©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.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Diving and Emerging
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!
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!
Friday, April 29, 2011
Charity on Hold
©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.
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.
Monday, March 28, 2011
The 10th Anniversary VASA Gathering
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.
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.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Shattered Silence
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.
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
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
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
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Penny for Your Thoughts
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.
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.
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