Stuck

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

© 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

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

Hurtful Hospitality

©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

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, 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.