Anthony Burcher's New CD A Winner!

CD Review

He Ain’t Right

Written and performed by Anthony Burcher; recorded live at Stonehouse Presbyterian Church, Toano, VA; Cover design by Brian Morgante for TreeHouse Artists; Mastered by Jake Dempsey for TreeHouse Artists. $14.99, plus shipping and handling, from http://www.anthonyburcher.com/

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

            One of Virginia’s hidden treasures, Anthony Burcher may think “he ain’t right,” but those who have had the pleasure of hearing him tell stories know that he is not only right, he is righteous. He can take an ordinary, everyday habit, like eating Tic Tacs, and turn it into a comedic tour de force that has his audience in stitches and his pants…. well, let’s not go there.

            The story about the afore mentioned Tic Tacs is titled Minty Freshness, which, believe it or not, is not always a good thing; especially when you are teaching a room full of elementary school children about John Smith and Pocahontas.

            The Junkyard compares/contrasts Anthony’s father’s “junkyard” world with his mother’s “pristine” world. The two are ever separated and crossing from one to the other can be quite the challenge, especially after you’ve been attacked by a barrel of oil.

            Sunday Dinner made me yearn for yesteryear, when delectable food was made from scratch at home by master cooks in one’s own family. Of course, some home cooked dinners make better stories than others. Rotten vinegar, for instance, can cause quite a sensation.

            Bower of Table is Anthony’s own hilarious rendition of the Tower of Babel, found in the Bible book of Genesis. Anthony’s version is reminiscent of Archie Campbell’s telling of Cinderella on the television show Hee Haw.

Anthony Burcher knows how to create a fabulous story and tell it uniquely well. He also knows how to make his audience feel at home. I was in the audience at Stonehouse Presbyterian Church when Anthony recorded this album live. His zany facial expressions and gestures enhanced each tale, and his audience was in the palm of his hand – exactly where they wanted to be.

The Bag Lady

© Linda Goodman, August 2013

 I was not doing what I wanted to be doing on July 4, 1975. I wanted to be sipping wine at the cookout that my boyfriend had invited me to attend.  Instead, I was working. 

July 4^th is a big sales day for retail establishments, and the Portsmouth, Virginia furniture store that employed me, was no exception.  At 9:00 a.m., I and five of my co-workers stood at the front of the store, waiting to service the hoard of furniture shoppers who were sure to be coming through our doors soon.  We worked on the “up” system. Before the store had opened, we had drawn numbers from a basket. The sales person who drew number 1 would attend to the first customer who came through the door; the one who drew number 2 would attend to the second, and so on.  I drew number 4.

Sales persons one and two greeted customers almost immediately.  About ten minutes elapsed before customer number 3, a tired looking woman, walked through the door. This woman looked like someone who had been hit by hard times. She was wearing a ratty winter coat (even though the temperature was in the nineties), flip-flops, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. In her right hand she held a large brown paper grocery bag.

“Do I have to help her?” asked the salesman who had drawn number 3. “She’s a bag lady, for Christ’s sake!”

The store owner, Mr. S, scrutinized the woman before replying, “She’s probably come in to take advantage of our air conditioning.  Just ignore her. She’ll leave soon enough.”

She did not leave, and while I waited for customer number 4, she looked back at us repeatedly.

“Don’t you think someone should at least say hello?” I inquired.

“If you talk to her, she’ll never leave,”  Mr. S answered. “She’ll monopolize your time and you won’t make any sales.”

I knew he was probably right, but I looked back and her, and she was staring at me. The puzzled look in her eyes was clearly saying ‘why won’t you help me?’

She reminded me of my mother. Even after my father had gotten a job that paid well, my mother refused to buy new clothes.  “We never know how long the job will last,” she reasoned. “I aim to save as much money as I can for that rainy day that’s sure to come.” I used to wonder why the clerks in the stores where we shopped sometimes ignored her. Now I knew the reason.

I could not look away from this bag lady’s eyes. “I’m going to go speak to her,” I told Mr. S.

“Go ahead,” he sighed. “but don’t blame me when everyone else racks up big sales today and you end up with nothing.”

I nodded and walked over to the woman. “Hi,” I greeted her. “How can I help you today?”

“I’m looking for a new living room suite, a new dining room suite, and a new bedroom suite.” She asserted. “I just got a new apartment.”

“Very well,” I responded, “come with me and I will show you what we have.”

After walking through the living room section three times she finally stopped to ask questions about a royal blue velvet sectional that cost $999.99. She wanted to know what made that sofa worth that much money. I was well-versed on the strengths of that particular suite, so I quickly explained them to her.  She nodded, accepting my explanation.

“And those tables,” she asked, pointing to the set of 3 chrome and glass tables that accessorized the suite, “what makes them worth $300.00?

“They’re tempered glass,” I enlightened her. “They’re four to six times the strength of regular glass, and If the glass breaks it shatters into round pieces that can’t cut anyone. “ She did not seem impressed, so I added, “These tables are so strong you can stand on them.”

“I’m looking for tables that lamps can stand on; not people,” she informed me. She pointed to a set of wooden tables across the room. “I’ll take those,” she said.

By this time, I had been with the woman for forty-five minutes.  Meanwhile, sales persons 1, 2, 3, 5, and 6 were closing multiple sales. I silently berated myself to not listening to Mr. S. He had been in this business a lot longer than me.  His was the wise voice of experience.

After similarly scrutinizing the dining room furniture, she selected a chrome and glass dining room table (“I might actually want to stand on that sometime,” she shared with me.) with 6 leather chairs. She took over two hours to select a bedroom suite, a French provincial set made of fruitwood. At $1,549.99, it was the most expensive suite we carried. I invited her to join me at my desk, but she insisted she needed to choose lamps for her new living room and bedroom suites first.

After another hour had passed, she was satisfied that she had everything she wanted. As I pulled a chair up to my desk for her, I glanced at Mr. S. He was shaking his head.  I knew exactly what he was thinking, “I told you so!” I did not relish the thought of the scorching lecture that would soon be coming my way; not to mention the beating I would be giving myself for offering to help this woman.

I took a blank contract from my desk drawer and began to fill it out. She supplied me with her name, address, and phone number (clearly, she was making this stuff up!), but hesitated when I asked for her Social Security number. “What do you need that for,” she wanted to know.

“I need your Social Security number to get your credit approved,” I insisted (like I actually thought she could get approved).

“I’m not buying this on credit!” she thundered. “I’m paying cash.”

Mr. S, standing behind me, actually giggled, prompting snickers from the rest of the sales staff.

I ignored them.  They could be dealt with later. I needed to get rid of this woman before she ruined my sales for the rest of the day.

“Very well,” I said in my most business-like voice, “your total with sales tax comes to $3,795.96. Since you are paying cash, I won’t charge you for delivery. I’ll write up your receipt while you go get the money.”

“I don’t need to go get the money,” she smiled. “I got it with me.”

She proceeded to open up that brown paper grocery bag that was in her right hand. After removing several layers of newspaper, she started lifting banded packs of one-hundred dollar bills and placing them on my desk. “There’s $3,800. You owe me $4.04 change,” she announced.

I wrote up a delivery slip and sent it back to our warehouse. Mr. S. was speechless, as the sales staff gasped in disbelief. I could hardly believe it myself. This had to be a dream!

But it was not a dream. I escorted her to the front door, and as I opened the door for her, I advised, “You ought to put that money in a bank account. It’s not safe to walk around this city with that kind of cash in a paper grocery bag.”

A sly smile spread across her face. “Don’t you worry about me,” she reassured me. “Everybody thinks I’m a bag lady.”

Author’s Note:  A year later, when I was promoted sales manager of the store, I used this story to train my sales staff not to judge customers by their appearance.  The really cool thing about this is that there were still sales staff members who had been present and witnessed my experience with this woman. When doubters scoffed, these staff members verified the truth of the story. “We know it’s true,” they insisted. “We were there!”

Suzi Whaples Live in Jonesborough

CD Review

Written and performed by Suzi Whaples.  $15.00, plus shipping and handling, from http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/suziwhaples2. Suzi’s website: http://suziwhaples.com/

Reviewed by Linda Goodman

            As a native of Virginia’s Appalachian Mountains, I truly enjoyed Suzi Whaples’ authenticity on this CD. A true Appalachian accent is hard to find these days, and as I listened to these original stories I felt as though I had been whisked back into my childhood to one of those big family reunions where my relatives strived hard to “out-story” one another.

            Speaking in her mama’s voice, Suzi begins telling I Hear Something, a story about vampires and other monsters that introduces us to a cast of eccentric characters, including the affable Dr. Slaughter, Boyd Polly (a connoisseur of fine grain), and hex specialist Elsie Mundy. Along the way, she dispenses homespun wisdom (“When you get old, everything either gets plugged up or leaks.”) and a dissertation on the history of werewolves.

            Chicken Man shares the story of the monster that terrified the holler where Mama grew up. A love story of sorts, this story blends humor and suspense to create a unique tale of growing up in the mountains.          

            Papa Can’t Read is a touching story about a man who fears losing his family’s respect and the sensitive daughter who discovers his secret and helps him get past his fears. AMAZING!

            I had to listen to The Thong twice because I was laughing so hard, I did not hear the whole thing the first time. Words change their meanings over time, and this story about a generational misunderstanding of a word is hilarious.

            Suzi’s adopted granddaughter is the star of Lydia, a sweet story that will put a smile on any grandparent’s face.

            Rarely do I hear such fine sound on a live recording. Doug Dorschug, the Technical Producer, and Brandon Ferguson, who edited the stories, did their jobs well.

This is a CD that should be played after one of those stress-filled days that we all dread, yet find so common. Laughter really is the best medicine for this ailment, and this CD is a super-sized prescription for just that!

Thoughts on the 2013 NSN Conference

Finances have been tight since our move from Virginia to North Carolina, prompting me to buy only the Performance Package for the 2013 National Storytelling Network (NSN) Conference -  themed “ Story: Seed of Creativity.” I missed the wonderful workshops, but there were performances of all kinds sprinkled throughout the schedule, so I still managed to have a delightful time.

Brief summaries of performances I attended:

Denise Bennett’s fringe, “The Heart’s True Scale” was gripping, heartfelt, and downright hilarious. I have seen this show grow from a seed to a glorious flower. Every time I see it, I find something new to admire.

The four story showcases featured tellers galore from all experience levels. All of the stories were well-told. The one I am best remembering is Miriam Nadel’s tale of her experience on the television game show “Jeopardy.” I just started watching this show a month ago, and I enjoyed hearing about the hoops one must jump through to be a contestant.  I am also remembering Fred Powers, who authentically portrayed a coal miner caught in a life-threatening experience. Gary Lloyd’s clever ode to chocolate tweaked my appetite for sweet treats. Arianna Ross broke my heart with her story of a woman living in a Bosnian refugee camp.

Diane Edgecomb and Margot Chamberlain once again wowed the audience with their brilliance and synchronicity in their Fringe “New Age Gawain and the Green Knight.” I never tire of seeing these two women perform together. Margot’s harp flows perfectly with Diane’s every move. Imagine the hours of practice it must take to work so well together!  Look for Diane at the 2013 National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, where she will be featured as a new voice.

Bernadette Nason’s fringe, “Tea in Tripoli,” follows the journey of a naïve young English Woman who takes a contract job to work for a year in Tripoli. Little does she know the complex and dangerous life that awaits her there.  I felt as though I were going through the experience with her.

The All Regions Story Slam – “Create,” hosted by the always witty and always captivating Kim Weitkamp was a hoot! Congratulations to winners Yvonne Healey (3^rd place), Lynn Ruehlmann (2^nd place), and Elzora Dennison Trimmer (1^st place). Judges Sheila Arnold, Adam Booth, and Leeny Del Seamonds had a tough job, as there were many stories worthy of prizes. I enjoyed getting to hear my old friend Jim Harriman of Connecticut spin a yarn at the slam.

The members meeting revealed a board that has been hard at work to make NSN relevant, motivating, and financially sound. We learned that three cities are being considered to be NSN’s new home: Kansas City, MO (which has already made a nice offer), Pittsburgh, Pa, and Chicago, IL.  Board Chairman Alton Chung announced that next year’s conference will be held in July in Phoenix, AZ.

The closing ceremony featured the incomparable Latin Ballet of Virginia, dancing “The Legend of the Sleeping Princess.” This performance left me speechless! The colorful costumes, the grace and skill of the dancers (how do they make it look so effortless?), and the spellbound audience combined to create an unforgettable world where fantasy and music were braided together to hold us under their spell.

The NSN Oracle Awards saw many storytellers being rewarded for their years of service to the storytelling community. Lifetime Achievement Awards were presented to  Elizabeth Ellis, Syd Lieberman, and Diane Wolkstein  (posthumously). Lynette Ford, Andy Offutt Irwin, Angel Lloyd, Kevin Locke, Olga Loya, and Patricia Coffie received  Circle of Excellence Awards. Judy Sima received an award for Distinguished National Service. Regional Awards were given to Ellouise Schoettler, Jim Dieckmann, Judith Heineman, Alden (Joe) Doolittle, Karen Ferris Morgan, and MyLinda Butterworth. Congratulations to all!

Of course, being in the company of friends that I do not get to see often is the best part of the festival for me. Leeny Del  Seamonds, storyteller extraordinaire, was my roommate and was delightful company. I got to have meals with pals from all over the country. I even made a few new friends! I was sorry to leave Richmond, but I am already looking for to next year in Phoenix.

A Different Kind of Guest

By Linda Goodman

(From Luke 7:36-50)

Good morning. My name is Rachel and I am the daughter of Simon the Pharisee. My father is a well respected man, who often invites other important men to be guests at our table. Last night, however, was different.

            The word Pharisee means separate. The name serves us well, as Pharisees to not like to keep company with people who are not Jewish, or Jews who do not follow the same practices that we do. That is why I was surprised when my father announced that Jesus would be a guest in our home.

Jesus of Nazareth... .have you heard of him? He is a vagabond who keeps company with the rabble; the peasants, tax collectors and women of ill repute. Our guests are usually great men who wear the finest clothes and have servants to attend their every need.

When Jesus entered our home he was dressed in the garb of a simple peasant. I expected that, but he was not even clean! He was covered with dust from his head to his filthy feet! He looked as though he had walked miles through the wilderness without bathing for days.

My father was so disgusted that he refused to offer Jesus the simple courtesies that were normally afforded our honored guests. He did not have Jesus’ feet washed, as was the custom. Neither did he give him the expected kiss of welcome that would have been followed by the anointing of Jesus head with olive oil. My father merely said, “This is Jesus of Nazareth, who has gained quite a reputation of late. Let us sit down at the table.”

The servants were just beginning to bring us our meal, when a strange woman walked through the front door. Many of the lower class pass our home when we have important, or, in this case, infamous, guests. None, however, would dare to enter our home without an invitation.

My mother gasped when she saw the woman, and when I looked at the woman’s face I understood why. This woman was the town harlot! Whenever I saw this woman walking down the road, I would cross to the other side and look away. One must not keep company with, or even acknowledge, such a vile being!

  No doubt she did very well plying her chosen trade, for she wore scarlet robes made of the finest silk, and her sandals were studded with pearls and rubies. In her arms she carried an exquisite alabaster jar that was filled with sweet perfume. She must have paid a fortune for it!

She took no note of my family. She ran straight to Jesus, where she knelt at his feet and began sobbing. She cried so hard that her tears, like rain, washed over Jesus feet, turning the dirt to mud. Horrified, she undid her long hair, all the while begging, “Please forgive me, Lord. Please forgive.”  She wiped Jesus’ feet clean with her own hair!  Then she kissed his feet and poured the perfume from the jar on to them, gently massaging it into his skin. And Jesus let her do these things!

My horrified father muttered under his breath, “And I thought this man might be a prophet! He does not even know what this woman is!”

Jesus must have excellent hearing, for he heard every word that my father said.

“Simon, I wish to tell you a story,” Jesus announced.

“I know a banker,” Jesus continued, “who was owed money by two men. One owed him fifty silver coins. The other owed him 500 silver coins. Neither could pay his debt, and the banker decided to forgive the debts of both men. Which of these men, Simon, do you think was more grateful to the banker?”

“I do not see what that has to do with anything,” my father retorted, “but I would judge that the man who owed the banker 500 coins would have been the more grateful of the two.”

“You are correct,” Jesus told him. “Those who have been forgiven more are more grateful than those who have been forgiven little.”

Jesus turned back to the woman and placed his hand on her head as he continued speaking to my father.” Simon, I am a guest in your home, yet you did not wash my feet. You did not welcome me with a kiss or anoint my head with olive oil. This woman, on the other hand, has washed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. She has  kissed my feet and anointed them with sweet perfume.”

I could see my father’s face turning red with rage as Jesus told him, “This woman has sinned much, and she will be forgiven much. She will be more grateful for that forgiveness than any Pharisee would be.” Then Jesus said to the woman, “Go, woman. Your sins are forgiven.”

After Jesus left our home, my father and the others laughed. “What makes him think that he has the power to forgive a woman like that?” they roared. “He must think he is God!”

I did not join in the laughter. I did not laugh because I had seen that woman’s face as she left our home. I saw serenity there, and a peace that I cannot begin to understand in one so damaged.

I want that peace.  Tomorrow I will go find this man Jesus. You are welcome to come with me if you like.

The Gift of “The Visit of the Tomten”

(c)July 2013 Linda Goodman

Even after I accepted the idea that personal stories could be healing, I continued to believe that claims about the healing power of traditional tales were “new age hocus pocus.” The following story changed my mind and made me a true believer in the healing power of all story genres.

Just a few weeks after my granddaughter Morgan was born, I arrived at my daughter Melanie's house to find a frantic note tacked to her front door.

“Mom, I'm at the hospital!” it read. “Something's wrong with Morgan!”

I had a key to the house, so I let myself in and took a seat in the living room. I knew that Morgan had had a routine doctor's appointment scheduled for that afternoon, but I had not expected her to be hospitalized. My mind immediately did what it always does: it rushed to worst case scenario. Was she seriously ill? What was going to happen? How would my daughter handle a crisis? How would I handle it?

After a few hours, my daughter and my son-in-law returned. Melanie, her face white and drawn, was holding Morgan in her arms. I was given the news that Morgan had been born with a cataract in her right eye. Only immediate surgery would save her from blindness. Morgan would go “under the knife” at 8:00 a.m. the following morning. Other surgeries would most likely follow.

A cataract? I wanted to do my happy dance! I had been expecting something life-threatening, like a tumor or a heart problem. Compared to what I had expected, a cataract was good news! I knew several older people who had had cataracts removed and were just fine afterwards.

I later found out that cataracts are much more serious for infants than they are for older folks. We were lucky. Morgan had a cataract in only one eye. Most infants who are born with them have them in both eyes. Also, in infants cataracts are usually accompanied by some degree of mental retardation or a physical malady. Morgan seemed mentally and physically fine. Medical data showed, though, that eighty-five per cent of infants born with cataracts developed glaucoma. For Morgan, the jury was still out on that.

After Morgan's surgery, my son-in-law had to leave for an out of town trip. Melanie brought Morgan to my house to recuperate. On her first night there, I came downstairs after doing the dinner dishes to find Melanie sobbing uncontrollably as she rocked Morgan in the over-stuffed rocking chair in our family room.

“What's wrong, Honey,” I asked her (as if I did not already know).

“Mama,” she cried, “I did everything right! I ate healthy food. I didn't drink any caffeine or consume any alcohol while I was pregnant. I have friends who were doing drugs or drinking every day during their pregnancies, and their babies are fine! Why did this have to happen to my baby?”

For one of only a few times in my life, I was at a loss for words. I had no answers for her.

That night, as I said my prayers, I asked that God might somehow comfort my daughter. As soon as that prayer was uttered, I saw a vivid image in my head of a red paperback book, written by Barry L. Johnson, titled The Visit of the Tomten.

The Visit of the Tomten is set on Christmas Eve in a barn in the Smaland Highlands of Sweden. There, four animals wait for the Christmas gifts that the Tomten will bring them. The more they talk about the gifts they hope to receive, the more excited they get.

The Tomten is a Swedish good-luck elf who delivers Christmas gifts. Every farm has one. To repay the Tomten for his kindness, the farmer's wife leaves a bowl of porridge in the barn for him. Come Christmas morning, if the porridge is gone, the New Year will be a good one.

The animals do not get the gifts that they expected. Ivan, the old dog considered to be the sage of the barnyard, is given a bird with a broken wing. “I don't even like birds!” Ivan rants, “and this one isn't even right!

The animals respond with an vengeful plan: they will kidnap the Tomten when he comes back for the porridge, and they will demand that he give them an explanation for the ridiculous gifts they were given.

The plan is executed and the Tomten is trapped. He is aghast that the animals do not appreciate the gifts he left them! There is no such thing as a ridiculous gift, he insists.

He then goes on to explain the purpose of each gift. To Ivan, he says, “To be asked to take care of the handicapped is no insult. On the contrary, it is a great honor. I chose you to care for the disadvantaged bird because I trusted in your wisdom and courage to give it the very best life it could have.”

I could hardly wait for Melanie to wake up the next morning. I knew exactly what to say to her. When she came down to breakfast, I pulled her aside and said, “Melanie, it's like this - God looked at all the thousands of babies waiting to be born and saw that Morgan had a special problem that would require a special kind of love. So he searched all the expectant mothers, looking for that one mother who could give Morgan the very best life she could have... He chose you.”

It was what she needed to hear. A smile slowly spread across her face as she looked down at her precious daughter. “You're right, Mama,” she whispered. “I love this baby so much, I wouldn't trade her for all the perfect babies in the world.”

Morgan will be 17 years old soon. She has had multiple surgeries on her eye and a few years ago she did develop glaucoma in it. She sees well enough to drive, and she is at the top of her class in school. She does not much care for the story of the Tomten, but that's okay. “Different strokes for different folks,” as they used to say in the 1960's. The story got me and her mama through a rough patch. We will treasure it always.

Note:

I bought this book because I was looking for a new story for my Christmas repertoire. After reading it, I decided not to tell it. The chemistry necessary between teller and story was not there. After I shared the story with Melanie, however, I found that it became a part of my story tapestry. The chemistry followed, and I now tell it often, particularly in my Storytelling in the Ministry workshops.

By the way, at the end of the story, the Tomten did not eat the porridge. Regardless, the ending was most satisfying.

Impossible to Translate, But I'll Try

Compact Disc Review

True-life Israeli Stories

$15.00, plus $2.00 shipping and handling.

Email: noakrbaum@gmail.com

Reviewed By Linda Goodman

This remarkable CD features stories that are constructed in layers, each layer more delectable than the one preceding it. As you dig through the layers, treasures are discovered. The labor is well worth the effort.

Almost everyone will identify with the frightened girl in Sleep, the CD's first story. This child knows that little evils lie in wait beneath her bed, and she has devised detailed strategies to protect herself against their inevitable invasion. Only a grandmother can turn those little evils into dwarfs and soothe her golden girl to sleep. The last story on this CD, Sleep Epilogue, revisits night time rituals a generation later.

In Why Do I Have That Name, a young Noa demands that her mother tell her why she was given such an unusual name. Patiently, her mother shares its source, leaving both Noa and those listening to this story with new insights to ponder.

My Shidech (My Match) features the unlikely pairing of a creative, unique, intelligent young Israeli woman and a down-to-earth American botanist. Some believe that differences are the glue that keep a couple together, but others seek mutual interests in their partners. In this story, taking risks yields rewards not anticipated.

Top Secret is the story from this CD that I will carry in my heart. This story of an awkward elementary school girl and a relationship that changes in ways she is too young to understand hits close to home. As I listened to this story, the ghosts of own past began to haunt me.

Love Comes in Many Packages portrays mature love centered around a rather frightening excursion in the city. Fortunately, time allows anxiety to morph into humor. 

This CD is more than a way to pass time. It is deep and demands your full attention, as all classics do. The stories are set in Israel, but their truths are universal. They are mirrors of our own internal truths.