Video of Peeps at Maple Valley School

A friend was looking me up on youtube and found this--I didn't even know it was up. It was filmed at Maple Valley School in Kansas City, MO, during the Kansas City Storytelling Celebration earlier this month.

I had two different groups at this school. The kids responded really well. I think my favorite part was walking around after the stories inviting each of the kids to shake hands or touch my puppet Trixie. She's quite gentle in this kind of setting.

By the way, I DO have my own youtube channel. Check it out!

Vermont, and a hurricane story

I'm a little obsessed with the video coverage of Hurricane/Tropical Storm Irene in Vermont. When I was almost 12, we moved from Providence, RI to Springfield, VT. I went to junior high school, high school and college in Vermont. Though I've lived in Kansas for 21 years, I am a New Englander to my core. Home.

It's hard to see home in such disarray. Here's a picture my friend Donn Cann took of the Cornish-Windsor Bridge a few years ago: 

That's Mt. Ascutney in the background, the Connecticut River in the foreground. This 141-year-old bridge connects Vermont and New Hampshire and was the longest covered bridge until 2008. Here's a clip post-Irene (I think this must be from the other side): 

You can hear somebody say that the river was a good two or three feet higher at the worst of it. It had better luck than the Bartonsville Bridge, which was swept away: 

That bridge spans the Williams River in Rockingham. I used to swim in the Williams River with a couple of friends after school on hot June days. Unlike kids in Kansas, we were in school until the third week of June.  The water was cold and though flowing nicely, it wasn't anything near what it was last weekend.

My family and friends are okay, though one friend told me it took him ten hours to drive what normally takes three and a half, due to closed roads.

Springfield wasn't hit as hard as some communities, but it still was bad. Here's a clip from somebody in North Springfield: 

You can hear the raw emotion in the previous two video clips. Where there's emotion, there will be stories. As the waters recede and people clear out the muck, they'll be telling those stories. 

I found myself doing that during Irene, remembering my favorite hurricane. Gloria hit New York in 1985, the year I was getting my Master's at Columbia University. I left International House, my dorm, on my way to work. I was about ten steps out the door, having passed a sign that said, "If you don't have to go out today, DON'T!" The rain was torrential. I turned around and went back inside. 

Over 500 students lived in International House. Only one-third of the residents were American, from graduate programs all over NYC. That was the only day in the year that everybody was home. We hung out, played Scrabble, went up on the roof (!), and generally relaxed. At the end of the day, the hurricane had passed, so a group of us went for a walk. The quality of the sunlight after the the storm was crystalline. 

Do you have storm memories?

Leaving a mark

I live in an old house made of soft brick. I've been here almost ten years (whew, how did that happen?!). People who lived here long before me made their mark on the house, and so have I. No, I haven't carved my name in the brick, as the unknown Mark and Tom did, but I've made it my own, with a new back door, with rose beds and perennials and with an ineffable Priscilla-ness.

That's what I do with stories. I make my mark on them, turning them around in my head, my heart and my mouth so when I finally tell them they are my own.

Ah, but here's the trick. They're not completely mine. I have to let them go. When I put them out in the world, when I tell them, the listeners then own them as well. I can't--and wouldn't want to--control the images the listeners hold in their heads. Every time I see those names carved in the brick of my house, I think of my brothers Mark and Tom. A different Mark and Tom carved their names, but I see images of my brothers, aged about 7 and 9.

I once heard Donald Davis say in a workshop, "Meaning is the property of the listener, not the teller."

I've thought about this a lot. It's true, and it's also true that if I do my job completely, if I imagine the characters, action and scenes so fully that they come out of my mouth as fully dimensional, the listeners may imagine them clearly as well. When we're all truly present to the story, we all see the pictures. The story leaves a mark.

Oh, I'm so lucky to do this work!

Down came the rain

It's raining. Again. Cold, too. I've gotten used to May in Kansas being pleasant and warm. Last week I had a fire in the wood stove. I'm considering having another today.

Or I could turn my attention further to water, to the summer reading theme Make a splash at your library. The program I'm offering for the theme is called Didja ever see a fishy? and it will be a medley of puppets, stories and songs. Trixie is considering wearing a shower cap, Ray the ray puppet will swim up out of the bag thanks to the "mistic hand." I'm certain that Prince, formerly known as Frog, will make an appearance. I suspect the baby will sing The Itsy Bitsy Tiger.

The title of the program is from a song I learned from another storyteller. Here it is:

Didja ever see a fishy on a hot summer day, (wipe sweat from brow)

Didja ever see a fishy all swimming in the bay, (mime fish swimming)

With her hands in her pockets and her pockets in her pants, (hands on front pockets, then on back)

Didja ever see a fishy do the hoochie koochie dance? (little dance)

You ne-ver did (clap, clap), you never will.

Didja ever see a fishy on a cold winter's day, (shiver)

Didja ever see a fishy all frozen in the bay, (mime hands forming a block of ice)

With his hands in his pockets and his pockets in his pants, (hands on front pockets, then on back)

Didja ever see a fishy do the hoochie koochie dance? (little dance)

You ne-ver did (clap, clap), you never will.

I'm still playing with stories. I'm thinking of The Pincoya's Daughter, a Chilean story about an old woman who finds a baby mermaid, and Little Crab's Magic Eyes. Maybe also Mud Puddle by Robert Munsch. I just found a newer story Munsch wrote called Down the drain that might work.

I'll keep you posted!

The Story of Tsar Saltan

I've been thinking about this story lately. I just began condensing it to increments of 140 characters or less for Twitter and Facebook. 

I studied Russian at the University of Vermont almost 30 years ago. One summer I had some extra tutoring by a Russian woman who lived in Claremont, NH, across the river from my hometown of Springfield, VT. Galina's husband was Father Andrew Tregubov, a Russian Orthodox priest, iconographer and, as far as I understood, one of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's main guides in the US. Galina was learning English, so we spent time working on both languages.

I don't remember how I helped Galina, but I do remember very well that we read Skazka o Tsare Tsaltane, by Alexander Pushkin, a story-poem based on folk tradition. Galina gave me a cassette tape of the story. I loved the sound of the beginning, about 2:10 minutes in on this clip:

The illustrations by Ivan Bilibin show a cat in many scenes. The end of the story translates this way: 

I was there. I drank mead and beer, and barely got my whiskers damp.

The first lines have been popping into my head at odd times (in Russian), nudging me to learn the story to tell. Wonder when I'll be ready.  I'll continue the installments over on Twitter and Facebook.

Last month Gilgamesh, this month Inanna

As I've written, last month at the Going Deep Long Traditional Story Retreat, I heard David Novak tell his version of Gilgamesh. Wonderful stuff. This month, I heard Diane Wolkstein tell her version of Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth, accompanied by Geoffrey Gordon. Also wonderful, told in a very different way. Both were powerful, both were well-told, both took me deep into the world of ancient Sumeria.

Diane was one of the first storytellers I heard, back in the mid-80s. I hadn't heard her since, and somehow without realizing it, I'd made a less than favorable judgment about her telling. I take it all back! I thoroughly enjoyed the performance last Friday.

She began with a very short introduction, explaining a couple of unfamiliar terms we would hear. She gave us the excellent advice to put our programs down and let the story wash over us, not worrying about understanding everything.  

Diane's telling was simple and compelling, with surprising bits of comic relief. She used a piece of gold fabric as a prop--it became a bed, a shawl, even a corpse. 

This epic reminds me that stories remain the same throughout the millennia. In this 4000-year-old story we heard the same elements of trickery, faithfulness, loyalty, love, lust, death and grief that are present in books, movies and television today. Geoffrey Gordon accompanied Diane on a range of instruments--flute, harp, drums--as he sat quietly on a small platform next to her. They've been performing this story together for many years and have a clear rapport.

If you get a chance to hear either of these stories by these tellers, don't pass it up! 

Create A Storytelling And Reading Aloud Ritual In Your Classroom

Adults often tell me about teachers they had in elementary school who read aloud in the classroom. They looked forward to those read-aloud times, to the quiet space in which the class lived together within a story. Years later, this is a treasured memory. Teachers today can create the same special atmosphere in the classroom. Here are a few tips on how to do this:

1. Establish a specific time for the storytelling or reading aloud. Are the students bouncing off the wall in the last fifteen minutes of school on Friday afternoon? Maybe this is the time to calm everybody down with a story. Or try Monday morning, as the perfect way to begin the week.

2. Establish a place for the story experience. Will the children stay at their desks or sit on the floor close to you? Many teachers create a reading and listening corner in the classroom, with carpet squares or cushions for the listeners and a rocking chair for the reader or teller. Be consistent about where the students will listen.

3. Take into account the kinesthetic learners, who need to move a little bit in order to listen. Consider allowing the children to draw while listening. If you are telling stories, think about places within the story where you can incorporate participation in the form of repetitive gestures or phrases or both.

4. Allow the children to listen in a relaxed manner, as long as they are not bothering the other students. I often have the children sit “criss-cross applesauce,” (cross-legged) if they are on the floor, so the listeners behind them can see. At the same time, if there’s space, I don’t mind if they lie down. If they are at their desks, they may be more comfortable with their heads down.

5. Look at this special time as a treat for everyone, including you. As you tell or read stories, the children are using their imaginations as well as learning valuable literacy skills. They are expanding their vocabulary, visualizing settings and characters, sequencing and predicting events in the story.

6. Have fun!

Intergenerational storytelling

On Monday of this week and Thursday of last week, I was at Ottawa (KS) High School working with high school students and elders from the community. This was the fourth or fifth time I've done this intergenerational project.

We have a few goals:

• Build bridges between the generations through storytelling
  
• Teach basic storytelling skills
  
• Have fun

Right, I know we don't put that last one on proposals, but it's an important component. If the participants aren't having fun or being challenged in a good way, they won't take much away from the experience.

In this program, there are always some elders who have done this before. They're a great group, some of whom have been friends for ages. Ottawa is a small town, so everybody seems to know everybody else. We make sure that the elders are sitting with the kids. They chat a bit before we begin.

I usually start with a short story. I ask what the audience noticed about how I told the story. Then I ease the participants into telling some of their personal stories to each other. Donald Davis' book Telling your own stories is invaluable here.

We talk about the use of the senses to create a strong story, about how to portray emotion in a story, about how stories are structured.  We play games that underline these ideas, we take apart a story, we tell and retell stories.

I especially love hearing the elders connect with the kids. John talked about being a gunner in WWII--he began by saying, "You know that park across from the tire store, the one with a cannon in it? Well, I've shot those..." At the end of the second session, I heard a student talking with one of the visitors. She was saying, "Do you know my grandparents? They live near where you do." 

On Friday, the kids have an assignment due: they have to write their reflections of the workshops. The teacher will send these to the Area Agency on Aging, who sponsors the workshops. These will be used to justify having the program again. One of the visitors said, "I hope you write good reviews. I look forward to this every year." So do I.

House concert

The house concert of "Queen Berta and King Pippin" went well. About 30 people turned up at my sister's house with potluck snacks and food for the local pantry.  

I had gotten a stomach bug the night before, so I wasn't at my best, but when I'm performing, most physical ailments drop away. I focus so completely on the story and the audience that I override whatever might be bothering me. This has held true for most of my 21 years of storytelling, except a time years ago when I excused myself while telling at a senior meals site, went into the bathroom, threw up, came back and picked up the story at the next sentence--that was extreme. 

Anyway, I did leave out a few details in the story, but mostly it held together nicely. Afterwards, I asked if the audience had questions. While I did record the story (I haven't yet listened), I turned the recorder off for the Q and A. I wish I'd left it on, as the questions were all thoughtful. People asked about my sources for the story, about my process for learning and telling this and other stories, about my repertoire in general. Many people came up afterwards to ask more or to tell me their other insights about the story or about storytelling. 

Of course I love telling stories to children, but it's a treat to tell to adult audiences. Usually this happens at the Going Deep Long Traditional Story Retreat,  in house concerts or in performances I set up myself, such as when I rent a hall, send out press releases, put up flyers, e-mail everybody under the sun and hope twenty people show. House concerts are much less stressful for me.  When it's not my house, I'm not in charge of food or drink or even the seating. I don't have to deal with the invitations (or not much). All I have to do is turn up and do my best work. I love that. 

Thanks, Mary!

Writing down stories

It has been a while since I've written any original stories to tell. I call these "personal fiction," because they might or might not be absolutely true. Or, as my tagline says, "All my stories start with the seed of truth."

On Sunday I'll be giving a house concert at the retirement community where my mother lives. I was thinking I'd tell a story I wrote about ten years ago called The Rumor. It's about a fellow who lives up to a good rumor about him, even though he never knows about it. I started digging around in my files, looking for a written version. Hmm, no luck. That must have been one that I told first and never got around to writing down. Sometimes I write them first and then tell.

I've just spent the last hour recreating the story as I remember it. As I write this, I recall that somewhere I have a copy of the story on videotape, from a performance I did at the Springfield (VT) Town Library. Now might be the time to find out if the VCR still works.

It might also be a good time to set the intention to write down all those stories that are just floating around in my head.

Home from Going Deep, part II

After Olga's story, we went back to the house for dessert crepes. Did I mention the food yet? Every meal and snack was not only delicious but imaginative. Thanks to Lee and Mary, who fed us well.

In the morning, we were ready to talk about Olga's story. Though we didn't plan it this way, the morning workshops followed a pattern: the first half was a lively discussion of the story from the night before (process, images, correlations with other stories, metaphors, questions); the second half was about the broader themes or about specific story processes, with participatory exercises. We settled into the story and into our own stories.

It was raining on that second day. I needed to tell myself Queen Berta and King Pippin, so I went for a long walk, mumbling to myself the entire way. Part of my walk was down by the Ohio River. When my sneakers were too wet, I went inside and finished the story in my room, pacing around the bed.

That evening, I wore a red velvet trousers and jacket, a particularly good bargain from the 100 Good Women clothing swap ($1!). Olga and Liz assured me that it would be the right combination of comfort and elegance.

I did my best to record each of the evenings' performances. I did each one differently: with Olga's story I patched the recorder into the headset microphone, with my story I patched into the microphone on a stand, and Megan's story was recorded directly from a spot on the side of the stage area. I'm not sure how they sound yet--one of my tasks this weekend is to listen to these. They might just be our mediocre archival copies.

My performance felt pretty good. I'm trying not to be too critical--there are always parts I wish I had done differently. The audience seemed to like it. It was nice to have quite a few listeners who were not part of the festival workshops. Once again, we went back to the house, this time for cake (dinner for me) and wine.

It can be hard to sleep after telling one of these big stories with a brain full of images. I did eventually conk out, though, and was up early to get ready for my workshop. As Hope mentioned in her blog, participants felt strongly enough about the story that the discussion got really loud in the morning session. We talked, we sang, we told stories, and we wrote.

To be continued...

What's your recurrent daydream?

Yesterday I was playing with my workshop for the long traditional story festival (there's still space for a few more participants, if you're interested).

A thought bubbled up in my mind about recurrent daydreams. Does everybody have them? One of mine is about being recognized in a place where I'm out of context. Not recognition like getting an award, but running into somebody from another part of my life.

It happens in real life as well as in my daydreams--once I was in Paris, in the Louvre, and I ran into a woman who lived one floor down from me in the dorm in Vermont. When I lived in Bulgaria, I was surprised to encounter Marie from Belgium, whom I'd known slightly two years earlier. She became (and still is) a very good friend.

I've had this recurring daydream since long before those events, and many times since. I think it's about being seen. I have others, and of course they shift over time. The themes of my daydreams sometimes appear in my stories (no, not all of them!).

Do you have a recurring daydream, or a series of them? Is there a theme?

Storytelling Tip #4

If you tell folktales, learn to use The Storyteller's Sourcebook: A Subject, Title, and Motif Index to Folklore Collections for Children, eds. one and two.
This is one of my favorite resources for folktales. You can look up stories by title, subject, folktale motif, ethnic group and geographic area. If you know of a story and are wondering what versions might be available, this work is invaluable.

It's expensive, so unless you're deeply committed to telling and researching folktales, use these at your public library, if possible. I own them both and have been known to look up stories for folks who don't own them. Once a librarian, always a librarian.

There are a couple of confusing things about The Storyteller's Sourcebook. One has to do with the editions. There are two, which would lead one to believe that the second supercedes the first. Nope! The first edition covers books up to 1982, and the second edition covers books from 1983 to 1999. I'm still not sure why the publisher didn't call them Volume I and Volume II. Because of this confusion, I suspect lots of libraries got rid of the first edition and that's why a used one costs so much less than the second edition.

The second confusing thing is actually how to use the works. Once you get the hang of it, it's a snap, but it takes time. I'm not sure I'll succeed in explaining it here, but I'll take a stab.

Let's say you remember a story about pulling up a turnip. You pick up one of the two editions (this one is in both) and flip to the subject index. Under "turnip" you'll find a funny telegraphed entry. Here's the entry from the first edition (what I've put in as boldprint is underlined in SS--I'm just not sure how to do that here):

TURNIP: Bear gets tops of turnips--K171.1; pulling up turnip, chain--Z49.9; farmer takes an extraordinary turnip to the king as a present--J2415.1; man takes figs to king instead of turnips and they are thrown at him, "Thank God they weren't turnips"--J2563; man in moon for stealing turnip--A751.1.4.1; sheep live inside huge turnip all winter--X1401.1.2.

Ah, that second one looks right! You flip to the front part of the book where the motifs live. This is the Stith Thompson classification, and it has great headings such as "Marvels," "The Wise and the Foolish," and "Deceptions."

Find section Z (Miscellaneous groups of motifs), then find 49.9. Here's the entry:

Z49.9. Pulling up the turnip. Final formula: The mouse holds onto the cat, the cat holds onto Mary, Mary holds onto Annie, Annie holds onto grandmother, grandmother holds onto grandfather, grandfather holds onto the turnip--they all pull and pull it out. Tolstoy: Domanska TURNIP pb; Haviland Fairy 44-47; Tolstoy GREAT bp. Russia; Withers I SAW 98-99.

This is the synopsis of the story. At the end of the entry, you see author's last name, one word of the title and page numbers. Flip back in the Sourcebook to the bibliography and find the authors, in alphabetical order of course, and you'll find the title and other bibliographical information. Armed with this, go to your library catalog and see if you can find the story.

I love reading the telegraphed descriptions and the synopses. For Pete's sake, sheep live inside huge turnip all winter! I may have to go find that!

Huge kudos to Margaret Read MacDonald for the first edition and for bringing Brian Sturm in to work with her on the second edition.

Shameless plug: I tell the Bulgarian version of The Turnip on my CD The Ghost With the One Black Eye and Other Stories.

Going to the library

I've got a meeting up on the university campus this afternoon. I'll take the opportunity to go to the library to browse. That's one of my great pleasures, browsing in libraries of all kinds. At the KU library, I love going into the old Dewey Decimal stacks to wander through the holdovers from before the library converted to the Library of Congress Classification. I spend most of my time downstairs in Anschutz in 398.2, where folktales and fairy tales live. Or maybe they just sleep, until I breathe them back to life.

I'm a little worried, though. Space is a perennial problem in libraries and it is only a matter of time before those Dewey books get put deeper into storage. Their home in Anschutz is already partial exile. If they go into full exile, I'll still be able to find them by using the catalog, but that's not the same as browsing, flipping through a collection of stories, finding one that will be just right to tell. It might be the sixth or seventh time I look at a book before a story hits me just right.

Even as I write this, I remember that it has been a few months since I went up to Anschutz--what if the books are gone already, locked up never to see the light of day? I mourned the day that I discovered that my favorite volumes in that section were only available to be borrowed overnight, instead of the regular loan period of six months, because they're periodicals. That was the Revue des traditions populaires, a French publication from about 1884-1911. I'm pretty sure I was the only person to use them.

Off to the library to see what I can find.

Sumer is icumin in

Those of you who know this song may be thinking, "Lhude sing cuccu." I may be loudly singing cuckoo at the end of the season! I've begun the wild summer ride, having done five of the sixty performances I have scheduled in June and July.

The first was story night in my backyard. Very fun, as it was my friend Janelle's birthday and she brought family, friends and cake. Afterwards, some of the kids told stories. One of my favorite moments was when Z. (maybe five years old?) was telling a combination of The Three Pigs and The Three Bears. He'd told the first two sentences or so and suddenly said, "Oh! Look!" He stood up, reached for a firefly in the air, and was gone. That was the end of storytelling for the evening.

It has been a great season for fireflies (lightning bugs here in Kansas). Last night I was in Mound City, MO where there were thousands on the walk I took down a country road with my friend Cynthia after my campfire performance.

Back up a bit. On Saturday I had a fun performance of scary stories for teens in Marshall, MO. I really love telling those, though I start to wonder why I have so many stories which feature severed fingers, hands or limbs. Odd.

On my way home from Marshall, I stopped in Independence at Cargo Largo, a closeout store that is like Big Lots times four. I found some great material there that I think will be perfect for my Punch and Judy stage. I'd been looking for red and white striped fabric that would do well outdoors. The roll I found is a little more maroon, but I think it will work.

This morning in Mound City, after a delightful breakfast with Cynthia on her sun porch, I did a show for the library summer reading program. Because the library doesn't have much space, I did the show at the senior meal site. That went well, because not only did I have some of the people waiting for lunch in the audience, the women in the kitchen listened. Some of the folks from last night's scary story performance around a campfire at Squaw Creek National Wildlife Refuge (complete with s'mores) turned up, too. Most of the kids were up front and seemed to be enjoying themselves.

I'm sure I've written about this summer's library theme before: Get a clue @ your library. It's going to be okay, I think. You can read my rant about themes on storyteller.net, but I do work up a program to fit the theme each year. As for this one, every story is a mystery, isn't it?

This morning I told Alligator Baby by Robert Munsch (with huge thanks for the permission he gave me years ago to tell his stories), The Small-Tooth Dog (an old English folk tale), The Ghost With the One Black Eye (I promised one young fellow that I'd tell the old favorite), Now I've Gotcha (a campfire story on one of my recordings). We also did Who Stole the Cookies from the Cookie Jar. It turns out that Mavis the monkey puppet stole the cookies, though the evidence has disappeared.

Five more shows in libraries this week, one in my backyard.

Last week's busy-ness

It's a nicely quiet week at home. Last week was busy.

Tuesday was Wonderscope Children's Museum (second and fourth Tuesdays at 9:30, though in September it will shift to the first and third). I really appreciate having that regular gig, getting to see some of the same kids every week. Having structure gives me the freedom to try out new stories for little guys and audition new puppets.

Wednesday I went to two schools in Olathe, KS. One was an older school right near downtown. There were some 5th graders in the gym when I was getting ready, so I warmed up with the circular story, A dark and stormy night. This was one of those great schools where the teachers and kids join in. Even the principal did the call-and-response song My aunt came back with the kids. I love that!

From there, I went on to a newer school with a rock-star principal. Huh? At some schools, the principal is so well-liked by the kids they treat him like a rock star. This was a particularly good day: as a fundraiser, the principal had auctioned his job off, so the acting principal was a 2nd grader. She did a fine job introducing me and thanking the students for listening so well. The performances were the real principal's way of thanking the kids for doing their best for the standardized tests.

Afterwards, I drove to Jefferson City for the Mid-Missouri Storytelling Festival. It's a funny festival, with lots of driving to schools in the area. I went to New Bloomfield and Mokane on Thursday, driven by my friends Sarah and Angela from the Daniel Boone Regional Library. I'd been to Mokane a few years ago, not under the aegis of the library. When I was done with the show, I said the usual, "Stay sitting down and look at your teachers. They'll know the order you're going to leave the gym." The principal made a little hand motion for the kids to wait, and then she asked if I could tell one more story--one of the teachers had requested "Chickens!" No problem!

Thursday was gray and drizzly. Friday was absolutely beautiful. I was at two schools in Columbia, MO, hosted by Hilary from the library--she drove me around one day last summer, so it was old home week. I know I'm with the right people when it's okay to swap camp songs in the car on the way to a gig. These schools were the two in town where they don't always get the best test scores. Too bad they don't measure how kids listen to stories--they were excellent audiences at both schools.

That evening I shared a performance at the Columbia Public Library with Tom McDermott from Texas. I've performed at this library many times (they have a performance space in the shape of a big green egg!) and knew it would be a good show. Before the show, Tom and I played a bit of "Name that tune" with the audience--Tom's an excellent musician as well as storyteller.

On Saturday I hung around, having a relaxed breakfast with Sarah and Thom at the Cafe Berlin, then going down to Ashland to see Beth Horner perform. I love hearing Beth tell stories--she's always wonderful. Eventually, after a long and leisurely lunch, I made my way back home.

Now I'm puttering. I plan to tackle the pile of papers on my desk and kitchen table soon, and I may even vacuum. I spent some time this morning planting tomatoes and peppers. I'm always so optimistic this time of year, even knowing that I have a packed schedule and may not get time to weed or water.

Oh, and my new mower finally arrived! I splurged and bought a cordless electric mower, a Bully. I'm looking forward to mowing without so much noise and smell, and to being able to start the darn thing right away. It's charging now.

Body knowledge

I grew up without paying much attention to my body. It was there, but my mind was more important. My first forays into storytelling coincided with my first visits to a chiropractor who taught me how to stand up straight--when she put me in a truly upright position, I thought I was going to fall over backwards!

The first storytelling workshop I went to was with Heather Forest, at the Jonnycake Storytelling Festival in Rhode Island. She talked about being aware of "physical noise," all those distracting things we do with our voices and bodies. I started to notice other storytellers' tics, like the fellow who rocked back and forth as he told, or the woman who swept her long hair out of her face every fifth word. I began to practice in the mirror.

As I got more serious about storytelling, I got more serious about being connected with my body. In Connecticut, I took voice lessons, then went to a dance therapist. We didn't do regular dance therapy: I told her stories and she guided me to a better understanding of my body and my breath.

I've also taken Alexander Technique lessons to further this body knowledge. I began those lessons because I was getting sore throats frequently. It turned out I was straining the muscles that held up my vocal chords. One-on-one Alexander Technique lessons subtly retrain the body, breath and voice so they work more efficiently. Someday I'll go back for more. My teacher very diplomatically would say, "Priscilla, do you feel that maybe you're a little bit...ungrounded?" Thanks to AT and yoga, there's more than just the very toe of my sneaker touching the earth now. That groundedness comes out in my performances.

I've been taking Iyengar yoga for almost six years. I'm more flexible and stronger than I was when I began. I couldn't even touch my toes without bending my knees. Now, on most days, I can. Usually my sister is in the same class and I get to see how she has advanced. She's much more diligent about practice than I am. At any rate, I know that yoga has helped my storytelling.

I can't say that I don't have any physical tics when I tell stories, but I try to keep them at a minimum. I want my body language to be congruent with my story. I don't want to be a "professor," a storyteller who paces back and forth on stage as if giving a lecture at a university (my own term), or one of those tellers who uses a kind of waving and pawing motion that doesn't mean anything. I'm not sure I described that right--if you can think of a better phrase, let me know. I get sidetracked watching performers whose motions don't have anything to do with what they're saying. Gestures are most effective when they match the words.

As I write this, I remember one more vitally important way to keep my body in shape for storytelling (and life): drinking lots of water. Keeping hydrated is key to good voice health. Writing this is making me thirsty. Time for another glass of H20.

Nasruddin Hodja

I finally did it. I gave an entire evening of stories of the Turkish trickster, Nasruddin Hodja (well, I did include a couple of other stories that weren't strictly Hodja tales, but they could have been). Over the years I've collected lots of these stories, some of which I've translated from Bulgarian, Russian, French and a few other languages. I began the quest when I discovered stories in which the Turkish trickster runs into the Bulgarian trickster, Clever Peter (Khitur Petur). Because the Ottoman Empire ruled in Bulgaria for 500 years, the Bulgarian trickster always wins out in those encounters.

The stories of Nasruddin Hodja traveled all over the Ottoman empire. They melded with other stories, with other cultures. There are collections from Central Europe and North Africa, in Bulgaria and in Iran. He's a cultural hero in Turkey, where he actually lived (1208-1284) in Aksehir. His stories are used as Sufi teaching tales and serve as the basis for many expressions in the Turkish language.

The Hodja--the word means teacher or master--is a classic wise fool. In one well-known story, he goes to a party wearing tattered clothes and is seated well away from the action, given no attention and little food. He goes home, changes into his best clothes and returns to the party. He is then seated next to the host and given the choicest food from the platters. He takes this food and applies it to his robe, saying, "eat, eat." When the host asks why, he says, "When I came here earlier, the only difference was what I was wearing. Clearly the honor given is due to my clothes, not to me. "

The Hodja is an expert at delivering this kind of critique to those who act badly in one way or another. At the same time, he also is a perfect fool. In another story, he has a terrible time counting the donkeys he's taking to market. When he's riding on one, he only counts four, and when he gets off that one, he counts five. In the version I tell, he runs into Clever Peter, who says, "Hodja, I count six, but one has only two legs."

Hodja stories are generally short, more of an anecdote than a story. In the performance on Tuesday, I told about 15 of them. I was worried about the pacing of the show, with all these choppy bits mushed together. Many of the stories seem to beg for a drumroll at the end, like a late-night talk show joke.

I'm still thinking about this, wondering if it worked. The audience at this bookstore performance was small, only nine listeners (not including the owner, out of sight at the cash register). My next idea is to do it again but with more publicity. This show was part of a folk series and I didn't advertise what I was planning to do, other than a brief mention in my newsletter of upcoming events. Next time maybe I'll let the folks at the Islamic center on campus know, as well the Slavic department. It would be really interesting to have a time at the end for other people to tell their Hodja stories.