Music by Bob Zentz and Jeanne McDougall. Available for $15.00, plus $3.50 shipping and handling, from lynn@cascadingstories.com. May also be ordered by calling Lynn at (757) 625-6742.

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

While Lynn Ruehlmann’s previous CDs have focused on American history (the Civil War, the Presidents’ wives), Mischief share’s Ruehlmann’s personal childhood history as a mischievous girl whose curiosity not only gets her into trouble from time to time, but teaches her lessons that have served her well throughout her life. Just one look at the cover photo tells us much about her. This is a child who knows how to have fun, and we cannot wait to get to know her better.

Once again Ruehlmann calls upon the musical talents of Bob Zentz and Jeanne McDougall, and they enhance the charm of the stories. Various instruments (guitar, dulcimer, autoharp, and harmonica, among others) are used play the musical intros that set the tone of each tale. From Ceiling Blues to Simple Gifts, the songs serve as bridges between stories.

Ceiling Blues introduces the listener to Ruehlmann’s imaginary friend Freddy, who leads her on an escapade which ends in her “breaking the house.” This story illustrates the sharp contrast between childhood perception and adult reality. Who knows what clever little minds may be thinking?

Real Baby Maybe finds Ruehlmann on a visit to a “kid house” where, disillusioned by an older girl’s outlandish behavior, she ends up taking a “real” baby on a walk that is rather unexciting, until the baby wakes from his nap. Real babies, she finds, hold forth surprises a girl would never expect from a doll.

A dismissive sister, boredom, and a nail file lead to mischief in Carving My Place. Ruehlmann’s work on a school jungle project helps her to deal with a bully and perform an act of kindness for a friend in Jungle Jaguar.

Did you know that you can tell a lot about people by the way they use chopsticks? After unwittingly serenading an entire restaurant, Ruehlmann shares her chopsticks expertise with the kind minister who is one of her lunch mates in Travel by Chopsticks.

Pipes and Chimes finds Ruehlmann bored at church, where she is banned from the room where her father and Mister Wheeler are tuning the organ. What is a young girl to do but go exploring and play pranks? Thankfully, the end result is a touching moment between father and daughter, a most satisfying end to this sweetly nostalgic recording.

Between Home and School

2011-01-30T17:51:00.001-08:00

Book Review

Between Home and School
Letters, Notes, and Emails

By Bill Harley
To order, go to www.billharley.com or call 800-682-9522. $8.00

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

Good parents want their children to be happy and to do well in school. Good parents also want their children to have teachers who will work hard to accomplish that lofty goal.

When children fall short of expectations, the responses from parents and teachers vary widely. Some parents ignore the situation and hope that teacher and student will work things out between themselves. Other parents go on the offensive and accuse teachers of not doing their jobs. Conversely, some teachers get defensive. Other teachers blame parents for a child’s failure to achieve.

Bill Harley wisely chooses to model positive, effective communication between the fictional parent, Rhonda Bennet, and the various teachers, from kindergarten through high school graduation, who had a hand in educating her son, Tyler.

Rhonda’s first letter to Tyler’s kindergarten teacher, for instance, states the problem, asks about the reason for the problem, asks what can be done by both parent and teacher to correct the problem, and compliments the teacher (Tyler loves the frogs on her desk) to end on a positive note.

The teacher responds by agreeing that there is a problem, stating the reason for the problem, offering a suggestion for the parent to help solve the problem, and complimenting the parent (she asks if Tyler’s father will read some of his books to her class) to end on a positive note.

Some years are better for Tyler than others. When Mrs. Bennet is overly concerned about what she perceives to be Tyler’s lagging reading skills, his first grade teacher assures her that Tyler is perfectly normal. Tyler’s fourth grade teacher, concerned about upcoming testing, laments that she would do things differently if she were actually in control of the curriculum.

When Tyler’s eighth grade teacher writes to Mrs. Bennet that Tyler is talking out of turn in class, Mrs. Bennet takes the action needed to correct the situation. When Tyler is discouraged by a failing grade on a science test in the ninth grade, Mrs. Bennet explains his history and the strengths and weaknesses that she has observed in him as a student. She does not lay blame on the teacher; rather, she details the problem and asks for the teacher’s help and understanding.

Only Tyler’s fifth grade teacher fails to address Mrs. Bennet’s concerns. Mrs. Bennet wisely seeks the advice of one of Tyler’s former teachers as to how to handle this lack of communication.

Tyler’s teachers help him deal with death, social problems, and learning difficulties. They take the time to let both him and his mother know that they have a vested interest in his doing well in school. What a lovely contrast to the premise of the recent film Waiting for Superman, which, while an important and thought provoking piece of work, blamed teachers and schools for the failure of the education system in the United States today.

When Tyler is accepted into college, his mother writes an appreciative letter to the ninth grade science teacher who wrote a recommendation for him. In the letter, she states that, while she realizes that her son is a product of his family, he is also a product of all his teachers and that “they have made him in ways that I never could.”

If only all parents were willing to communicate as coolly and truthfully as the fictional Mrs. Bennet! If only all teachers were willing to be the compassionate yet firm educators who have the fictional Tyler as a student throughout his school years! Perhaps then America would once offer an educational system that is respected internationally. Harley’s book, which can be easily read in one half-hour, models proper communication between parent and teacher. He makes it looks easy. Perhaps that is what the problem has been all along. We make simple things too hard.

Stories By The Sea

2011-01-11T13:54:00.000-08:00

Storyteller Linda Goodman to Be Featured at Virginia Beach Festival

Virginia Beach United Methodist Church continues to promote the art of storytelling as it hosts its 6th annual Stories by the Sea, a storytelling festival with something for everyone. This year, the festival will be held on Friday, January 14 through Sunday, January 16, 2011. Appalachian storyteller, author, and playwright Linda Goodman, currently a resident of Chesterfield, Virginia, will be the featured storyteller.

The festival will begin at 7:00 p.m. on Friday with Goodman’s program Memories of a Former Kid, which features stories that Goodman heard as a child and personal stories from her own life. This 1 ½ half hour performance is appropriate for ages 6 years through adult, and admission is free. Free childcare will also be provided.

On Saturday from 9:00 until noon, Goodman will lead a workshop titled Your Story – Pass It Along. Participants in this workshop will learn to mine their own lives for anecdotes and craft them into finished stories that will appeal to their intended audiences. This workshop is intended for teens and adults who want to learn or hone storytelling skills. The cost of the workshop is $25.00 per person, with special rates for families. Childcare will not be provided for the workshop.

“There is a saying that when an old person dies, it is as if a library has burned down,” says Goodman. “My father passed away in 1987, but he still lives in my heart through the stories that he told of his life adventures. My goal with this workshop is to encourage folks to polish and share their own life stories now so that their loved will always have a piece of them in their hearts.”

On Saturday evening from 7:00 to 9:00 Goodman will share stories for adults and teenagers from her program Tales from the Tapestry, which will include stories from Goodman’s book Daughter of the Appalachians, as well as personal stories written by Goodman. These stories will take listeners to another time and place where life, though simpler, presents challenges, blessings, and lessons gleaned from experience. Just as for the Friday night concert, admission is free and free childcare will be provided.

Goodman will also be delivering her story sermon The Mustard Seed at the 8:00 a.m., 9:30 a.m., and 11:00 a.m. services on Sunday, January 16. The Mustard Seed is a humorous yet touching tale of a young girl who is inspired by a minister at a mountain church to “move a mountain.”

“Storytelling is a powerful tool for entertaining, enlightening, and teaching the principles by which we try, not always successfully, to live,” enthuses Goodman. “People are hungry for stories. As a storyteller, I seek to satisfy this hunger by sharing what I have learned from life through stories that touch the hearts of everyone.”

While Goodman is a native of Wise County, Virginia, she has been a resident of Chesterfield County for the past twelve years and has performed at various venues around the country. This is her third appearance at Stories by the Sea. Her stories have been published in both the Chicken Soup for the Soul and the Stories for the Heart series. Her book Daughters of the Appalachians won a Storytelling World Honor Award and has been performed as a play in Massachusetts, California, and Virginia.

Dr. Gwendolyn Nowlan, Artistic Director of the Storytelling Institute at Southern Connecticut State University, which presented Goodman with the Excellence in Storytelling Award, has written to Goodman, “We have many excellent storytellers coming to my institutes, but it seems quite apparent that you are the highlight. You are the storyteller that sweeps listeners off their feet…You strike a chord in every listener’s heart.”

Both the storytelling concerts and the workshop will be held at Virginia Beach United Methodist Church, located at 212 Nineteenth Street. For further details and information, please contact Betty Bridges at blbridg@cox.net or Norris Spencer at tellspence@cox.net. Workshop registrations forms are available at www.vbumc.org or by calling 757-428-7727.

Vigilante

2011-01-11T08:03:00.000-08:00

Compact Disc Review

Available from Ellouise Schoettler or www.cdbaby.com/Artist/EllouiseSchoettler
Email: ellouise9112@ellouisestory.com. Phone: 301-951-1213; $15.00
Recommended for teens and adults.

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

She may appear to be a mild mannered grandmother, but, make no mistake, Ellouise Schoettler is the Vigilante so proudly extolled in this CD’s title. In the personal stories on this CD, she polices airplanes, draws stories from men with tattoos, bids at auctions on a whim, “walks the plank,” and writes in books! Watch out for this one. She’s a maverick.

Air Vigilante, the CD’s first track, begins with Schoettler’s discourse about her discomfort with air travel practices that don’t seem quite legal, and then segues into a touching tale of an overheard conversation between a man and his higher power.

When Schoettler meets The Tattooed Man at an orthopedist’s office, she is not shy. She asks about his tattoos and, with his answer, is given a tale about conquering tragedy, overcoming obstacles, and sharing compassion.

In the story Dalmatian Blurt, which she shared at the Exchange Place at the 2009 National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tennessee, we learn that Schoettler has a weakness for auctions. When she wins a bid for an ill-advised purchase, her forty-one year marriage hangs in the balance. Fortunately, a most unusual solution is found.

The crown jewel of this CD is its fourth track, Swimming, a funny yet poignant reminiscence about teaching her youngest daughter, Robin, to swim. Schoettler, we are informed, is a “bather,” married to a “swimmer” who expects everyone in the family to learn to swim well. When Robin balks at the idea, Schoettler puts her faith in a peripheral lifeguard with a long hook and “walks the plank” to encourage her. Her daughter not only learns to swim, but “pays it forward” in a way that supplies an unexpected extension and ending to the story. This story will delight those of us who have more in common with anchors than with buoys.

Writing in My Book is a short, humorous tale about defying convention and facing the consequences of such actions. Librarians will love this story.

This is a good CD to wind down to at the end of the day. It is heavy on heart, with just enough humor and poignancy to balance the scales. It offers further proof that no life is ordinary.

"SHA! Don't Tell!"

2011-01-04T15:08:00.000-08:00

CD Review

Written and performed by Corinne Stavish. Order by emailing cstavish@stavishstorytelling.com or by calling Corinne at (248) 356-8721. Recommended for teenagers and adults.

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

Nothing can beat being a grandmother. While my daughter challenged my every word and deed, my granddaughters think of me as a sterling role model. One of them has even told me that she thinks I am “cool.” That must be why I am so enamored of Corinne Stavish’s CD “SHA! Don’t Tell!” a heartfelt and loving tribute to Stavish’s grandmother.

From the first track on the CD, Bargain Shopping with Grandma, we learn that Stavish was educated about bargain shopping on Manhattan Island, which was paid for by “$24.00 of baubles, bangles, and bright shiny beads.” Could there ever be a better place to go hunting for a bargain? Stavish’s grandma, at just four feet eleven inches tall, was a formidable shopper who could go to S. Klein’s, the “biggest bargain basement in the world,” and execute an “Esther Williams swan dive” into bargain displays and retrieve prizes for sale at rock bottom prices every time. Grandma is diligent at teaching life lessons as well as shopping maneuvers, however. “Life is the greatest bargain because you get it for nothing,” is her favorite saying.

In Secret Letters to Lou, the CD’s second track, Grandma admires her granddaughter’s extravagant handwriting style, with its curling letters and waving lines penned in peacock blue ink. Grandma, you see, has a secret boyfriend named Lou, who lives in Florida, “the Jewish Lourdes of the fifties.” Not confident in her own handwriting skills, Grandma convinces Corinne to pen letters to Lou for her. The result is a charming conspiracy that produces joy and angst in equal measures.

The CD’s title track, a thriller flirting with espionage, finds Stavish realizing that the picture of Vladimir Lenin in her history book is the same heavily framed photo hanging in her home, the one that grandma warns her not to ask about. Stavish’s mother’s family, we find, is “left of left,” – Communists! A child’s imagination knows no bounds, and Stavish’s fantasies are fed by the men in trench coats who visit her father during the McCarthy era, when it was “better to be dead than Red.” Some secrets are meant to be kept. “SHA! Don’t tell!” her grandmother warns her. Those of us who are old enough to remember the McCarthy era can understand why this was important; but seeing history through the eyes of a child yields an entirely new outlook on one of the most shameful eras of our country’s history.

On the CD’s back cover, Stavish states that her grandmother “left her voice and stories permanently rooted in my head and heart.” I would like to thank Stavish for sharing the wealth. Now her listeners may cherish grandma’s stories and words, as well.

The Silver Spurs

2010-12-07T13:37:00.000-08:00

A True Story of the American Civil War

DVD Review

Beth Horner, Storyteller

ASL Interpretation

Recommended for ages 10 through adult. $12.00, plus $3.00 shipping and handling. To order, go to www.BethHorner.com or make check payable to Beth Horner and mail to P.O. Box 540, Wilmette, IL 60091-0540.

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

In April 2010, I was selected to be one of the VASA storytellers at the Sounds of the Mountain Festival of Music and Story at Camp Bethel in Roanoke, Virginia. There I heard storyteller Beth Horner for the first time, and she captured not only my heart, but the hearts of everyone in attendance.

I missed one of her sets, however, and afterwards everyone was gushing profusely over the story she had shared in that set. I could not believe that I had been absent for such a gem. That story, The Silver Spurs, was the most talked about story at the festival, and I just had to hear it. Thankfully, it was being sold at the resource table as a DVD.

Beth Horner’s DVD The Silver Spurs was recorded live in 2001 at the Festival of Storytelling at the Prairie Center for the Arts in Schaumburg, Illinois. I usually do not favor live recordings, but this one is near flawless.

The story begins with a beautifully haunting song, Touch Not My Sister’s Locket, which Beth sings in a clear, sweet voice as she accompanies herself on the autoharp. The song is about a dying soldier who clutches his sister’s locket to his breast and implores his killer not to take it. His killer obliges, saying “Once I knew my enemy’s story, enemies we could not be.”

Then comes the story of Minnie Winans, as told to Beth by her father, a man of few words except when it came to telling stories.

Minnie was just four years old when, on October 31, 1862, her father, Wesley Parker Winans, rode off to fight for the Confederates in the Civil War. Winans was a reluctant soldier who did not want to leave his family, prompting a fellow soldier and friend to gift him with a pair of elaborate silver spurs, engraved with both their names, Winans and Flournoy.

Winans war experience is detailed in his diary, from which Horner reads about long marches with no rest, trenches used for sleeping, and fierce fighting in which Winans’ friend Sergeant Bickers in killed while saving Winans’ life. Winans just wants to go home to see his family, but is continually denied leave. “They have Jeff Davised us to the devil!” he laments at one point. Sadly but inevitably, Winans is killed at the Battle of Missionary Ridge in Chattanooga, Tennessee on November 25, 1863 and is buried in a mass grave, leaving Minnie with no memories of him except for his riding away to war with those shiny silver spurs.

Minnie, whom we later learn is Horner’s great grandmother, does not see those spurs again for sixty years, when they are retrieved from the grandson of a Union soldier who took them off of Winan's dead body. Horner’s father tells young Beth, “The grief of war is not only visited on those who fight and die, but often on their families for generations to come. Sometimes….it is your own enemies who will bring you peace.”

Horner’s telling style is not ostentatious or theatrical. She merely speaks in a melodious, comforting voice, her eyes shining, as she shares a piece of her heart.

This DVD is ASL interpreted, and the nameless interpreter does a splendid job of making this story real for those who are hearing impaired. Her facial expressions are so captivating that I sometimes had a hard time choosing whether to watch interpreter or teller.

This is a DVD that I will watch again and again. I will share it with friends and family. It is the kind of story that makes me realize why I fell in love with storytelling in the first place.

Postscript, written by Beth Horner:
Since I recorded the DVD, I found additional information about Winans' death that I now include in the story and that I included when I told it at Sounds of the Mountains. I was always told that Winans was buried in a mass grave. I'm still thinking that was the case -- but I think he was buried by the Union Army and not the Confederates for whom he fought.

In the National Archives, I was able to find a letter written by Winans' sister after the war. It was written to the Union Army in an attempt to locate her brother's body. The letter is stunning. In it, his sister recounts his last words as related to her by a fellow soldier, "My men have fought gallantly today. This will kill my poor wife." According to the letter, Winans was shot in the neck, walked to the bottom of a hill "by the assistance of a friend" where he was informed by a surgeon that his wound was "mortal". He then uttered his last words. Because the Union Army was upon them and the Confederacy was retreating, Winans was leaned against a tree (his spurs and a gold watch still on his person, but his diary given to a friend to give to his wife) as "his soldiers marched by and saluted". According to the letter, they had to leave him there "not yet dead". Of course, because stories continually grow and change, I include this in the version of "The Silver Spurs" that I now tell (and that I told at Sounds of the Mountains).

"The Silver Spurs" is a story that stands alone and that I also now include in a 90 minute story titled "Three Soldiers: Three Stories". "Three Soldiers" is the story of three soldiers from three different wars: Winans from the Civil War, Bedilio Gurule (my boyfriend's father) who survived the Bataan Death March and 3.5 years in Japanese Prison of War Camps during WWII, and a young female American soldier who fought in Iraq. The story is taken from the diaries, letters (and e-mails) of these three soldiers. I told it at the National Storytelling Festival in 2008. (I was grateful to Susan O'Connor, festival director, for giving me a 90 minute slot to do so.)

Talent or Serendipity

2010-11-17T18:54:00.000-08:00

On November 13, 2010, I attended the annual banquet of the Virginia Writers Club (VWC) at the Mount Vernon Inn in Mount Vernon, Virginia. The VWC has always chosen good speakers for this annual event, but this year’s speaker chose a topic that spoke to me in a way that past topics have not.

New York Times Best Selling Author John Gilstrap took to the podium and addressed the role that serendipity (good luck) plays in getting published. In his case, his book Nathan's Run was given back to an agent, who had taken a pass on it, by the agent’s assistant, who intervened on Gilstrap’s behalf because she noticed that he was a fellow William and Mary alumnus.

With good representation, Gilstrap received a handsome advance and a heady wooing from movie land, only to witness his new found fame disintegrate because his book did not sell the number of copies his publisher anticipated. Serendipity came around again though, and Gilstrap’s latest book, Hostage Zero, is red hot.

Luck and talent, it seems, go hand in hand. Would Gilstrap’s novel have been published if it had not been good? Probably not. Would his wonderful manuscript have been published if his William and Mary cohort had not noticed his alma mater? Maybe. The sad fact is that you can write the best book that was ever written, but if it does not make it into the right hands, it will not be picked up by a publisher who can supply the buzz needed to get it off the ground.

At a writer’s seminar that I attended in Massachusetts in 1992, true crime writer Gary Provost stated that publishers are more interested in the marketability than in the quality of the books they publish. The most important question is “will it sell”? The quality of the book is secondary.

Consider, however, that publishers do not always know what will sell. Gilstrap told about a time that his editor wanted to leave his publisher and take two authors with him: Gilstrap and Dan Brown. The publisher would not let the editor take Gilstrap, but said a fond farewell to Brown. The publisher had no idea what to do with Angels and Demons. When the phenomenal sales of The Da Vinci Code later set the literary world on fire, that publisher must have felt like the executive at ABC that turned down the Cosby Show in the 1980’s.

Gilstrap’s point is that there is no way he could have planned the remarkable things that happened to get his writing career off the ground. I must admit that my own successes, though nowhere near the stunning level that Gilstrap has achieved, have followed the same pattern. While I was executing a spontaneous pitch for Daughters of the Appalachians to a representative from Overmountain Press at the Melungeon Union in 1998, a group of ladies who had taken my workshop on the role of storytelling in the mountain culture interrupted us to gush about my storytelling skills. That is the best publicity I have ever gotten, and I did not even have to pay for it. It sure caught the attention of the publisher’s rep. Overmountain Press published Daughters of the Appalachians the following year.

On another occasion, my story The Bobby Pins was published in Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul. The book had contact information for each story’s author in its back section. For the first few weeks, my phone rang of the hook with folks asking questions about hiring me. I truly thought this was my big breakthrough. But no one called back. In fact, the phone stopped ringing at all, as far as storytelling queries were concerned. I racked my brain to figure out what I had done wrong.

Then a phone call from a friend alerted me to the fact that someone who had wanted to hire me had called her because my phone had been disconnected. I called the phone company immediately. Bell Mass had recently assigned a new area code to my town, but rather than give long distance callers the new code, it had installed a recording that said my phone number was no longer in service. That, too, was the luck of the draw (though I would not refer to it as serendipity).

I keep writing and telling, all the while hoping for more serendipity. While disappointment abounds, those rare moments when God sends rewards my way are so sweet that I continue to strive for more. Telling stories that I have written is my passion. I would find it impossible to stop.

Requiem for Blue by Tony Toledo

2010-11-04T18:52:00.000-07:00

I am posting this on my blog with Tony Toledo's permission. Thank you Tony. Linda

One year ago today Brother Blue joined with his ancestors.
Blue, the love we have for you remains, as does our gratitude and friendship.
In my heart there is a little blue shelf. On it is a butterfly made of stories.
Ciao, Tony Toledo

Requiem for Blue by Tony Toledo

He was the original Blue man.
He was the Street Poet.
He was the Holy Fool.
Story made flesh.
A heart open to the world.

A timeless minstrel.
Finder of the one true note.
A happy accident.
A knee jerk flirt.
Nonlinear in a funny sort of linear way.

Born a grown man fully clothed.
Ageless and energetic.
In love with his lady, his angel.
Way way beyond beyond a free spirit.

Once upon a time ago, once upon a rhyme ago...
Harmonica's mournful wail ago.
Degrees in his pocket.
Stories on his tongue.

Arms open wide
Hugging the world
How the world hugs him.

Now he lives in the wind.
Now he travels in the shade.
Romeo, Romeo where art thou?

Now his stories echo, echo, echo.
A bit of Blue in every word.
Fly on, Blue, fly on.

A butterfly on the breeze.
Such a kiss lasts forever.

An Appalachian Ghost Tale

2010-10-25T10:39:00.000-07:00

The Woman from the High Mountain

© Linda Goodman, 1997

(What follows is my adaptation of a story that my father told. He claimed that the story was true, but I believe that he meant that in the storytelling sense: i.e., just because it did not happen does not mean it is not true. There are many cultures that have a variation of this story. This story is written as a monologue in a modified version of the Appalachian dialect.)

When my daddy was a young’un, his best friend was Rufus Gilliam. Rufus and my daddy grew up together, and when they was boys, you never saw one without the other’n. And when they was growed, they even worked together in the mines for a while, until Rufus come into this inheritance from his mamaw.

Rufus used that inheritance to buy Gilliam’s General Store over in downtown Norton. Now Rufus never did make much money off of that store, but he did get by, ‘cause they won’t no other such place in them parts and folks would give Rufus all their business just to keep him going.

My daddy was at that store ever single day. In fact, he was there when Rufus proposed to Reba May Tackett, his very best customer. And then Daddy was best man at their weddin’, and a year after that he stood godfather to their adopted daughter, Clara Gay. And it was my daddy who told me the story I’m a fixin’ to tell you now. And, like as not, when you hear it, you’re gonna say, “Huh! T’aint so!” All I got to say to that is, my daddy never told a lie in his life!

Now it seems that one Friday, ‘long bout eight o’clock of the evenin’, closin’ time, Rufus was fixing to lock up his store, when in come this woman he’d never seen before. She was right tall, he said. Fact is, he had to look up at her. She had long stringy, black hair and she was wearin’ a frock that looked more like a nightgown than a proper dress, and she was barefooted. And she was covered with dirt from her head all the way down to her feet. Why, Rufus said it looked like she’d crawled through miles of mud to get to his store, yet it hadn’t rained in weeks.

And then he looked into her clear, gray eyes, and it was like the held him hypnotized. All he could manage was to ask, “Kin I help ye?”

She didn’t say nothin’, just pointed to the milk in the dairy case behind him.

Rufus went to that dairy case and he took out a quart of milk and handed it to her. The next second, she lit right out the door! Didn’t pay for that milk. Didn’t even say, “Thank ye.” And Rufus, well, he didn’t have the heart to go after her, ‘cause he knew that this was a woman who’d been hit by hard times, and he figgered that she needed that milk more than he needed the money to pay for it.

After that woman had gone, Rufus locked up his store and went to open up the door to the back room. See, Rufus, my daddy, Rusty Mullins, and Orville Rittenbury got together in that back room for a card game every Friday night.

That night, as Rufus was dealin’ cards, he told them boys about that woman that’d come into his store. My daddy listened to him, thought about it for a minute, and said, “Now, Rufus, the way you talk about this woman being covered with dirt and all makes me wonder is she’s one of them people that live up on the high mountain. You know, them that’s called Melungeons. ‘Cause they don’t have water right handy up there like we do down here, and I hear tell that they don’t take a bath but once a week or so. You reckon she could be one of them?”

Rufus scratched his head and said, “I never thought about that, Ted, but I reckon she could be.”

Then they got back to the matter at hand, which was that card game. And my daddy had a real good game that night. Fact is he won two dollars! So he took all them boys to the Starlite Café after, for some cold beers.

Now the next night, that’d be Saturday, right about the time that Rufus was fixin’ to close his store, in come that woman again. Once again, Rufus looks into her clear, gray eyes and all he can do is say, “Kin I help ye?”

Once again, she don’t say nothin’, just points to the milk in the dairy case behind him. And Rufus gets the milk from the dairy case and hands it to her. And once again, that woman lights right on out of there lickety split!

This time, though, Rufus decides to go after her and he runs out the door. But he looks this way and that, and he don’t see hide nor hair of that woman. Why, it was like she just disappeared into thin air!

Well, that spooked Rufus, so he locked up that store right quick and went straight to see my daddy to tell him all about it. “I’m a telling you, Ted,” he whispered, “they’s somethin’ unnatural about this woman, somethin’ that just ain’t right!”

My daddy didn’t think nothin’ of it. “Now, Rufus,” he drawled, “this is just a woman that’s been hit by hard times. And it’d be agin the Code of the Hills for us not to help a body like that, right here in our own midst. But how kin we help her if we don’t know who she is or where she lives?

“Now what I aim we do is this: your store‘ll not be open tomorrow, it bein’ Sunday and all. But on Monday, why don’t me and Rusty Mullins and Orville Rittenbury come on over around closin’ time and wait. Like as not, that woman‘ll come in again and one of us will recognize her, and then we’ll be able to give her the help she needs.”

Rufus allowed that sounded like a right good idea to him.

So that Monday, long about seven-thirty of the evenin’, my daddy and Rusty Mullins and Orville Rittenbury went on over to Gilliam’s General Store. They was standin’ around the pickle barrel, jawin’ and tellin’ stories and such. Finally eight o’clock came, then eight-ten, then eight-fifteen. Finally Rufus threw up his hands and said, “Well, boys, it looks like she ain’t comin’ tonight. I’m sorry to have led you fellers on a wild goose chase of a Monday evenin’.”

Well, those words hadn’t nor more than come out of his mouth til that woman came in the door. Daddy said it looked like she floated more than walked! And he said she looked just the way that Rufus had described her, all covered with dirt. Them boys just watched with their mouths open while Rufus looked into her clear, gray eyes and asked, “Kin I help ye?”

Daddy said that woman was shiverin’ like she was about to freeze. Why, he could have sworn he heard her bones rattle as she pointed to the milk in the dairy case behind Rufus!

Rufus got a quart of milk and handed it to her. And that woman lit out of there so fast, Daddy said she looked like a streak of lightning leavin’ that store!

Well them boys just stood there for a second or two, and then Daddy cried, “Let’s go after her, boys!”

They took off runnin’ in the direction they had seen her headed. Finally Daddy yelled, “Look, boys, there she is, fixin’ to run up the high mountain! I told you she was one of them Melungeons!”

Then Daddy and Rufus got their second wind and picked up their speed. Daddy said he was runnin’ so fast he thought his heart would beat clean out of his chest. And yet that woman stayed way far ahead of them, and her lookin’ so weak and all.

Finally Daddy and Rufus closed in on her, almost close enough to touch her, when she ran behind a tree. But when Daddy and Rufus ran behind that tree, she was gone! And they stood there scratchin’ their heads, tryin’ to figger how that woman got away so quick that neither one of them had seen what direction she was headin’.

About that time, my daddy heard a sound comin’ from the ground beneath his feet. It sounded like somethin’ whimperin’. Daddy looked at Rufus. “You hear that Rufus?”

“Sure do, Ted!” he declared.

And my daddy and Rufus started diggin’ in the dirt with their bare hands. Then Rusty Mullins and Orville Rittenbury caught up to them and they helped dig. They dug about two feet down, until they came to a big pine box.

Daddy took his pocket knife and pried the lid of that box loose and opened it real slow. And there, layin’ right on top of its dead mommy’s chest, was a livin’, breathin’ baby girl!

Well, Rufus always did set great store by young’uns. He gently picked that baby up and held it to his shoulder. “There, there, sweet one,” he cooed.

And then my daddy said, “Rufus! Look at the face of that baby’s mommy.”

And Rufus looked down at that mommy’s face, and he saw starin’ back at him the clear, gray, lifeless eyes of that woman that had been comin’ into his store night after night.

Then Daddy said, “Look at her hand, Rufus! Look at her hand!”

And Rufus looked at that woman’s right hand. And in it he saw a fresh bottle of cold milk labeled “Gilliam’s General Store.” And at her feet, they was two empty bottles just like it!

Well, Rufus took that baby home to his wife Reba May, and they called the doctor. Rufus told the doctor where he found the baby, but he didn’t tell him the rest of the story.

That doctor examined that baby, and he allowed that it had been right sick and that it must have lapsed into a coma, so its people took it for dead and buried it with its mommy. Them Melungeons, you see, don’t set much store by doctors.

Rufus and Reba May raised that baby as their very own and named her Clara Gay. And I kin tell by the looks on your faces exactly what you’re thinkin’, “Ain’t no such thing as haints!”

Well, I don’t blame you none. Sometimes I’m apt to think that way myself. But then I look into the clear, gray eyes of Clara Gay Gilliam, my daddy’s goddaughter, and I know they’s more things in heaven and earth than mere mortals can understand. Life, you see, is a mystery.

Thoughts on Waiting for Superman

2010-10-21T11:17:00.000-07:00

As a boy, Geoffrey Canada, President and CEO of Harlem Children’s Zone, was devastated when his mother informed him that there was no Superman. His mother thought his reaction stemmed from the same emotions that overcame him when he found out that there was no Santa Claus. Quite the opposite, Canada explains, finding out that there was no Superman made him realize that there was no one coming to save him from the life he feared would be his.

These days, Canada is Superman to a group of kids that is small in comparison to the number of children who desperately need his particular brand of ingenuity and creativity in education. Featured in the documentary film Waiting For Superman, Canada makes a plea for America to save its children from the grim lives that await them if our educational system is allowed to continue in its present decline into chaos.

The United States, once a leader in education worldwide, now ranks 18th among the 36 industrialized nations. This film examines this crisis by following the educational obstacles faced by three students who are striving to get the best education possible while living in poverty and one student who feels that her upper middle class school is failing her.

I learned a few new terms from this film:

1. Dancing lemons – the practice of moving bad teachers from school to school because they cannot be fired.
2. Drop-out factories – schools where the majority of students never graduate.
3. Academic sinkholes – schools that are primarily babysitting institutions.

I also learned of some situations that surprised me. For instance, tenure is not performance based in most public schools. Rather, it is an award for the amount of time a teacher has spent in a system. Another surprising fact: it is almost impossible to fire tenured teachers, regardless of their performance.

Call me naïve, but I was shocked to learn that in most poverty centers, children can gain admittance to charter and magnet schools only by lottery, even though those very schools are their only hope of getting a decent education. Demand is high, and just a small fraction of the children who enter the lottery are chosen to attend these schools. Of the four children profiled in this film, only 2 are chosen.

The mother of one of the little girls in this film works several jobs in order to pay the $500 monthly tuition required for her daughter to attend Catholic school. When the mother’s hours are cut back and she gets behind on the payments, the school forbids her daughter to participate in its graduation ceremony. Seeing this little girl watch her classmates walk into the school to take part in the ceremony from which she has been banned is heartbreaking.

David Guggenheim, the award-winning documentarian behind this film, seems to think the problem lies with teachers and teachers unions. In many instances, union rules make it impossible to reward exceptional teachers, while at the same time protecting the jobs of inadequate teachers.

Nowhere in this film are parents held accountable. The parents of the four children profiled are responsible and are making their children’s educations their first priority, regardless of the cost to them. If more parents were this concerned about their children’s education, could that not go a long way towards solving the problem? Aren't drug use and absentee parents factors contributing to our failing classrooms?

As a professional storyteller, I have worked in many schools, rural as well as inner city. Most of the teachers I have worked with clearly love their jobs and the children they teach. Many of them spend their own money and personal time to help children in need.

In one inner city high school, I witnessed a student threaten a teacher who asked him to quit hanging around in the hall and go to class. In a Richmond, Virginia school, a teacher had her wrist broken while trying to break up a fight. Such teachers should get combat pay, not the paltry sums that they are expected to live on.

As one who was born in poverty, I am grateful for the teachers who influenced my life:

Mrs. Wiggins – my first grade teacher, who told me that my Appalachian accent was elegant. The kids who made fun of the way I talked took note and left me alone.

Mrs. Geddie – my second grade teacher, who defended me against the school secretary who wanted to have me suspended for forgetting to bring in my immunization form.

Mrs. Harrison – my third grade teacher, who let me paint with water colors to my heart’s delight.

Mrs. Mabry – my sixth grade teacher, who taught me to how to write and how to read for fun.

Mrs. Horne, my 11th and 12th grade English teacher, who taught me the power of the comma and to love poetry.

Returning our schools to their glory years will be achieved only if all parties involved (teachers, unions, administrators, parents, the community) agree that our children’s futures are worth salvaging and make the tremendous effort required to bring that about. Do not this nation’s children, the future leaders of this country, deserve first rate educations?

Dickens-Era London Brought Magically to Life

2010-10-18T16:49:00.000-07:00

Compact Disc Review by Linda Goodman

Missing the Muffin Man, by Mary Jo Maichack $12.00 + $2.00 shipping and handling. CD cash/personal check sales from Mary Jo Maichack, Maichack Arts, 93 Homestead Avenue, Holyoke, Ma 01040, or www.MaryJoMaichack.com. Visit www.CDBaby.com for a free listen and a 40% discount if more than one CD is purchased. Recommended for listeners of all ages.

Missing the Muffin Man, the latest CD from minstrel, storyteller Mary Jo Maichack, is a wonderfully engaging tale of a young girl in search of a treasured friend. Set in Charles Dickens’ London, it is the perfect companion piece to A Christmas Carol. Indeed, with this CD, Maichack, long admired for her considerable storytelling and singing talent, makes her mark as a writer of note. In the process, she has raised the bar for all those who aspire to enter the realm of telling tales.

The story’s protagonist is ten-year old Ginny Wright, who becomes distraught after going three weeks without seeing her beloved muffin man. After all, in his absence she is forced to spend afternoons with her stern governess, rather than have tea with her adored mother. How she longs to hear the ringing hand bell that announces the muffin man’s arrival! How she misses the special wink that is a code between them!

Ginny does what any curious child would do if given the opportunity: she takes her terrier Pike and sets out to find her friend. Her search leads her on an adventure that is both exciting and frightening. The streets of London come to life with costermongers (street vendors), beggars, flower stalls, and thieves. Maichak paints the scene so clearly that the listener can see the squalor and chaos; can hear the shouts and bells, so loud that conversation is impossible.

Ginny’s seemingly innocent escapade takes a dangerous turn when she has a run-in with a body snatcher. An orphaned boy who calls himself “Six” comes to her aid. Six proudly claims to be a thief. “Better thievin’ than beggin,’” he tells her. “At least thievin’ has some skill to it.” He advises Ginny, for her safety, to be entertaining. Ginny takes his advice and the result is her creation of the classic children’s song, The Muffin Man. While the origins of this song are not known, Maichack’s story certainly seems plausible.

No review of Maichack’s work would be complete without mention of the remarkable tool that is her voice. Using several English accents to perfection, she gives each of her characters a distinct voice. The listener always knows who is speaking. Her rhythm and timing are impeccable, and her singing is a delight.

Maichack’s CD cover portrait is a pastel painting entitled “Homage to Renoir,” by her husband Gregory John Maichack, a talented artist in his own right. The portrait is the perfect complement to the story. The inside cover has a nineteenth century muffin recipe that is sure to delight both culinaries and those who taste their wares.

Put on a pot of tea, warm an English muffin, and put this CD on to play. You will not be Missing the Muffin Man for long.

The Neon Man and Me

2010-10-17T17:57:00.000-07:00

DVD Review

Written and performed by Slash Coleman. Music by Slash Coleman. Available for $19.95 at www.slashcoleman.com.

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

In 2004, Slash Coleman suffered the loss of his best friend, Mark Jamison, a neon light artist who was electrocuted while hanging a sign. After Jamison’s death, Coleman began collecting mementos meant to help Jamison’s little boy, not yet born, to get to know the father he would never meet. That process led to the creation of The Neon Man and Me, a one-man play about friendship and going home.

In this show, Coleman portrays thirty characters, beginning with Jacques Lemoire, who gives a dissertation on the mating habits of elephants, who meet through a series of long distance calls called “musths.” This is followed by a recitation of Terry Kettering’s poem The Elephant in the Room. Writing, Coleman discovers, is a powerful pill.

Next, Coleman describes his first meeting with an “elephant” named Mark Jamison, then a tenor saxophonist alternately described as an “alcohol powered weejie board” and a “Pentecostal chick magnet.” To Coleman he becomes “the man,” his new best friend. That friendship is deepened through road trips, fishing trips, and late night coffees. The two form a jazz band together.

Later, while being dressed down by a university official for a questionable promotional stunt, Jamison proclaims that jazz is a spiritual truth and reveals to Coleman that a member of his church has had a vision that the two of them will play before millions. Jamison also has a premonition that he will die young.

After college, Coleman heads to Knoxville to write the great American novel. Jamison goes to neon school in Johnson City, Tennessee. Their relationship continues through a series of long distance phones calls that cover getting kicked out of school, losing a job due to inappropriate behavior, various occupations, marriage, and divorce. At the end of each call, Jamison invites Coleman to come home to work with him and to “be amongst his people.” Coleman’s reply becomes a refrain: “I hate Virginia! I’m never moving back!”

Of course, Coleman eventually does come home, but it is too late for him to reconnect with his friend. Coleman finally gives up on the idea that life has to be a “fantastical Moulin Rouge.” Rather, he remembers Jamison’s prophecy: “God always provides a way when there is no way. You will always take the right turn in the path.”

Coleman yearns for “shoes so fast they can go back and change your past.” Yet, after 133 apartments in eight states and two countries, after 144 jobs, he finally settles in Richmond, Virginia “amongst his people,” content working in his family’s upholstery business, a job that he thought college would save him from. He is with his family and telling his story, just as Jamison always wanted him to be.

This story is accompanied by haunting music that extols friendship and home in gentle lyrics that Coleman sings with quiet grace and serenity. This beautiful tribute to a friendship too short makes one realize that relationships must be nurtured and enjoyed. One never knows when or how a relationship will end.

Also notable on this gripping CD is the audience, which is warm and receptive to Coleman’s considerable charm and talent. Whenever the camera pans the audience members, their wide-eyed eagerness to hear and see more, shows that they are actively engaged in the performance. This is an audience that was wisely chosen.

I have seen this show both live and on television and am pleased to see that nothing was lost in the transition from one medium to the other. Coleman is clearly master of this game.

By the River: Women’s Voices in Jewish Stories

2010-09-28T18:08:00.001-07:00

CD Review

Cindy Rivka Marshall, Storyteller

Music provided by Susan Robbins

Recommended for ages 10 through adult. $15.00 for first CD, $10.00 for additional CDs. To order, go to www.cindymarshall.com; for MP-3 digital download, go to http://cdbaby.com/cd/crmarshall2

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

Cindy Marshall’s telling style is clean, eloquent, and intimate. Susan Robbins’ lovely music played on frame drum, accordion, hammered dulcimer, and several other instruments, seasons the stories perfectly. Like salt used sparingly, the music enhances the stories without overwhelming them. As I listened to Marshall and Robbins weave tales and music together, I felt as though I were privy to a special concert that had been created just for me.

On this CD, using the tradition of midrash Marshall shares stories that honor the wisdom of women. Prominently featured is Serah bat Asher, mentioned only twice in the Torah; once leaving Canaan to go to Egypt with Joseph, and again 200 years later in the census of Israelites living in the desert. Considered a female counterpart of Elijah, the hero in hundreds of Jewish tales, Serah bat Asher urges Miriam, in the story The Voice in Her Heart, to sing her visions of new birth to her parents. They listen, and Moses is born.

Serah bat Asher appears again in The River, a story of a mother and a daughter, and the lessons they learn. Serah bat Asher appears at the river and counsels them to have faith: every year as they tell the story of leaving Egypt, they are transported from slavery to freedom.

The Magic Pomegranate Seed is the story of a desperate but wise young mother who steals a loaf of bread to feed her hungry children. When caught and sentenced to death, she quickly and cleverly devises a plan to save herself.

In The Jewel, young Freyda learns, along with a rich landowner, what true treasure is. Onions features yet another treasure, more valuable than diamonds to some. Unfortunately, an over-abundance of anything causes its value to plummet, as the brothers of Gittel, the story’s young heroine, soon discover. The song and lyrics Marshall created for this story yield quite a catchy tune. I could not help but sing along.

My favorite story on this CD is A Garment for the Moon, in which a seamstress, asked by the sun to make clothing for the shivering moon, convinces others of her trade to help her fulfill this request. A search ensues for a fabric that can grow to fit any size, for, as we all know, the moon’s size changes throughout each month. The source of this newly discovered fabric sheds light that is unexpected but delightful.

How lovely it is to listen to stories that honor the wisdom of all women, not just older women! Marshall makes us realize that wisdom comes in all shapes and sizes, just like the moon’s new garment.

Storytelling in the Christian Community

2010-09-24T13:02:00.000-07:00

By Linda Goodman,CLS,United Methodist Church, Petersburg,Virginia District

(c)2002 Linda Goodman

“That same day Jesus went out of the house and sat by the Lake. Large crowds gathered around him, so he got into a boat and sat down, while the people stood on the shore. The Jesus used stories to teach them many things.” Holy Bible, New Century Version, Matthew 13: 1-3

Since the beginning of Christianity, Christians have used stories to teach. Christ himself set the example is this regard. When asked by his disciples why he used stories to teach people, Christ answered that stories were vehicles that could reach those who “see, but don’t really see” and those who “hear but down really hear” (Matthew 13:10-13). Stories make plain what esoteric sermons choose to cloud with mystery. Even those who are uninitiated usually get the point.

When I began my training to become a Certified Lay Speaker in the United Methodist Church, I was required to prepare a five-minute sermon to present to the class. Rather than deliver a traditional sermon, I chose to share a personal story about an evangelistic effort I had been a part of that, while intended to bring comfort to its recipients, actually caused pain to those it sought to aid. I learned a great deal from that mistake, and I believed that my audience could learn from it as well.

The class instructor and the class at large supported my approach. I began delivering story sermons whenever I was asked to speak at a church To my delight, I found that congregants who hear stories are eager to hear more.

For ten years now, I have taught a course on Storytelling in the Ministry for the Lay Speaking School at the Virginia United Methodist Assembly Center in Blackstone, Virginia. The course fills quickly and usually has a waiting list. People are hungry for stories that help them make sense out of God’s purpose for their lives.

The class that I teach is divided into three parts. The first part covers stories taken directly from the Bible: David and Goliath, Samson and Delilah, The Temptation of Christ, and many others. I encourage students to look at the stories from different angles, and the results are delightful. Some tell the stories from the viewpoints of non-traditional narrators (for example: a member of the ninety-nine sheep, disgruntled because the shepherd has left them to search for one sheep who was foolish enough to get lost). Some choose to reset a story in modern times. Others tell the stories as they are presented in the Bible, with all the drama, action, suspense, and sincerity that entails.

The second part of the class covers traditional stories that illustrate Christian Principles. The story of the Three Little Pigs, for example, teaches the same lesson as Christ’s parable of the wise man who built his house on the rock and the foolish man who built his house on the sand: only a firm foundation can withstand assault, whether it be from nature or a predator. In a similar vein, The Three Apprentices, by the Brothers Grimm, teaches that it never pays to make a deal with the devil, no matter how harmless it seems at the time.

The third, and by far the most popular, part of the class covers personal stories. The power of personal stories is undeniable. Why is the personal or family tale so special? The reasons are many and varied.

First, they are entertaining. Who has not been to a family gathering without coming away with a treasure trove of family stories to be passed along from generation to generation? When my family gets together, storytelling is the main event. We laugh, we cry, we try to outdo one another in bringing forth obscure memories. Through these stories, I have come to feel that I know intimately relatives that I have never even met.

Second, they are remarkable teaching tools. Many times I have sat through sermons that stressed the importance of forgiveness. As I listened, I could not help but think to myself that some things are unforgivable. That changed on March of 2002 when I heard Master Storyteller Ray Buckley share the story of his journey to forgive the man who caused the death of his wife and only child. Buckley, a Native American and devout Christian, was visited by his father after the tragedy. His father told him to write the name of the man on a peace of paper and then draw a line through the name and write the date in red when he had forgiven the man. Understandably skeptical of his father’s advice, Buckley followed the man’s trial. After the man’s conviction, Buckley visited the man’s family and formed a relationship with the man’s son. Through this relationship, Buckley gained the strength to visit the man in prison. Forgiveness, Buckley learned, is not only possible, but necessary. I continue get chills up and down my spine when I recall Buckley’s tender account, at the story’s end, of drawing a line through the man’s name and writing the date in red. If he could forgive the unforgivable, perhaps I can do that, too. That is what his story taught me.

Third, they nurture community. I have personally seen communities brought together by the compassion evoked by stories told about a person or place. In one instance, the community created by these stories saved a teacher’s job. In another, a community gathered its resources together to give a fatherless family a Christmas it would never forget.

Fourth, they can be instruments of healing. When my mother died suddenly, my grief was compounded by the fact that I had never had the chance apologize for an argument that I had with her the night she passed away. A Christian grief therapist suggested that I use storytelling to help me heal. I took her advice and wrote The Radio, a Christmas story that illustrated my mother’s self-sacrificing and unconditional love for me. That did not help much (I never doubted my mother’s love). Then I wrote The Bobby Pins, a story about a birthday present that I had given my mother, the first birthday present she had ever received in her entire life. That story was exactly what I needed: it made me realize that my mother knew that I loved her. Our argument was just one moment in our relationship. It did not define what we felt for one another. I realized that God had sent me this powerful memory to help me heal.

Fifth, family and personal stories inspire the listener to become a storyteller as well. Who has not listened to a personal tale being shared without being reminded of a similar event in his own life? When you share a story of your Christian walk with others, they will be inspired to share their own stories. The message will reach an audience far greater than the one you see.

Storytelling is a powerful tool for teaching the Christian principles by which we try, not always successfully, to live. Christ set the standard that all Christians strive to achieve. Christ was a storyteller. People are hungry for stories. As a storyteller, I seek to satisfy this hunger. As a Christian, I seek to share what I have learned from life through stories that touch the hearts of the Christians and non-Christians alike.

Cry of the Mountain

2010-09-21T17:15:00.000-07:00

A documentary play about mountaintop removal in Appalachia

Conceived and performed by Adelind Horan

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

The first thing I noticed about Adelind Horan when she stepped on stage at the Hamner Theater in Afton, Virginia was her delicate beauty. She is tall and slender with a thick mane of mahogany curls cascading down her back. She seems fragile, apprehensive.

Do not let this first impression fool you, however. This young woman BRINGS IT!! She is a powerhouse of energy, depth, and talent. The minute she becomes Judy Bonds, the first person in her thirteen character play, she owns the stage. Indeed, she so convincingly portrays the nine men and 4 women in her one-woman show that if I had closed my eyes, I would not have realized that one person was playing all these roles. Even visually she is convincing, using different body language, gestures, facial expressions, mannerisms, and voice patterns for each character.

Horan conceived and wrote this show for her senior acting project at Hampshire College. She thought, “If I’m going to spend a year on this, I would like to make it something meaningful.” With that in mind, she began interviewing people and creating verbatim monologues. Not wanting to represent just one side of the issue, she interviewed coal company executives, as well as coal miners and others directly affected by mountaintop removal. The result is a well-rounded piece that does not demonize or insult either side.

Some characters included are:

Lexington Coal Company CEO Dan Geiger, who aptly points out that, while folks malign coal mining, they don’t want to give up their air conditioning or the other creature comforts that coal helps to provide.

Stephanie Pistello, the National Field Coordinator for Appalachian Voices in Washington, DC, who explains the “road to nowhere.” Companies who remove mountaintops, it seems, can avoid reclaiming the land if they build a road where the mountaintop once was, even if no road is needed.

Ed Wiley, a former coal miner who worked at coal sludge dams, never realizing that he and his co-workers were indirectly “killing kids” at nearby Marsh Fork Elementary School. When his ten year old granddaughter alerts him to this in a heartbreaking exchange, he gets involved in a big way.

According to the EPA, “Mountaintop removal…. is a mining practice where the tops of mountains are removed, exposing the seams of coal. It can involve removing 500 feet or more of the summit to get at buried seams of coal. The earth from the mountaintop is then dumped in the neighboring valleys.” Mountaintop removal, which has doubled in the past eight years, has destroyed over 1,200 miles of streams and more than 450 Appalachian mountains.

Horan’s show is beautifully enhanced by the Appalachian tunes played expertly on the banjo by Max Werham, whose music blends so well with the stories being told that it is easy to forget that he is there. He becomes part of the ebb and flow that make this show so seamless.

After each show, producer and activist Ray Nedzel joins Horan and Werham to answer questions and give advice to the audience on how they can get involved. Clearly, the shows lights a fire in the audience. At the performance I attended almost every audience member stayed for the talk-back, most wanting to know what they could do to make a difference.

I have witnessed my own relatives and friends collapse in tears at the sight of a landscape they no longer recognize. When I visit my native Wise County, Virginia, much of the beauty that I remember is gone. This is indeed a serious environmental problem that plays heavily on the emotions of native Appalachians. My main concern is what the future holds for Appalachians in either case. If we cannot stop mountaintop removal, Appalachians will continue to suffer from the ill effects of this shameful practice. If we do stop the coal companies from destroying mountains, hundreds of jobs will be lost and families will suffer. We cannot just protest mountaintop removal, walk away, and feel good about ourselves. If we do, we will bear the responsibility of the carnage that will be left in our wake. That carnage will be measured in human lives.

It Happened In the White House

2010-08-26T17:54:00.000-07:00

CD Review

Written and performed by Lynn Ruehlmann. Music by Bob Zentz and Jeanne McDougall. Available for $15.00, plus $3.50 shipping and handling, from lynn@cascadingstories.com. May also be ordered from www.cdbaby.com/ruehlmann or by calling Lynn at (757) 625-6742. Recommended for 4th grade through adult.

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

Lynn Ruehlmann is a traveling one-woman history show who uses her considerable writing and acting talent to not only bring historical characters to life, but to make them accessible and familiar to her listeners. On this entertaining and informative CD about Virginia presidents and their wives, she wisely chooses to portray characters who “either did know or could have known the president and his wife and all the facts in that tale.” This frees her to bring a bit of herself into the telling, as opposed to assuming the persona of a well-known figure about whom many may have already formed pre-conceived notions.

Dolly Madison’s story, for example, is told by a little girl who loves to watch Mrs. Madison feed her parrot. With the excitement that only a child would feel comfortable exposing, she relates the tale of how Mrs. Madison saved many of America’s valuable artifacts, including Gilbert Stuart’s painting of George Washington, from the rapidly approaching British army during the War of 1812. Mrs. Madison, the child concludes, is a “national heroine who did not care for her own safety.”

George and Martha Washington’s love story is beautifully shared by Mrs. Chamberlayne, one of Martha’s friends from childhood. Mrs. Chamberlayne shares intimate scenes in the life of a couple that is as devoted to the American colonies and their people as it is to each other. When duty calls, the Washingtons answer, though somewhat reluctantly, and trust that their love for one another will see them through the battlefields and the politics.

Thomas Jefferson’s daughter Patsy enlightens us about the details that led her father to write the Declaration of Independence. She also expounds on his role in sending Lewis and Clark on their expedition of the Louisiana Purchase.

John Tyler’s story is narrated by a singer on the Princeton, who fondly relates the courtship of Tyler and his second wife, Julia Gardner, thirty years Tyler’s junior. Tyler was the first president to be married while in office, and, though Julia was accustomed to getting what she wanted, the narrator makes it clear that he believes the marriage was a true love match.

A servant tells the story of Elizabeth Kortright Monroe, wife of President James Monroe. A shy woman who suffers from convulsions, Mrs. Monroe is compared unfavorably to Dolly Madison in local gossip. Indignant, the servant recounts the story of how a brave Mrs. Monroe saved Madame de Lafayette from the French guillotine. “That is the story the gossips should be telling!” the servant declares.

We are given insight into the lives of President and Mrs. Zachary Taylor by a Tourist who is drawn to the stuffed warhorse that the President has mounted on the White House lawn. Mrs. Taylor, the tourist confides, was never seen in public, except for church. She did not want the public chore of being hostess for the Presidency. President Taylor, it is said, did not even vote for himself because of his wife’s reluctance to take on the role of First Lady.

My favorite story on this CD is the story of President Woodrow Wilson, told by a woman who knew his second wife, Edith. Theirs was not the most romantic courtship, but they had great trust in and affection for one another. After reluctantly getting involved in World War I, Wilson went on to help write the Treaty of Versailles and to champion the League of nations. He died heartbroken that the United States rejected the League.

Featured on this recording are several pieces of period music, provided by Bob Zentz and Jeanne McDougall who play various instruments. These lovely musical interludes set the mood for each story.

Ruehlmann thoroughly researched these stories, and it shows. The stories are a wealth of information, and each narrating character is so unique that it is easy to forget that just one woman portrays them all.

Though it cannot be seen on this recording, Ruehlmann is blessed with a face that can create expressions that mirror the inner being of her characters, and the physical changes effected by this are quite remarkable. I can think of no better performer to be brought into a school system. Her shows are both entertaining and educational, and the lucky students who get to see her shows have fun, in addition to learning history.

The CD liner has photos of the Presidents and wives who are featured on this recording. It also contains some enlightening notes about the show. Seldom have I seen a more professionally produced package.

After hearing this CD, I feel proud to be a native of the state of Virginia, the mother of such fascinating presidents.

The 48 Hour Film Project

2010-08-26T10:51:00.000-07:00

On August 1st at 4:00 p.m., I attended the final session of Richmond’s 48 Hour Film Project at the Byrd Theatre on Cary Street. I went because my friend Mary Lou Kline’s husband, son, and grandson (otherwise known as Kline Productions) had produced one of the films and I was interested on seeing their work.

The 48 Hour Film project challenges participants to create a seven-minute film from beginning to end in just 48 hours. Participants are given a genre, a character, a prop and a line of dialogue that must be incorporated into the film. Genre varies, but all participants must include in their films the same character, prop, and line of dialogue given. This year, they were as follows:

Character: a party planner named either Dwight or Danette Williams.
Prop: A CD
Line of dialogue: “How do I look?”

My plan was to stay long enough to see Kline Films’ production, an eerie piece entitled The Inheritance, after which I would scoot along and get back to my busy life.
Several shows preceded The Inheritance, however, and, of course, I got hooked and stayed to watch all ten films.

I was amazed at the professionalism of the films I saw. All had complete and well-written, stories, fabulous acting, skilled direction, and intriguing sets. I was expecting amateur hour, but what I saw definitely measured up to anything that I have seen come out of Hollywood lately.

The Inheritance was my favorite film, and not just because it was produced by friends. It had mystery, suspense, and a lot of heart as it followed a family to a lovely old home that was left to them after a loved one’s death. Of course, the home already had inhabitants, but not the kind that could be readily seen. Apparitions appeared only to the young daughter, who was enticed to follow them to their mysterious lair.

I wish I could remember the names of all the other production companies and their films. An Alfred Hitchcockian film about a young couple on their wedding trip intrigued me. A humorous film about a special agent (a Mad Magazine version of Jack Bauer) made me laugh out loud. All of the films not only held my attention, but were quite enjoyable. I was sorry that I had not attended all 4 sessions.

I now have www.48hourfilm.com on my favorites list. Once next year’s schedule is announced, I am going to clear my schedule and make sure to attend every session. I am finally starting to love Richmond.

Review Policy

2010-08-17T11:10:00.000-07:00

Several storytelling pals of mine have recently called into question my reviews of storytelling CDs and DVDs. Because all my storytelling reviews are complimentary, they doubt my credibility as a reviewer. After all, no one likes every storytelling recording she hears.

I can understand their concern, and I am happy to address this issue.

I do NOT enjoy every storytelling recording that I hear. I usually enjoy about 1 out of every 3. As far as reviews go, however, I will review only those recording that I like. There are three reasons for this:

1. Most storytellers spend thousands of dollars to produce a CD or DVD. That is a lot of money in comparison to our incomes. I have made a personal decision to refrain from writing negative reviews that may affect a storyteller’s livelihood. After all, just because I don’t care for a particular recording does not mean that others will feel the same. What I offer is my own opinion – nothing else. If I cannot find something good to say, I keep quiet.

2. Years ago I belonged to a playwriting group that strongly believed that a finished product should not be critiqued. By the time a play is finished, the playwright has invested so much time that she has a huge emotional stake in the end product. I follow this same policy when I review storytelling recordings. I do not criticize what cannot be changed. No storyteller that I know is able to re-record 5,000 CDs to accommodate a negative review.

3. I find it tedious to review recordings that I do not like. I have very little free time and prefer to spend it doing those things that I enjoy.

After I write a review, I always send it to the storyteller for permission to publish it. If the storyteller agrees to publication, I send it to VASA, Voices in the Glen, and The Connecticut Storytelling Center to be considered for inclusion in their newsletters. I also send it to Storyteller.net and post it on my blog, with links to FaceBook and Twitter. Since I now do news and reviews for Here Women Tell (on Here Women Talk radio), I share my reviews with that show’s listeners, as well.

Anyone who would like me to consider reviewing a CD or DVD should send it to:

Linda Goodman
P.O. Box 1351
Chesterfield, VA 23832

If you would like to have the recording returned, please include a stamped, self-addressed envelope.

That Fading Scent

2010-08-15T16:40:00.000-07:00

DVD Review

Written and performed by Judith Black. Available for $15.00 from www.storiesalive.com. To book the one-woman show, contact Judith Black at jb@storiesalive.com.

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

Okay, I admit it. I am a HUGE fan of Judith Black. She is brilliant, funny, energetic, innovative, talented, charismatic and unapologetically bold. As if that were not enough, she is extraordinarily versatile. As many times as I have seen her on stage, she has never been the same person twice. She takes her audiences through of range of emotions that can leave them contemplative, angry, or ready to rock. Sometimes she leaves me exhausted, but still I want more

I saw the maiden voyage of Black’s one-woman show That Fading Scent a few years back at the National Storytelling Conference in Pittsburgh, where it was presented as one of the fringe performances. The performance brought the audience to its feet on several occasions. Those of us who were women of a certain age cheered to at last find a spokesperson who was not afraid to defend our menopausal madness. When the show was over we all danced together. I wanted to shout from the rooftop: We’re Old! We’re Bold! Get used to it!

The show, now available on DVD, consists of three stories, two rants, and a song. In her incredibly funny intro, Black compares seeking advice from mainstream medical practitioners to “putting your money in a Vegas slot machine.” This transitions smoothly into a rant about the absurdity of forcing oneself to be sexy at sixty, when there are so many other things that are more important. Are you listening, AARP? We want real people on your covers, not surgical clones!

The first story on the DVD is Three Mothers (Snow White through the generations), an intense tale of three aging mothers who are watching their own beauty fade, just as their daughters’ beauty is beginning to blossom. Like the evil fairy tale queen, they “cajole, contract, or commission a man to commit homicide.” Beauty triumphs, however, and the cycle begins anew. “Am I still the prettiest?” youth frantically asks the mirror in the heartbreaking finale.

Marjorie’s New Reign/Rain is an original fairy tale about an environmentally conscious dame who is suddenly beset by a cloud that stations itself above her head and will not go away. Luckily, three female cloud busters offer their services and take her to a medieval cottage where they use “magical interventions” to help her find her compass. Baking, gardening, exercise, and social activism make appearances along the way.

A second rant deals with the side effects of hormone replacement therapy and birth control. The audience chants “kill the witch!” as a refrain. I saw this rise to a fever pitch in Pittsburgh. Clearly, Black has touched upon an issue that has some women concerned about more than eternal youth and beauty.

Queen Crone, who wears a pink chemise because “at my age it shouldn’t matter what my body looks like,” brings this DVD to a close. A super hero, she fights super villains Estrogena, Middle-Aged Monster Men (forty-five to sixty-five year old men who dump their wives for younger trophy women), and Pharmaceutical Giants in her quest to make it okay for women to be old. As she flies away from her triumphs, people ask, “Who was that woman?” The answer, of course, is “our future.”

As good as this DVD is, being part of a live audience for this show is an incomparable experience. The good news is that Black is willing to travel. If she is not coming to your neck of the woods, find a group or an organization that is able to book her and convince its program chair to do it. You will not be sorry.

Did I mention that I am a HUGE fan of Judith Black? Somebody get this woman an HBO special!

Winter's Bone - A Movie Review

2010-07-24T18:13:00.000-07:00

I wanted to see a movie this weekend, and decided that it would be either Inception or Winter’s Bone. Inception is the number one movie in America right now, so I figure it will be around a while. Winter’s Bone, however, though it has received rave reviews (The Wall Street Journal called it a classic and compared it to The Grapes of Wrath) and was a big winner at Sundance, is not doing good box office. That made my choice easy. Winter’s Bone, here I come.

Set during the present time in a small, poverty ridden town in the Ozarks, Winter’s Bone is the story of Ree Dolly (Jennifer Lawrence in a beautifully understated performance), a seventeen year old girl who has taken on the responsibility of caring for her two younger siblings and their sick mother, after the father has disappeared. As hard as her life is, she sees to her family’s needs, with occasional help from a neighbor family, without complaint.

What little her family has is threatened when visits from a sheriff and a local bondsman alert her to the fact that her father, who had been arrested, had put their house up as security for his bond. Since then he has gone missing. If he cannot be found, Ree and her family will lose their home and be “put out into the fields like dogs.”

Ree takes it upon herself to find her father and save her family’s home. Everyone to whom she goes for help turns her away. In fact, the adults in this movie, with few exceptions, have no redeeming qualities whatsoever. While Ree risks her life, they do everything that they can to thwart her. They are numb. Any of them could have been stand-ins for the couple depicted in the painting “American Gothic.”

Finally her Uncle Teardrop (played by John Hawkes, who looks very much like a rail-thin Charles Manson) comes to her aid, though he knows it is dangerous to do so. He knows what his brother has done and the danger it represents, but is finally shamed out of his fear and spurred to action.

This movie is about abject poverty and the strength of character needed to rise above it. The violence is brutal, and yet I did not feel a need to turn my head. Ultimately, the movie is about hope in a place where miracles don’t happen.

I so wanted this movie to end with some rich couple taking Ree and her siblings out of their Ozark home and into fairytale land. But this movie is about real life and does not cheapen itself by playing false.

At one point, Teardrop tells Ree that if she ever finds out what happened to her father, she must never share that news with him. At the end of the movie, Teardrop tells her, “I know.”

“What?” she asks.

“I know,” he says again.

Having been raised in an Appalachian culture very similar to the culture depicted in this movie, I took that to mean that he was honor bound to seek revenge. I may be wrong, though. Perhaps that was his way of saying that he was a dead man, too. If you have seen this movie, I would love to have your thoughts on this.

Bendable Barbie

2010-07-12T17:31:00.000-07:00

Compact Disc Review

Available from Regina Carpenter at www.soaringstories.com. Email: soaringstorie@gmaill.com. $15.00 (includes shipping and handling) Recommended for teens and adults.

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

I have heard so many funny stories since the economy tanked that I have been starving for stories with meat. THANK YOU REGINA CARPENTER!

Funny is fine, but life is a serious matter, and it is important to recognize those bittersweet moments where hard lessons are learned through the suffering we endure. Carpenter softens those lessons by allowing us to view them through the eyes of innocence: A child is our tour guide through sorrows, fear, pain and exquisite beauty.

Bendable Barbie is a story in pieces, with each piece centered around a Christmas memory. Oranges Christmas introduces us to Carpenter’s mother, a woman who can fix things because she is an artist. Walnuts painted gold and red yarn adorn her Christmas tree, and engraved oranges are special gifts that make a lean Christmas seem grand.

Spaghetti Turkey Christmas revolves around a Christmas provided by Welfare. Even an artistic mother runs for cover when a father suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome is shamed by the fact that he cannot provide for his family. A child witnesses her spaghetti turkey become spaghetti worms, but life goes on and loves pastes the pieces together.

Miniature O’Henry Bar Christmas is set after Carpenter’s family opens a grocery store and a Mexican Hairless Chihuahua comes to live with the family, courtesy of Aunt Marguerite, a beautician who sells dogs on the side. This particular dog likes to leave souvenirs.

Ambush Christmas details a mad rush to the Christmas tree – if you don’t get there quick, someone else will get your presents. Almost as heartbreaking is getting a “beige” present in a Catholic/Protestant town where stores are not open on Christmas day.

Bendable Barbie Christmas Features a present both “beautiful and beige,” to the delight of a child and to the relief of a father who has always been touched by war.

Thank You, Mrs. Minnick is the story of how a librarian makes the world a safer place, as a young girl learns karate from the Royal Canadian Air Force Book of Self Defense. The phrase “do not try this at home” takes on new meaning.

The Fire Dream tells of first time mothers who start the WMO (Wholly Maternal Organization). Happiness is, indeed, an illusion, but the fire we carry within us keeps us safe and warm through the obstacles life put in our paths.

Carpenter is a skillful storyteller who knows how to use her elegant voice to set mood and pauses to allow us to absorb truths that don’t need to be explained. Peter Dodge’s haunting music creates a yearning for the nostalgic archeology this CD provides. Long after the CD has stopped, the stories will be remembered and will remind us of our own struggles and the growth and strength that resulted from them. Life is not diminished by pain. Rather, life triumphs in spite of it.

Penny Candy Love

2010-06-09T16:39:00.000-07:00

Compact Disc Review

Penney Candy Love

Available from Kim Weitkamp at www.kimweitkamp.com. Email: kim@kimweitkamp.com. Snailmail: 855 Atkinson Road, Christiansburg, VA 24073. $15.00, plus $1.00 shipping and handling.

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

There has been a lot of buzz about Kim Weitkamp’s meteoric rise to storytelling stardom, but anyone who doubts that she deserves her success needs only to listen to this CD to put all doubts to rest. With this recording of stories for grownups, which celebrates the different textures of love, Weitkamp establishes herself as a double-threat: a talented singer/songwriter, as well as a first rate storyteller.

Weitkamp’s stories weave precious memories and delightful details together into panoramic pictures that take us on a personal journey into the very soul of family. Like all good storytellers, she evokes both laughter and tears, but her smooth, silky voice, impeccable timing, and dead-on anticipation of her listeners’ needs place her at the pinnacle of her craft. The listener feels like a trusted confidant, lending an ear to a friend who knows that sharing herself and the lessons she has learned are the best gifts one can offer.

Potholders recalls times when money was tight and a young girl had to be crafty to make some extra spending money. A great idea, however, takes an unexpected turn she decides to use a little white lie to advance her money-making scheme. Loving parents use discipline and love to settle the matter, and a song is born: Grease and Old Spice, a tribute to a father who works hard out of devotion to the family he loves.

WZIX, a story that Weitkamp wrote for her mother, shares nostalgic images of 1970 style houses, clotheslines, and children touched by the grown-up love their parents so sweetly demonstrate. When a radio contest offers a chance to win a gift for Mom, a ten-year old girl cannot resist. The result yields a touching moment that honors Mom and eulogizes Elvis with an innocent sincerity that will not soon be forgotten. As I listened to the end of this story, I thought to myself that the story would not be complete unless the listener could hear one of the gospel songs that Elvis had recorded. Weitkamp did not disappoint. Her rendition of In the Garden sent chills down my spine. A Song for Mom follows to bring the story full circle.

Love on the First Floor, set in a nursing home where Weitkamp was once chaplain, is a touching story of love in the twilight years, when life’s candle is slowing burning to its inevitable end. Life may end, but love lives on in the hearts of those who hold us dear, regardless of circumstances that lead to the journey’s end. Whippoorwill with its comforting refrain of “calling me to fly” is the perfect song to finish this story.

Penny Candy Love is a song born from the curiosity of a child who wonders what her parents do on those rare occasions when money is available and children are sent to buy penny candy. Its slick and lusty lyrics leave the listener hungry for Squirrel Nut Zippers and Mary Janes.

Weitkamp is a master at building bridges from story to song to story. Transitions from one to the other are so seamless that the CD feels like a long, enjoyable ride, not a bumpy trip with stops along the way. This feat is especially remarkable when one considers that this is a live recording.

This captivating recording will be a cherished addition to any story lover’s library. My recommendation: do not listen to it alone. Share the wealth, and your friends and family will know without a doubt why storytelling draws thousands of people to a little town in Tennessee each year. This is storytelling at its best.

Rocky Rockwell Remembered

2010-05-13T19:01:00.001-07:00

I first met Rocky Rockwell in the mid-nineties when he was putting together a storytelling troupe for the Barter Theatre. Not only did he secure the Barter’s blessing for this venture, he also convinced the theatre to provide a $2,000 budget for each show (no small feat!). Clearly, this man possessed great powers of persuasion.

Rocky was one of storytelling’s greatest advocates. He could not keep a good thing to himself. A long time journalist, he knew a good story when he came across one, but he could also enhance a story with his wit and wisdom in ways that traditional journalism does not allow.

I will never forget taking a group of middle school children to see Rocky at the VASA Gathering in Williamsburg in 2000. They were so taken with his hilarious tale of a Yankee’s visit to rural Mississippi that a few of them asked his permission to tell it themselves. Rocky, of course, granted that permission. He was a generous man.

Rocky was warm and kind. He and his beloved wife, Mimi, often opened their home on eighty-four acres of timberland in a Bristol, Virginia “holler” to travelers in the storytelling realm. Their guests could expect good conversation, a comfortable bed, and, of course, as story or two.

Rocky was on the board of the National Storytelling Network (NSN) for a while. He used that time trying to make the organization more “member friendly.” Many of us appreciated his hard work and determination on our behalf.

Rocky shared his tales at the Corn Island Storytelling Festival, the VASA Gatherings, and at Boston’s Sharing the Fire. Locally, he belonged to the Beaver Creak Storytellers and the Jonesborough Storytelling Guild. His trademark sense of humor always left a trail of laughter in its wake. My favorite Rocky story was the first one that I ever heard him tell: a litany of the trials and tribulations of being old. Only Rocky could make the agonies of aging seem like fun.

I cannot think of Rocky without thinking of his wife Mimi, as well. Married for thirty-four years, they were a loving couple who clearly made a great team, not only as storytellers, but as partners in a life venture that brought joy to others as much as to themselves. Forward-thinking and open-minded, they preferred to celebrate the unique qualities of fellow artists, rather than pass judgment. As a result, there was some rich storytelling in Washington County. The entire community benefited from Rocky and Mimi’s generosity.

My heart goes out to Mimi now. Her best friend, her true love is gone from this earth. This is a tragedy that most of us will face one day, but knowing that does not make an individual’s journey down this lonely road any easier. Mimi is strong. She will take her heartbreak and weave it into a story that will change the lives of all who hear it. She knows how to do that.

In recent years, I have lost a number of the storytelling elders who influenced me as I was coming along on my own journey as a storyteller. Jay Engle, Pete Houston, Pawpaw Pinkerton, and Brother Blue have all completed their journeys. And now Rocky Rockwell, who left this world on Tuesday, May 11, 2010, has joined them. I have no doubt that they are raising a ruckus in heaven right now, a giant hoedown to welcome storytelling’s newest arrival.

I miss Rocky. I miss them all.

Westmoreland Players - Inherit the Wind

2010-05-11T10:56:00.000-07:00

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

May is a lovely month to visit the “Rivah”, and the Westmoreland Players have just made the trip even more enticing by mounting their production of Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee’s courtroom drama Inherit the Wind this month.

Inspired by the 1925 Scopes Monkey Trial in Dayton, Tennessee, Inherit the Wind is high drama. The courtroom scene in the second act had me on the edge of my seat, holding my breath, even though I have seen the show several times and knew what was going to happen. The directing, staging, and acting of the Westmoreland Players production is that good! That is the beauty of live theater: different directors and actors bring different talents to the table. No two productions are ever the same.

Mathew Harrison Brady, council for the prosecution, is often portrayed as a one-dimensional buffoon, but Robert Crown skillfully softens Brady’s unshakeable faith by investing him with intelligence and compassion. Whether you agree with him or not, you admire this man who preaches forgiveness alongside obedience; who, while fighting to imprison a local school teacher for teaching Darwin, would counsel a preacher to be tender towards a rebellious daughter.

Don Kenefick, who plays council for the defense Henry Drummond, rises to the challenge of Crown’s bigger than life Brady. The audience can almost see the quick thinking taking place in Drummond’s brain as the judge turns away all the expert witnesses for the defense. Kenefick plays Drummond with a subtlety that makes the inevitable clash between these two titans all the more delicious.

Chad Lewis as Bertram Cates, the defendant, and Christina Thompson as Rachel Brown, his colleague and supporter, break hearts as they try to navigate the uncharted territory between love and duty.

Jason Strong as the cocky Baltimore Sun journalist E. K. Hornbeck, is a man with an ax to grind. How dare these small town yokels challenge science! Strong left me with an image of Hornbeck shaking the dust off his boots as he sprinted back to civilization.

Bob Wilson made the arrogant and self-righteous Rev. Jeremiah Brown an immovable fortress of faith. Not even the pleas of his beloved daughter could sway him from his course, though one could see his heart breaking at her betrayal.

There were several talented children in this cast, but Ray Rubio as Howard Blair, witness for the prosecution, was so natural and likeable on stage that I forgot he was acting.

Glenn and Joy Evans, directors, producers, and designers for this show, revealed a keen eye for set decoration and costuming (I wanted to buy Rachel’s wardrobe). Though there were many actors on a small stage, the set never seemed crowded. Credit is due to the Evans for selecting the marvelous cast and for directing with such sensitivity. Talented actors in the hands of skilled directors are always a treat on stage.

Inherit the Wind will be on stage at the The Players Theater, located on route 360 in Callao, Virginia, through May 23. For performance dates, times, and prices, visit www.westmorelandplayers.org, or call 804-529-9345.

For those of you living outside the Northern Neck area, please know that I travelled 2 hours to see this show and my sister travelled 4 hours. We both agreed that it was well worth the drive.

The Crucible at the Sycamore Rouge

2010-05-04T10:18:00.001-07:00

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

Yesterday afternoon I made a trip to Old Town Petersburg to catch a matinee performance of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible at the Sycamore Rouge.

Anyone who is familiar with The Crucible knows that it does not have a happy ending. Set during the Salem, Massachusetts witch trials in 1692, this drama portrays innocent people who suffer the consequences after wild tales from children create an atmosphere of mass hysteria. Writing during the mad reign of McCarthyism, Miller structured this play to warn that history does, indeed, repeat itself, far more often than lessons are learned. Parallels can be found in every era.

The set at the Sycamore was plain and suitably stern, creating an atmosphere that was at once sinister and foreboding. Of course, a good cast and crew cannot go wrong with an Arthur Miller script. I am happy to report that this cast and crew did its job well.

While the entire cast was good, there were a few who deserve special mention:

Stephen Ryan, as the Reverend John Hale, skillfully crafted a complex man whose good intentions were turned against him. In his zeal to do the Lord’s work, he supped with the devil, realizing too late that the horror he thought to control was in fact controlling him and everyone around him.

Brittany Simmons, as Abigail Williams, a scorned young woman whose fury would result in the deaths of nineteen innocent men and woman, was a tight knot of self-righteous indignation, pointing her deadly finger at any who dared try to thwart her diabolical scheme to possess the man who spurned her.

Mike Sullivan, as Giles Corey, gave a heartbreaking turn as a man who thought to teach his book-loving wife a lesson, all the while unwittingly signing her death warrant.

Beth Von Kelsch, as Elizabeth Proctor, triumphed as the wronged wife who watches in horror as her husband’s mistakes bring about the ruin of her family. Ultimately, she nobly takes the blame upon herself. “It were a cold house I kept,” she confesses. Ms. Von Kelsch portrayed Elizabeth with just the right mix of strength and vulnerability.

Jefferey Cole, as John Proctor, one of the few sane minds amidst the hysteria, portrays the voice of reason that will not be heard, even though it be shouting. His ultimate sacrifice is his legacy to his children. As an actor, Cole became the character with such ease it was hard to separate the two.

The Sycamore Rouge is a beautifully restored theater and bar. On Sunday, it served drinks and desserts. I recommend the key lime pie.

The Crucible will be showing on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays through May 15. Friday and Saturday shows start at 8:00 p.m. Sunday shows start at 4:00 p.m. Tickets range from $18.00 to $22.00. For reservations, call 804-957-5707 or visit www.sycamorerouge.org.

2010 Sounds of the Mountain Music and Story Festival

2010-04-19T08:39:00.000-07:00

Festival Review by Linda Goodman

I just returned from a weekend at Camp Bethel in Fincastle, Virginia, home of the Sounds of the Mountains Music and Story Festival.

I must warn you: Driving to this festival can be dangerous to your health. Once you exit off of the highway to route 11, the mountain scenery is so breathtakingly beautiful that there is an overwhelming urge to enjoy the view, at the expense of keeping your eyes on the narrow, winding roads.

The staff at Camp Bethel could not been more hospitable. They answered questions with a smile and left no doubt that they were happy to have us. Camp Bethel is a Christian Camp, sponsored by the Church of the Brethren, that services many children who could not otherwise enjoy the camping experience. This festival helps them raise money to do just that.

The Friday night concert began at 7:30 and featured Alan Hoal, Beth Horner, Kevin Kling, and Bill Harley. One of the main reasons that I go to festivals is to hear tellers that I have not hard before. After I heard this set, I felt as though I had struck gold. Alan Hoal, Kevin Kling, and Beth Horner were all new to me. Also in the line-up was Bill Harley, one of my favorite tellers from way back. I was enthralled with each one and could not wait to see what they would do on Saturday.

Alan Hoal proved himself to be a master of tall tales, as well as a philosopher. Alan is the founder of Sounds of the Mountains, and I am sure that the weeks leading up to the festival were extremely busy ones for him. Having been involved in storytelling festival and conference production myself (Three Apples Storytelling Festival, Sharing the Fire), I know only too well how hectic and stressful the weeks (and months!) leading up to such an event can be. After such a grueling prelude, being able to tell a story with the ease and comfort that Hoal exhibited is no small feat. I look forward to hearing him again.

Listening to Kevin Kling was like watching an episode of 24: you could not let your mind wander for even a minute! He told stories of his childhood, of his days hopping freight trains, and of his hitchhiking experiences. He was even brave enough to bare his soul and share the story of his disability and how he came to terms with it. He is a master wordsmith who is highly intellectual, yet accessible. He had people laughing hysterically. He had people wiping away tears. He is an endearing man who captures the hearts of his listeners and makes them believe in the impossible. I have heard people rave about him for years, and now I am raving, too. His stories will stay with me for a long time.

Beth Horner is a delight. She reminded me of a pixie with spunk! Every where I went, there was a buzz about her Civil War story, Silver Spurs (I missed this set – darn it!). I was captivated by her tale of a simple folk singer who wrote a song that saved the Missouri River from being defiled with sewage. I cannot get the chorus out of my head:

“Columbus is building a sewer,
Filled with do-do-do-do-do-do-do”

Beth is now on my radar. Whenever she tells at a site near me, I will be there.

Bill Harley never fails to delight. I first heard him tell was at the Connecticut Storytelling Festival in 1990. After 20 years, you would think that he would have run out of steam, or at least slowed down. Quite the opposite is true, however. He is a little grayer now, but when he takes the stage he is once again that mischievous little boy, that angst-filled teenager, or that befuddled parent trying to figure out how to temper discipline and love when relating to his offspring. He will always be one of storytelling’s grand jewels.

Tim Livengood’s witty pirate version of Cinderella was a tour de force that garnered gut-busting laughter and awestruck wonder. How does he maintain that persona for eighteen full minutes? He is a powerhouse of talent.

Tim and I were at the festival as VASA tellers. I usually do not perform in showcases at festivals, as past experience has taught me that such performances are usually just an attempt to stroke the organization (in this case VASA) as compensation for its support. Such showcases are usually scheduled during lunch or dinner time, or against a national teller that everyone wants to hear. Festival showcase attendance is often so low that it is embarrassing. I am happy to report, however, that Sounds of the Mountains treated its VASA tellers well this year. This is in large part due to the brilliant Kim Weitkamp, the weekend’s emcee (none better!) who ingeniously rearranged the schedule so that the VASA tellers were tagged onto the end of a set featuring Beth Horner and Kevin Kling. The audience, therefore, stayed put, listened to, and (I think) even enjoyed Tim and me. Kim Weitkamp: THANK YOU! THANK YOU!! THANK YOU!!!

Next year’s Sounds of the Mountains Festival will be held during the weekend of April 15-16. It will be the festival’s 10th anniversary, and the featured tellers will be Sheila Kay Adams, Donald Davis, David Holt, Andy Offutt Irwin, and Baba Jamal Koram. I have personally heard all of these tellers except for Andy, and I can vouch for the fact that the ones I have heard are top drawer. Everyone that I know who has heard Andy says that he is the best of the best, so I feel certain you will enjoy him, too.

There are several affordable hotels within 15 miles of Camp Bethel. If you like to camp, you can even spend the weekend on the campground. Mark you calendars so that you don’t miss this storytelling gem.

The Adventures of Peggy Quiggly - Chapter 2

2010-04-04T13:33:00.000-07:00

Chapter One was posted to this blog on February 28.

Chapter Two

A Means to an End

Peggy got home from school that afternoon in a superb mood. She did not even mind doing her homework. “Advanced Algebra is so easy,” she said to herself. “I don’t understand why my classmates think it’s hard.” Once her homework was finished she read her library book, The History of the Cockroach Since Prehistoric Times, by Bart Noble, until her mother called her for dinner.

“Mom, this was the best dinner ever!” Peggy exclaimed after cleaning her plate.

He mother was confused. “Peggy, I usually have to force you to eat liver and onions. Not to mention the spinach. Just what are you up to?” she asked suspiciously.

“Yes,” echoed her father, “just what are you up to, Peggy?”

Peggy wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Mom, Dad, I have to tell you something very, very important,” she said in her most demure and respectful voice.

“Go on honey, we’re listening,” said her mother..

“Well, Mom…Dad,” Peggy was so excited she was finding it hard to speak, “ today Mr. Squiggy was telling me that scientists have discovered this new, pollution-free planet that is able to sustain human life. The government is going to send twelve families to go live on it. Just think! A pollution-free planet! That means that it would be an ideal home for people like me, with asthma! So…I was thinking that our family could go, because I really want my asthma to get better, and I want to get away from all of the mean people here. I was also thinking,” she added sheepishly, “that if we go, we could take Mr. Squiggy with us. He wants to go so badly, but he doesn’t have any family. Please can we go?” Peggy finished talking and looked at her parents expectantly. The only thing she saw was her parents’ dumbstruck faces.

Just then the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” said Peggy.

“Hello, Peggy! I’m very anxious to know how your parents feel about our plan.” It was Mr. Squiggy.

“Hey, Mr. Squiggy,” Peggy whispered into the receiver. “I was just asking my parents about it. They haven’t answered me yet, but it looks good. Can I call you back?”

“Sure,” Mr. Squiggy answered, “Just call me back as soon as you can. I won’t be able to sleep until I know.”

Peggy hung up the phone and returned to the dinner table. “Mom, Dad, that was Mr. Squiggy on the phone. He is so excited about going to the new planet! You can’t disappoint him. He’s an old man. He might keel over!”

Peggy’s father, Robert Quigley, gently took her hand. “Peggy,” he said, “I know you really want this, but you mother and I have jobs here. And your brother Jonas is working on his Eagle Scout badge in space ship engine repair. We can’t just leave this all behind. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but we can’t go.”

“But, Daddy,” countered Peggy. “You always say that we should try new things. This is the newest thing of all. Why shouldn’t we do this together? Don’t you want my asthma to get better?”

“You know I do, honey. Your health is of the utmost importance to me. Maybe next time,” replied her dad.

“But what if there isn’t a next time? How can you do this to me! My health is a lot more important than any old job, or even an Eagle Scout badge! You and Mom never do anything for me!” shouted Peggy

“Now that’s enough, young lady!” her mother scolded her. “You are not going to get away with being disrespectful to your father! I do not want to hear another word about this new planet because we are NOT going! Now go to your room until you have adjusted your attitude!”

Peggy ran upstairs in tears. I have the meanest parents in the world, she thought to herself, as she was getting ready for bed. As she was putting on her pajamas, the phone rang. “I hope that’s not Mr. Squiggy again,” she sniffed. “How will I ever tell him that we can’t go?”

It was not Mr. Squiggy. It was her best friend Catherine Mill. “Hey, Cathy,” said Peggy, between sniffles. “How’s it going?”

“Terrific!” screamed an excited Cathy. “I am thrilled to death! Did you hear about the new planet that was on the news? My father put in an application for us to be one of the 12 families that will be settling it, and guess what! We were accepted! Isn’t that the best news ever? I wish that you could go, too.”

Peggy didn’t know what to say, when suddenly she thought of an idea. “Well, Cathy, maybe I can go. My parents can’t go because my stupid brother Jonas is being selfish, as usual. But they told me that if I can find a good family that is willing to take me along, a family that they know, they will give their permission to let me go with them. What do you think? Do you think your parents will let me go with you?”

Cathy was almost speechless. “You mean your parents would let you go off into outer space without them? That is very hard to believe, Peggy. Are you sure you heard them right?”

“Well,” Peggy lied, “my parents said that it would be a great opportunity for me to get some relief from my asthma. The planet is pollution-free, you know. And they’ll make it up on the next shuttle.”

“Hold on,” said Cathy, “I’ll go ask my parents. The shuttle leaves in two days, and if they say yes, make sure you’ll be ready to go.” The phone line was silent for a minute, and then Cathy was back. “My mom wants to talk to your mom.”

“Okay,” said Peggy.

Peggy heard Cathy’s mother’s voice, “Meggie?”

Peggy did a perfect imitation of her mother. “Hello, Gloria. Aren’t our little girls excited about this new planet?”

“Of course they are, Meggie. Who wouldn’t be? But is this on the level? Are you really willing to let Peggy go with us to settle this new planet?” Mrs. Miller asked.

“Oh, Gloria,” Peggy purred, “we will be so distraught without her, but can you imagine how her asthma will improve in a pure environment, such as the one on this new planet? How could any parent deny her child an opportunity to improve her health? Can’t you just imagine how much better her life will be if she can get rid of all that annoying wheezing and coughing?”

“Oh, my, yes,” said Mrs. Mill. “I would certainly do that for Cathy. Of course, Cathy is in perfect health and has no annoying habits at all. Well, then, if you are sure that this is for the best, have her ready quickly. We leave the day after tomorrow. I will send you of list of what she will need to pack”

Peggy thought fast. “Well…just have Cathy give the list to Peggy at school tomorrow. That way you can spend your time getting everything together. You know that you and I cannot see one another without yammering on for hours.”

“Good idea,” agreed Mrs. Mill. “You think of everything, Meggie.”

“One more thing, Gloria,” Peggy quickly added, “Peggy’s grandfather, Mr. Peter Squiggy, would like to accompany her on this trip. Peggy is so close to him. She wouldn’t get homesick at all if he were with her. Do you think he can go as part of your family?”

“Mr. Squiggy? The school janitor is Peggy’s grandfather?” Mrs. Mill was aghast.

“Well, yes, Gloria, he is,” Peggy quickly explained. “Mr. Squiggy is my father. I can’t believe you did not know that.”

“Meggie, I thought your father was a scientist,” replied Mrs. Mill.

“He’s …. a retired scientist, Gloria,” Peggy told her. “He works as a janitor now so that he has something to do in his free time. I can’t believe that you didn’t know that! Haven’t you ever noticed the resemblance between the him and Peggy?”

“Now that you mention it, Gloria,” Mrs. Mill mused, “I have. Well, I am sure that a scientist, retired on not, will be welcome on this trip. We will be happy to sponsor him.”

“Thank you, Gloria,” Peggy crooned. “How will I ever repay you kindness?”

“That’s what friends are for, Meggie. Good night.” Mrs. Mill hung up the phone.

Great! thought Peggy. I will tell my parents that I’m just going for a sleepover with Cathy, but I’ll really be going with her and her family on the space shuttle. I’ll call Mr. Squiggy right away.

Mr. Squiggy was ecstatic. “I am so honored that your parents trust me enough to take care of you, Peggy. I promise that I won’t disappoint them.”

“I know you won’t, Mr. Squiggy,” Peggy assured him. “My parents think that you’re the best!”

“Wow!” Mr. Squiggy exclaimed. “And they haven’t even met me yet! I should come to your house tomorrow and thank them personally.”

“No need to do that!” Peggy hastily interrupted.. “They read all about you in the school paper.”

“They did?” Mr. Squiggy was astounded. “When was I in the school paper?”

“Gotta go, Mr. Squiggy!” Peggy screeched. “I’ve got a lot of packing to do.”

Oh my gosh! What am I doing? Peggy thought to herself after hanging up the phone. I’m going to cure my asthma, that’s what! There’s nothing wrong about that. My parents never said I couldn’t go. I’ll miss them, though. I really will. Peggy fell into a dead sleep. She had no worries at all.

Theodore Alexander Wright - A Tribute

2010-03-31T11:04:00.001-07:00

If Theodore Alexander Wright, my father, were still alive, he would have turned 105 years old yesterday. He was fifty years old when I was born. I was thirty-five years old when he died.

Daddy had an interesting life. The oldest of eleven siblings, he went to work in the coal mines of Virginia City, Virginia at age fourteen, risking his life daily to help support his family. During the Great Depression, unable to find work, he spent a few years as a hobo, hopping freight trains all over North America. On December 7, 1941, the attack on Peal Harbor spurred him to try to join the Navy. He was turned down because he had high blood pressure. “Don’t worry, Bub,” he was told. “The Army will take you.”

Daddy was drafted into the army in 1942, when he was 37 years old. Though he looked forward to action, the military decided that his mechanical skills would be of more use in the states, where he repaired airplanes.

I loved listening to Daddy tell stories, and so did everybody else who knew him. He could hold people spellbound for hours with tales of his travels. He was a walking, talking history book. He had lived a lot of history, and listening to his life experiences taught me more than any textbook ever could. Following his example, I use stories myself to teach, to entertain, and to create community. Storytelling is the best gift my father ever gave me.

I never saw Daddy angry, never heard him raise his voice to anyone. When I misbehaved, the look of disappointment on his face hurt more than any spanking ever could. Daddy would never lay a hand on a child.

I was a sickly child who feared death. Daddy knew that and would sit with me through the night whenever I had a fever. At six feet five inches tall, 230 pounds, he filled the little room that I shared with my sister, Evelyn. He was a mountain of a man.

In his later years, Daddy delighted in his grandchildren. He was especially close to my daughter, Melanie. Since I was a single mother, he took her to her first Father/Daughter dance. Along with my mother, he took care of Melanie while I worked. He walked her to and from school every day. When she got older, she was embarrassed to have to be walked to school, but afraid to walk by herself. Daddy had the plan to solve that problem. He walked several yards behind her and would not turn around to go home until she snapped her fingers in the air, her signal that she close enough to the school to be okay.

When I got married and moved North, Daddy wrote me a letter every week. I still have all of them, and I treasure them. I will pass them on to Melanie one day.

Daddy died of Multiple Myeloma on August 10, 1987. There is never a day that goes by that I don’t miss him. I love you, Daddy.

The Legend of Glen Onoko

2010-03-25T18:51:00.000-07:00

Compact Disc Review

The Legend of Glen Onoko

Available from Kathy Long, 43 Third Ave., Lehighton, PA 18235, Phone: 610-377-0428. Email: kalstory@ptd.net. Website: www.kathylongstoryteller.com $15.00 includes shipping and handling. To order, call Kathy at 610-377-0428

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

Kathy Long has a voice that is clear, sweet, and musical, lending itself nicely to the lovely folk-tales on this CD of familiar stories, stamped with her considerable and unique charm. Listen to it with your eyes closed and be prepared for a colorful imaginary journey of love, magic, and wisdom personified.

How Stories Began is a Seneca tale of the first storyteller, lured into trading rabbits for Grandfather Stone’s entrancing tales. Need a definition of story? This tale provides several.

The Magic Pomegranate, a Jewish story, tells of three selfless brothers who go on a quest to find something special to share with one another, only to use their newly discovered treasures to come to the aid of a dying princess who is very wise.

The Peddler of Swaffham, a version of a tale found in multiple cultures, profiles a “middle-man” who is prompted to follow his dream after losing his livelihood. Where will the dream lead him?

From the Onondaga Tribe, The Dancing Brothers is a pour quoi tale that explains why pine trees grow tall, and how a well-known constellation was created.

The jewel on this CD is the Magic Garden of the Poor, a Kazakh tale of two selfless brothers and a wise, compassionate student who seek to use a treasure to benefit others. In today’s downward-spiraling economy, many would welcome such simple wisdom.

The Damselfly is an original fairy tale about the importance of insects to the cycle of life. Bug-lovers will delight in this tale.

The Legend of Glen Onoko is Long’s version of a local legend featuring star-crossed lovers who defy family to be together. Historical facts and real places are sprinkled throughout.

In today’s harried world, one easily takes for granted the wisdom and educational value of folk tales. This CD offers a return to simpler times where people follow their hearts and find that hope lies at the end of their journeys. Go on an imaginary journey with this CD and you will discover the treasure at the end of the rainbow.

Your Story - Pass It Along

2010-03-13T09:33:00.000-08:00

By Linda Goodman ©1998

As a storyteller, I am fascinated with personal and family stories. Hearing other storytellers share personal tales is what lured me into becoming a storyteller myself.

Why is the personal or family tale so special? The reasons are many and varied.

First, they are entertaining. Who has not been to a family gathering without coming away with a treasure trove of family stories to be passed along from generation to generation? When my family gets together, storytelling is the main event. We laugh, we cry, we try to outdo one another in bringing forth obscure memories. Through these stories, I have come to feel that I know intimately relatives that I have never even met. And I have come to know different sides of relatives that I thought I knew inside and out.

Second, they are informative. Though I studied the great depression in both high school and college, none of the facts recorded in my history books bought home the devastatingly harsh realities of that period in our country’s history like my father’s stories of survival during that time. His tales of hopping freight trains, standing in soup lines, and working for the CCC made me feel like I was there. And who, over the age of forty, does not have a story to tell about the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated? These stories make the listener feel the impact of that tragic event far more that a mere recitation of facts can.

Third, they interpret events. In my story, The Punishment, my father takes me into a back room, at my mother’s request, and administers a fake whipping. For many years, I thought that my father did this as a way of making a fool out of my mother. As I put the pieces of the story together, however, I came to realize that he had actually engineered a scenario that would allow me to see the compassionate side of my mother. It is this interpretation of events, and the resulting bond of respect and love that developed between my mother and me, that is the focus of my story.

Fourth, they nurture community, and this can be bad as well as good. Nazi stories about atrocities committed by Jews created a community of hate that nearly destroyed an entire race in that country. Stories about atrocities committed by whites against blacks in the segregated south created a community of shame and outrage that lead to the Civil Rights Act being passed in 1964. I have personally seen communities brought together by the compassion evoked by stories told about a person or place. In one instance, the community created by these stories saved a teacher’s job. Recently, a television show called America’s Most Wanted was saved by the community of respect created by the stories shared about criminals who had been apprehended as a result of that show.

Fifth, they possess remarkable healing powers. I must admit that I used to think the healing aspects of storytelling were pure hogwash. Then my mother died suddenly. My grief was compounded by the fact that I had never had the chance apologize for an argument that I had with her the night she passed away. A grief therapist suggested that I use my storytelling skills to help me heal. Devastated and with no where else to turn, I took her advice. I wrote The Radio, a Christmas story that illustrated my mother’s self-sacrificing and unconditional love for me. That did not help much (I never doubted my mother’s love). Then I wrote The Bobby Pins, a story about a birthday present that I had given my mother, the first birthday present she had ever received in her entire life. That story was exactly what I needed: it made me realize that my mother knew that I loved her. Our argument was just one moment in our relationship. It did not define what we felt for one another. Realizing this restored my sanity.

Sixth, and to my mind most important, family and personal stories inspire the listener to become a storyteller as well. Who has not listened to a personal tale being shared without being reminded of a similar event in his or her own life? A few summers ago, I shared some of my personal stories with students of the Storytelling Institute at Southern Connecticut State University. “We have had many fine storytellers here during this session,” one of the students confided to me, “but I did not realize that I, too, have stories to share until I heard you tell your personal stories.” A storyteller was born that day. Indeed, it was listening to Linda Marchisio tell her personal stories at the first annual Tellabration in 1988 that made me realize that I was a storyteller.

Personal and family stories are inspirational, soothing, and infectious. They can both illuminate the beauty and expose the beast among us. They give us an unequaled opportunity to examine who we are, where we come from, and where we are going. Through them, we can effect changes in both ourselves and the world around us. Happy tales to you!

The Adventures of Peggy Quigley

2010-02-28T17:56:00.000-08:00

The Adventures of Peggy Quigley is a book that my granddaughter and I are writing together. This is the first chapter.

Chapter 1
A New Planet
Copyright Linda Goodman and Morgan Deal

Mrs. Quinn stood at the front of the classroom reviewing the material that would be on the next day’s American History test. Peggy Quigley tried to be quiet, but her coughing and wheezing would not be controlled. One loud, rough cough after another was hurled from her raw, scratched throat. She felt like she had swallowed sandpaper.

“Be quiet, Piggy Quigley,” growled Fleming Poole, the obnoxious boy who sat in front of her. “You might not need this test review, but the rest of us do. “

“That’s right, Piggley Wiggley!” taunted Tyra Snelling. “Not all of us make straight A’s, like you. Not all of us have photographic memories.”

Peggy was tired of being called names like “Piggy Quigley” and “Piggley Wiggley.” How would they feel if someone made fun of their names? She decided to find out.

“You’re stupid, Swimming Poole!” she wheezed between coughs. “Anybody knows that a cough drop does not help asthma. And you, Tired of Smelling, you don’t need a photographic memory to make straight A’s. You just need to study once in a while. Try it some time!”

“Did you hear her, Flem?” Tyra sneered. “With a name like Piggley Wiggley, she’s got a lot of nerve making fun of us!”

“Flem?” asked Peggy, “Isn’t that something that I cough up when I have a cold? Isn’t it yucky and full of germs that make everyone sick? Hey - come to think of it, that name fits you even better than Swimming Poole, Flem.”

“Peggy! Fleming! Tyra!” shouted Mrs. Quinn, “What is going on? Why are you disrupting my class?”

“Gee, Mrs. Quinn,” Fleming whined, “We just want to be able to hear your review. I really want to do well on this test. But I can’t hear you with Piggy…uh, I mean Peggy, coughing in my ear.”

“Piggy…uh, I mean Peggy, Fleming has a point,” said Mrs. Quinn. “Where is your inhaler?”

“It’s in the nurse’s office,” Peggy replied. “I have a new kind that can be used only under trained supervision.”

“Well, go see the nurse, then,” Mrs. Quinn instructed her. “Based on your part in the discussions we have had, you probably don’t need this review anyway.”

Peggy was glad to have an excuse to leave the classroom. Listening to a review of material that she already knew was boring. On her way to the nurse’s office she saw her friend, Mr. Squiggy, the school janitor. She waved, “Hi, Mr. Squiggy. “ A spasm of coughs came over her before she could say anything else.

“Hi, Peggy” smiled Mr. Squiggy. “Are you okay? That cough sounds pretty rough.”

“I know,” Peggy answered. “I’m on my way to the nurse’s office now to use my inhaler.”

Mr. Squiggy shook his head. “Here we are in the year 2075, and we haven’t even come up with a cure for asthma. Or course, even people without asthma are coughing. This air pollution is terrible! Why, the smoke in the air is like a heavy fog. Just about everybody has itchy skin rashes and burning, runny eyes. But your asthma is so bad, Peggy, you suffer a great deal more than most people do.”

“I know,” Peggy agreed. “Last weekend I was asked to leave the movie theater because I was coughing so badly. It’s hard to have any fun.”

Mr. Squiggy thought a minute. “You know, Peggy, I heard on the news this morning that a new planet had been discovered. Its atmosphere is similar to what earth’s atmosphere was one thousand years ago – almost pollution free! The scientists who discovered the planet have gotten a government grant to send 12 families to settle the planet. I sure wish that I could go! I would feel like one of the settlers in Jamestown, Virginia in the 1600’s, taming a new world.”

“Then why don’t you go?” asked Peggy.

“Like I already said, Peggy, the grant is for families, “ Mr. Squiggy explained. “One person does not make a family.”

“Then why don’t you just get married, “ Peggy suggested. “You would be part of a family then.”

“The spaceship is leaving in two weeks,” Mr. Squiggy told her. “I don’t think I could find a wife that quickly.”

Suddenly Peggy got an idea. “Who says a family had to be a husband and a wife? A grandfather and a grandchild could be a family, too – an alternative family!”

Mr. Squiggy looked confused. “Peggy, you know that I don’t have any grandchildren.”

Just then, Barry Flat walked by on his way to the boys’ bathroom. “Well, if it isn’t Piggy and Squiggy? How are things on the farm, eggheads?”

“Things are great on the farm, Very Fat,” shot back Peggy. “We have a mule whose butt looks just like your face. People pay us a dollar a piece to take a picture of it. We’re getting rich!”

Barry made an obnoxious face and sulked away. Peggy returned her attention to Mr. Squiggy. “I know that you don’t have any grandchildren. But the government doesn’t know that. Their data banks imploded years ago, after identity theft became such a problem. You could say that I was your grandchild.”

Mr. Squiggy looked skeptical. “Your parents would never go along with that, Peggy.”

“They would not only go along with it, they would welcome the opportunity for me to take part in this great venture,“ Peggy assured him.

“Are you sure?” asked Mr. Squiggy.

“I have never been more sure of anything in my life!” Peggy assured him. “My parents are forward thinking people. Call my house tonight. My mother will tell you herself that it’s okay.”

“I’ll do that,” said Mr. Squiggy. “Won’t it be something if he says yes? What a great adventure we will have!”

After Peggy had visited the nurse’s office and used her inhaler, she went to the girl’s bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her mousey brown hair was thin and scraggly. Dark freckles covered her thin face. Her buck teeth protruded like a bottle cap opener. Tall and skinny, she looked like a scarecrow.

I am not pretty, she thought to herself, but I am smart! I will tell my mom and dad that there is a new planet with a non-polluted atmosphere. I will tell them that scientists think that the atmosphere would be really good for people who have asthma. Plus, I will be able to get away from all the people that make fun of me. I know my parents will agree to let me go!

The plan was made, and Peggy was certain that it would work. She was so excited that she didn’t even notice when Fleming Poole called her Piggy later in the day. She even wished him a nice evening.

Health Insurance Companies Have Won

2010-02-23T19:49:00.000-08:00

The February 13 issue of the Richmond Times Dispatch reports that Anthem is raising its health insurance premiums on individual plans in California by 39%. Here in Virginia, they are going up between 7% and 8.5%, after a 20% hike in December. The private, high deductible plan that I had, which cost $435 per month last May, will now cost $559 per month, or $6,702 per year. How many unemployed people can afford that?

Why the increase? According to the Times Dispatch, healthy people who are out of work are either going without insurance or purchasing less expensive, high-deductible plans. Because more people are deciding to do without, prices are going up. The shareholders must continue to see a profit.

Let’s face it: the Insurance companies have won. They used their scare tactics to convince the Tea Party folks that healthcare is a liberal plot to suck up their cash and downgrade their own healthcare. It’s a country club mentality: “Our stuff won’t be as good if we let poor, sick people participate.” Meaningful healthcare reform is not going to happen.

Bill Melton’s letter today was right on target. We Christians need to put our money where our mouths are. If we don’t want the government involved in healthcare, more churches should do what my church in Massachusetts did. First United Methodist Church in Hudson, Massachusetts put the word out to the community that it wanted to open a clinic for the uninsured and the underinsured. The community responded with donations galore, and now free medical care is available at the church on Monday nights to those without health coverage. That is Christianity in action.

Tell Tale Hearts: Fools for Love

2010-02-14T10:40:00.000-08:00

Last night I experienced a Valentine's Day Treat at the annual Tell Tale Hearts Fools for Love Concert. There was not a dull moment, and for a 2 hour storytelling concert,that is indeed rare.

The evening began with love songs played on the piano by Dee Kysor, who set the mood for what was to come.

The first teller to take the stage was Anthony Burcher, who flawlessly told the story of a summer romance. The story made us laugh, but touched our hearts as well. Keep your eye on Anthony. He is going places.

I followed with a story of the parallel love lives of myself and my daughter. The apple did not fall far from the tree.

Denise Bennett, one of the most talented and polished tellers in Virginia, wrapped up the first set with a story about how she once kissed Harry Chapin. She also sang a beautiful rendition of Chapin's song All My Life's a Circle, while accompanying herself on the guitar. All of us in the audience who remembered Chapin were green with envy. What a beautiful tribute to of the most Selfless singer/storytellers who ever lived. Chapin donated one-third of all his concert proceeds to third world hunger. Talk about putting you money where your mouth is!

Intermission featured the Hearts' now famous DECADENT DESSERTS. I ate no dinner yesterday, so that I would able to sample each of the delectible delights that the Hearts had to offer.

The second set began with a unique and side-splitting tandem performance by Les Schaffer and Judith Onesty. The subject was speed dating. The entire audience was in stiches as Judith met every women's dating nightmares. Les, of course, was the nightmares, and he did a remarkable job. What timing!

Les and Judith were followed by Woven Yarns (George Crafts and Dee Kyor). I closed my eyes as Dee sang. It was like listening to Judy Collins. George's African tale of love was a gem. I can always count on George to come up with a story that is new to me and that comes to the audience straight from his heart.

The last teller of the evening was the incomparable Megan Hicks, who told the story of how she came up with the concept for the Robert Maplethorpe Memorial Condom Wallet. It was also the story of how she met Jack Abgott, her partner in crime and affairs of the heart. I have always wondered how Megan managed to meet a man who could keep up with her intelligence and quick wit. Now I know, and I think they are the coolest couple on the planet.

Congratulations, Tell Tale Hearts. It was an incredible show.

The Other Linda Goodman

2010-02-11T11:00:00.000-08:00

I began my career as a professional storyteller in January of 1989, just two months after attending the first Tellabration!, which at that time was a Connecticut event only. In November of 1989, I appeared as a teller in the second annual Tellabration! in Enfield, Connecticut. The story I shared was The March, which was about my father’s participation in a Civil Rights march in 1966.

I guess the audience enjoyed the story, because the next day my phone started ringing and by the end of the next week I had over a dozen performances booked. I was on cloud nine! As the months passed, I developed a confidence in my storytelling abilities that prompted me to start making cold calls to various venues

One of the venues that I visited was the Congregational Church on Main Street in downtown Hartford, Connecticut. The good folks there agreed to let me audition to perform at their Wednesday lunch time series, which was very popular with those who worked downtown. The audition committee decided that I should be their entertainment for the Halloween lunch on the last Wednesday in October. I was psyched!

About a week before the Halloween performance, I got a phone call from the Director of the church series. She was so excited she could hardly contain herself. “I can’t believe it!” She squealed. “We are completely sold out!”

I did not know what to think. “Well…...” I stammered, “Storytelling is pretty popular at Halloween.”

“That’s not it!” she retorted. “Almost everyone calling is asking about you. They all want to know if Linda Goodman is really going to be here. They are coming because of you!”

I was astounded. I had been telling professionally for only one year. This would be my first performance in Hartford. How in the world did they even know about me? My vanity answered: When you’re good, word gets around.

On the day of the show, I walked into a room with an audience that had standing room only. Their reactions to my stories were intoxicating. They laughed at all the right spots, gasped and screamed in the appropriate places, and applauded wildly throughout. The response was so overwhelming that my program took twice the amount of time that was allotted. At the end I received a thundering standing ovation that lasted for a good five minutes.

After the show was over, a long line of audience members stood waiting to speak to me. I noticed that many of them had books in their hands. The first woman was so effusive in her praise that I was actually embarrassed. Then suddenly she thrust a book into my hands. “Will you please sign my copy of Star Signs?” she pleaded.

I looked at the book. Sure enough, the author was Linda Goodman, Astrologer.

“I’m sorry, “I told my disappointed new fan. “I’m not that Linda Goodman.” The fact of the matter was that I had never even heard of Linda Goodman the Astrologer.

Word of my true identity filtered back through the line and several angry outbursts occurred. After I recovered from my horror, I actually found them to be amusing:

“You Imposter!”

“How can you call yourself by her name?”

“That’s like saying you’re Wyatt Earp just because you have the same name!”

“But you must have enjoyed my show. You gave me a standing ovation!” I responded.

“That’s because we thought you were her! You’re a fraud!”

“I’m not a fraud!” I protested. “I am Linda Goodman!”

One smug woman summed it all up: “You may be A Linda Goodman, but you’ll never be THE Linda Goodman!”

In the years since then, I have been mistaken for THE Linda Goodman many times. People just hear the name and make assumptions. It has happened so often that when I get a call or an email from someone I don’t know, inquiring about my work, I make a disclaimer early on: I am not Linda Goodman the Astrologer.

Last week I got a call from someone in Oregon who wanted to know if I would sign her copy of my book if she sent it to me with return postage.

“I’m not the astrologer,” I told her.

“What astrologer?” she asked. “I’m looking for Linda Goodman the Storyteller, the author of Daughters of the Appalachians.”

If only I could see that smug Harford woman again, I would tell her a thing or two. I may not be THE Linda Goodman, but I am certainly THE OTHER Linda Goodman.

Blarney

2010-01-24T14:34:00.000-08:00

Compact Disc Review

Blarney

Available from Yvonne Healy, 5193 King Road, Howell, MI 48843, Phone: 810-813-3000. Email: Stories@YHealy.com. Order online from www.YHealy.com/products.html. $14.00 (includes shipping & handling)

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

A citizen of two cultures, Irish and American, Yvonne Healy spoke both the Irish and English languages until she started elementary school. After that, Irish was her parents’ secret language, used to discuss things forbidden to children’s ears. From this world of diversity, cultural respect, and unspoken secrets was born one of America’s most endearing storytellers.

A little bit Ireland and a little bit USA, Healy’s stories have one foot in each world. Blarney is a celebration of her Irish roots, tempered by the seasoning of an American upbringing.

The CD begins with Ballinamuck, set on a dairy farm belonging to Healy’s cousin Pat. As Cousin Pat takes Healy and her family on a tour of his farm, he entertains them with stories, including a witty tale of a smart and heroic pig.

The CD moves from funny to dark with Piggyback Corpse, the story of an Irishman’s encounter with a crowd of leprechauns who put a corpse on his back and offer him a grim deal: bury the corpse before sunrise or become their slave forever. Shades of Mary Culhane are evoked as the Irishman races to rid himself of the corpse before daybreak.

The Silver Branch relates the tale of Cormac McArt, who unwittingly trades the three things he loves most for a mysterious silver branch that can soothe anger and calm tumult. In his quest to rescue what he holds most dear, he becomes “tried in the fire of battle and tempered in the water of life,” as well as the greatest king of all Ireland.

In Travellin’ Con, Healy shares a story of her grandfather, Con Healy, who came to the United States on April 27, 1900 and sailed right back home again. In diapers during her own journey to America, Healy revels in her ancestor’s tale.

When Healy’s grandmother introduces Healy to her first drink of whiskey, a humorous story takes a dark turn to the tragedy of Bloody Sunday, as her grandmother relates the heartbreaking story of her own first drink of that golden brown liquid. Granny’s 1st Whiskey is storytelling at its best, taking us on a journey that is difficult to travel, but leaving us with such a deep appreciation for our blessings that we are grateful for the trip.

Lord of Blarney relates an encounter between Cormac McCarthy and Elizabeth I, resulting in a new word in the Irish language: blarney.

This recording, recommended for ages 12 – adult, would be a cherished addition to any storyteller’s collection, and a wonderful gift to those who love story. Healy exhibits great talent and a reverence for her art, with just a touch of the luck of the Irish. It is a winning combination

Miss Louise: A Collection of Stories

2010-01-14T18:13:00.000-08:00

Compact Disc Review

Miss Louise

A Collection of Stories

Available from Louise Tucciarone, 9332 Wards Road, Rustburg, VA 24588
Phone: 434-821-7626. Email: MissLouise@storyandforge.com. $13.00 + $2.00 shipping & handling

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

Louise Tucciarone’s debut CD is a charming collection of stories that will delight children with its whimsical take on life, love, and human nature.

The Blacksmith and the Leprechaun relates the events of a special day in the life of a blacksmith named Patrick, whose encounter with a Leprechaun is marred by his own negligence and his ignorance of Leprechaun trickery.

The Librarian and the Chicken tells of a “strange and unlikely” happening that occurs when a small-town librarian finds a chicken in her library. The humor in this story is sure to evoke laughter from young listeners.

Princess Miranda is the story of a perfect child’s encounter with puberty, which turns her personality upside-down. Will the king find a cure?

Why the Spider Has a Small Waist is a pour quoi story that takes us to the beginning of time to explain the spider’s present day appearance.

Miss Beatrice is the story of the “most beautiful butterfly that ever lived” and her search for her true love and the perfect father for her future children. When a tragic event jeopardizes her happiness, her friends lend their support and all ends well.

Miss Louise clearly has the heart of a child, and children will enjoy her enthusiasm, her playful character voices, and her simplicity. What more could we ask of a storyteller?

It Takes Two to Tango: Ties That Bind Us

2009-12-20T13:57:00.000-08:00

Compact Disc Review

It Takes Two to Tango

Ties That Bind Us

Available from Leeny Del Seamonds, Two to Tango Productions, P.O. Box 1268, Westford, MA 01886-1433, Phone: 978-692-3961. Email: leeny@LeenyDelSeamonds.com. $17.00 (includes shipping & handling)

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

     Master Story Performer ™ Leeny Del Seamonds values the sage advice and wisdom of family members whose love, guidance, and patience have helped her develop solid relationships. Such blessings, she says, are the ties that bind us. Such blessings are the theme is this unique recording.

     Leeny’s father, known as Del, shared his wisdom with her through wise advice that she refers to as “Del-isms”. “It takes two to tango,” he warns her, “and it takes two to tangle.” The difference, while subtle, makes a world of difference.

     Leeny illustrates the wisdom he bestowed upon her through the stories on this CD. In Purgy-Tory, Leeny shares the terror that caused her to stop speaking when five neighbor boys told her that even unintentional fibs would scar her heart with black marks that would send her to purgatory, a holding cell for hell. The pain there, they said, would feel like 11,000 toaster burns.

     Who Rules the Roost, follows 2 friends who try to answer the age old question of who is head of the family: the husband or the wife. Chuckles abound as the listener accompanies them on their journey.

     Party Girl, which starts out to be a celebration of the party life, takes a serious turn when a routine surgery results in an out of body experience that requires a decision be made between the “big party up in heaven” and rejoining the human race.

     In Tres Perros en Miami, a Labrador retriever, a bulldog, and a Chihuahua vie for the love of a poodle. Which one will meet her test and win her heart?

     La Cucarachita Rosa Maria is the story of a cockroach who tries every modern means available to find love (My Space, Twitter, Speed Dating), only to find that the good old-fashioned way is still the best. It also serves as a “pourquoi story”: why are there so many cockroaches on this planet?

     My personal favorite on this CD is The Stinking Dragon, a delightful story set at a renaissance fair. Leeny, a theater major who spent time acting in New York, came to storytelling, “through a stage door.” This story reveals that a future generation stands ready to amaze us.

     The CD appropriately ends with We Sing as One, a jaunty song that is an ode to a better world.

     Leeny Del Seamonds’ recordings never fail to engage the listener with their passionate wit and simple truths. It Takes Two to Tango, however, goes one step further and tugs at the heart. It will be a cherished addition to any story lover’s collection.

Tales Through Time: Women of the South

2009-12-11T19:26:00.000-08:00

Tales Through Time:

Women of the South

By Joan Leotta and Edith Edwards

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

As a celebration of southern women from the Colonial Era through the present day, Tales Through Time: Women of the South gives the reader an intimate peek at the romance, mystery, friendships, and betrayals that ultimately claim us all. Excellently researched and skillfully written, reading these stories, one after the other, is like traveling in a time machine from period to period. “Historical fact was simply our springboard,” the authors state. “After all, only a few facts are needed to kindle the fire of a good tale.”

The authors complement one another well. Joan Leotta’s polished narration and Edith Edwards’ daring choice of subject matter satisfy the reader’s appetite like a well-prepared meal. The stories in this collection pay tribute to various genres, including horror (Reflections of Evil), humor (Preacher Parker Learns a Lesson, The Wayward Mop), romance (Fan Coral, Love in Time of War), suspense (Recipe for Murder), and historical fiction (every story in this book).

All fourteen stories in this collection are well worth the read, but two are especially engaging. A Recipe for Murder involves Leah, a Latin expert and a specialist on the life of Julius Caesar, who makes two significant discoveries: a personal note to Caesar hidden inside an ancient fasces, and a personal betrayal that will change her life. The title tells you that a murder will be committed; the victim of that murder, however, is a surprise twist that will shock the reader.

In Preacher Parker Learns a Lesson, a crooked preacher is exposed by a clever boy who does not fear the consequences of his scheme. Indeed, he operates from righteous indignation, delighting the reader, who will surely have a good laugh at Preacher Parker’s expense.

Leotta is also a skilled professional storyteller who brings her stories to life with spoken as well as written words. She presently tells Fan Coral, included in this book’s Colonial Era, and is developing a show based on The Hurricane of Independence, also included in this book.

This book is a well-rounded and enjoyable reading experience. It gives the reader a bird’s eye view of what southern women have faced throughout the history of our country. These steel magnolias are survivors. Their strength is our hope.

Earl Hamner's The Homecoming

2009-12-06T18:19:00.000-08:00

     This past Friday night, I went to Afton, Virgina to see the Hamner Theater's production of Earl Hamner's The Homecoming. I had high expectations, and I was not disappointed.

     My sister, my niece, and I arrived early and had dinner at D'Ambola's. I am happy that we got there before then sun went down. The blue mountains were gorgeous as the sunset. We sat by the window and enjoyed the view.

     After dinner we mosied on down to the Hamner. I am glad that I made reservations early. The show runs every Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday from November 19 through December 13, and every single performance is sold out.

     If you are not familiar with The Homecoming, it is the story of a family waiting for its father to come home on Christmas Eve. The father lost his job locally (the play is set during the Great Depression) and is now working out of town in Waynesboro. The snow is falling, and travel is questionable at best.

     The audience waits anxiously with the family, but the wait is a rewarding one because the various characters introduced are engaging. There is Clay-Boy Spencer, who shoulders his father's burden when he is away, and Olivia Spencer, a loving mother whose sterness masks her worry. The nine children in the cast are delightful.

     Birdshot Sprouse, Clay-Boy's supportive friend, always appears when needed most. Reverend Hawthorne Dooley is a soulful black preacher who aids Clay-Boy when he is sent to search for his father. The Staples sisters, who provide their neighbors with holiday "recipe", provide comic relief, as well as comfort and joy.

     The Homecoming has two casts. I saw cast A. Mary Coy played Olivia Spencer with just the right mix of angst and strength. I could not help but compare her to Patricia Neal, who protrayed Olivia in the television movie. Mary was not found wanting. She is excellent.

     Michael Dowell played the adult Clay-Boy who narrates throughout the play. The wistful glimmer in his eye, his strong yet gentle voice, his honest portrayal of a man who knows he will always live some part of his life in the past - all these things worked together give the show integrity and authenticity.

     Director Boomie Pederson told me that between the two casts, there were 32 children. I must admit to being amazed by the performances of the children in cast A. Never once did I doubt that they were a family. I actually forgot that they were acting.

     I must commend Boomie Pederson's direction. She is innovative and always on top of her game. Even when the actors are excellent, Boomie's touch can be seen tying everything into place so that each scene blends seamlessly into the next.

     Most folks know that The Homecoming was spun off into The Waltons, as series that ran on CBS for nine years. I think I will look for the show on DVD. I do not want to leave this family behind.

Thanksgiving

2009-11-24T17:49:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving

by Linda Goodman

     When my family lived in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia, the food that we ate at our Thanksgiving Day meal was the same as what we ate on any other day: soup beans and cornbread. Occasionally, there would be meat, if Daddy had been out hunting.

     What made the meal different was a ritual that my Daddy insisted upon observing on Thanksgiving. Before eating, each of us sitting around the table would, one by one, give thanks for that for which he or she was most grateful. Not having much in the way of material possessions, our thanks usually were given for treasured relationships. One year, after I had recovered from a severe bout with pneumonia, I was surprised to hear my brothers give thanks for my survival. It changed the way I felt about them, and their constant teasing was easier to take after that. I gave thanks for my new baby sister. Mama was thankful for well-behaved children, and Daddy was thankful that he had been blessed with children who were thinkers. If you use your head, you will come out ahead, he always said.

     When we moved to the city, Thanksgiving remained the same. My parents refused to assimilate into the city culture, and so our meals and rituals never changed. We children eventually adopted city ways, but Momma and Daddy held to the old ways until their deaths.

     The Thanksgiving after they passed away, my sister and her family came to spend the holiday with me in Connecticut. I fixed a traditional meal of turkey, dressing, and various side dishes. Before eating, my sister and I decided to reinstate the old ritual that we had taken part in so often. One by one our children gave thanks. My daughter was thankful for the new dress she had gotten for the Christmas dance at school. My nephew was thankful for his Nintendo. My niece was glad that her allowance had been increased. No one mentioned family or friends.

     I abandoned the ritual after that. It just was not the same with its new emphasis on material possessions. On Thanksgiving day, we have a bountiful meal and good companionship. Everyone seems happy. But I always make sure to take a few minutes alone to give thanks for the wonderful man who taught me that it is not who you are, but how you live, that matters most; and that anyone who has a loving family is rich indeed.

Ferradiddledumday

2009-11-22T18:17:00.000-08:00

Book Review

Ferradiddledumday

By Becky Mushko

Illustrated by Bruce Rae

$7.00 per copy

Available January 2010 from Cedar Creek Publishing.
Phone: 800-431-1579.
Email: cedarcreekbooks@aol.com

Becky Mushko’s website: www.beckymushko.com

Cedar Creek Author Page: www.cedarcreekauthors.com/Becky Mushko.html

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

Becky Mushko wrote Ferradiddledumday in 1997 to showcase her friend Susan Alkhadra’s spinning abilities and to teach youngsters about the flora and fauna of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The story was originally written to be told,

but demand for copies lead to its publication in Blue Ridge Traditions magazine in 1998 and, ultimately, to this book.

Ferradiddledumday is an Appalachian Version of Rumpelstiltskin. A need for money prompts the heroine, Gillie, a master spinner, to make a deal that appears to be a blessing, but turns out to actually be a curse. In the end, bald-faced

luck saves the day, and all live happily ever after. Those who have read Rumpelstiltskin will recognize the familiar motifs.

The charm of Mushko’s tale lies in its Appalachian authenticity. Her words paint pictures of mountains brimming

with ticks, chiggers, rattlesnakes, and copperheads. When Gillie walks the mountains, she is loved by the pipsissewa,

the maidenhair ferns, and the dogtooth violets, all of which beg her to pick them. Superstition plays a part, too, as bad

omens appear in threes: Gillie spills salt; a bird flies through the cabin; and her father sees the moon over his left shoulder.

Hence, the appearance of a strange little man who hears the trees whispering among themselves. Gillie’s misfortune could very well be his gain. His magic could very well be her salvation. As every lover of fairy tales knows,

however, magic comes at a price, in this case a dear one.

Bruce Rae’s sketches enhance the story without overwhelming it. His attention to minute detail gives the reader a sense of both the Appalachian environment and the culture. He was a good choice to illustrate this book.

This book includes a study guide that highlights the literature, history, geography, and science particular to the Appalachians. A lively and informative discussion should ensue.

Tribute to Brother Blue

2009-11-19T18:31:00.001-08:00

    I first began hearing about Brother Blue in 1990. Everytime I told stories to an audience with college students, they would ask me if I knew Blue.  College kids loved his color and his wisdom. They admired his journey from the mean streets to his life's dream of trying to save the world, story by story.
    I fnally heard Blue tell stories at a church in Hartford, Connecticut in 1991. Standing on the stage, a gaunt man in a colorful costume that brought to mind a court jester, he was dazzling. I was not impressed with his storytelling at first. He rambled and fidgeted. He was hard to follow. Midway through his performance, however, he began his butterfly story, and suddenly I was riveted. The story was sweet, beautiful, and, yes, brilliant. I became a fan. I began to follow his peformances, hoping to witness that brilliance again. It was always worth the wait, however long.
    For years, Blue and his wife Ruth hosted a weekly open mike storytelling series at the Book Cellar Cafe in Cambridge, Massachusetts. They made the venue a safe place for beginners to share the stories that had been laid on their hearts. At the end of each performance, he would share appreciations. Then he would wave his arms accross the room as the audience joined him in his trademark "aaaaaaah!" Even the most fragile tellers were welcomed and accepted. Everyone who came to Blue's open mike storytelling became part of his family. There were no outcasts in Blue's presence. He was the essence of love.
    This if for you, Blue......aaaaaaaaaaah!

Yankee Doodle Streudel

2009-11-15T14:26:00.000-08:00

Mimi Rockwell is so well-known as a producer and promotor of storytelling events that few realize what a fine writer and storyteller she is. Her CD would make a great Christmas Gift for the story lovers in your life. Read my review of her CD below and decide for yourself.

Compact Disc Review

Yankee Doodle Streudel

German-American Family Stories

Available from Mimi Rockwell, 15301 Castle Yonder Lane, Bristol, VA 24202. Phone: 276-669-8358. Email: Bristolstory@aol.com. $12.00, plus $3.00 shipping and handling.

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

     Rarely does an audio recording produce pleasure that equals the delights of a live performance. Mimi Rockwell’s Yankee Doodle Streudel, however, does just that. Mimi’s stories take the listener on a nostalgic journey through a simpler time when family interaction taught life lessons leavened with a huge dose of love. The stories’ themes, though set in a German-American context, are universal. Everyone will identify with some aspect of the child portrayed.

     Queen Diva takes the listener on a circular journey that will strike a chord with anyone who has been dissatisfied with his or her given name. Amanda begins with the discovery of a photo in a hymnal and evolves into the most beautiful ghost story that I have ever heard. The vivid images in this story take the listener through a range of emotions: joy, love, grief, and, inevitably, hope.

     Uncle Herman begins with the heartbreak of an opportunity forsaken for the sake of family obligation, but then proceeds to embark upon a delightful journey that leads to true love. Apple Streudel addresses an awkward moment at a children’s birthday party.
     The Movie Camera brings the Great Depression to life in a trip to the movies that yields a treasure of family memories and stories for years to come. Grandpa Santa Claus centers around a grandfather who is asked to play Santa at an annual Christmas party. The events that follow leave one wondering at the irony of how a time-honored tradition, so often taken for granted, could go so wrong.

     Greenthumb, a story of Mimi’s mother’s love of plants, brings this lovely collection of tales to its end, with the perfect combination of wonder and hope.

     Well-written and filled with haunting images and lovely details, these stories do not end when the CD is finished. Mimi’s stories elicit sweet memories that help us forget life’s disappointments and tragedies, if only for a little while. Her stories create pictures and scenes that will infuse the listeners’ minds and hearts with peace and beauty. Isn’t that what storytelling is all about?

All stories written and performed by Mimi Rockwell

Shadows in the Woods

2009-11-11T18:01:00.000-08:00

Compact Disc Review

Shadows in the Woods

Spine-Tingling Tales

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

     Master Story Performer ™ Leeny Del Seamonds introduces her new CD of scary stories by chronicling her passion (nurtured by costume parties celebrating her October birthday) for telling them. Her vivid imagination and fear of the dark guided her down the path of telling the very tales that frightened her. After all, the teller controls both the tale and the audience, much more so than the ghosts and demons that inhabit the stories.

     Friday the Thirteenth revolves around an auto breakdown on the highway to New Jersey and a harrowing struggle to escape a strange entity after answering nature’s call. Was it real? That depends on your perspective, but you may want to stay away from the woods if you are stranded on a highway on Friday the Thirteenth in October, during a harvest moon.

     Old Lady Lincoln tells of a woman who dies with her “eyes wide open, staring at everything and seeing nothing.” Enter two silver coins and a greedy gravedigger and you get real horror, accentuated by a howling wind and ghostly voices. Never “steal from the dead,” the tale warns.
     Jersey Devil, one of Leeny’s signature stories from her native New Jersey, begins with a grieving, pregnant widow cursing her unborn child, who later escapes her useless restraints and terrorizes South Jersey. One family’s tragic encounter with this creature will keep you awake long after you should have fallen asleep, wondering about those strange hisses and howls that haunt the night.

     The Date is a story of a young couple, deeply in love and foolish enough to go parking in a desolate part of town, only to run out of gas on a night when a serial killer is on the loose. In the end, love triumphs, though not in the way that you would expect.

     The Feast is a delightful poem that is a cornucopia of ghastly voices and cackling laughter that includes a recipe for witch’s brew.

     All stories, poems, and songs on this CD were written by the multi-talented Del Seamonds, who now has another excellent recording to include in her award-winning collection of tales. Flawlessly produced and masterfully told, the tales will lure you into listening to them again and again. Just don’t listen when you are alone….at night.

Available from Leeny Del Seamonds, Two to Tango Productions, P.O. Box 1268, Westford, MA 01886-1433, Phone: 978-692-3961. Email: leeny@LeenyDelSeamonds.com. $17.00 (includes shipping & handling

I Have Arrived!

2009-11-11T17:54:00.000-08:00

At long last, I have a blog. Friends having been nagging me to get one for years. I thought it would be too "technical" for me, but I actually managed to get it up and running in less than one-half hour.

Now I can share my thoughts and feelings and what little wisdom I have gained in my years on this earth. I can share my reviews of books and CDs with a wider audience. I can get the word out on things I care about. I may even be able to make a difference.

I have arrived!