My current obsession

The title of the post I wrote about body knowledge was going to be "Stretching." I didn't mean to write about physical stretching, but about going beyond the borders of what I usually do. That brings me to my current obsession.

For the last three months, I've been thinking about Punch and Judy. I received a call for proposals for roving performances and began ruminating on doing a traditional Punch and Judy show. I missed the deadline for the proposal, but the idea had taken root. Before I went to Belgium, I began my research and now I'm in it, up to my neck.

One of the pieces of information I turned up on one of the many websites about the show was that real Punch Professors, as those who perform Punch and Judy are called, use a device called a swazzle to make the strange high-pitched voice of Mr. Punch. This is a kind of reed instrument made of two pieces of metal and twill tape. It's like making noises with a blade of grass. I found directions for making a swazzle, but I needed to see one to understand it. I ordered one (new) on e-bay right before I went to Belgium so it was waiting for me when I got home. I followed the instructions, soaking it in water, attaching a thread to it with a safety pin to put on my shirt (they're small and easy to swallow), placing it in the back of my mouth on my palate. I couldn't get a sound out of it. I tried it in the very front of my mouth and got a squeak, but I knew that wasn't right.

Finally, I decided that the store-bought swazzle was too big for my mouth, so I made my own with metal from a cookie-cutter and twill tape. Within seconds of putting it in my mouth, it worked! Thrilling! I can't practice when the cat is inside, because it makes him suspect that a weird animal has gotten into the house, but I do it when he's outside and I occasionally practice in the car. Some sounds are hard to make, others easy.

Now I'm working on making the puppets. It's time consuming. I've begun with seven papier mache heads, though I haven't yet put the features on. Then I'll have to add the bodies. Normally, I prefer to have puppets with moving mouths, but as a one-person puppet troupe, these puppets can't have that--they must be able to wield a stick. There is no Punch and Judy show without the slapstick (that's where the term originated). When I'm done making the puppets, I'll have to make the stage. I do have a puppet stage, for the few stage shows I do each year, but Punch and Judy really demands its own stage and set. I'll also need to work up my own script. One website (dang, can't remember which one) recommended doing the show first without words, to make sure the action was strong enough.

I have no idea if I'll ever perform this other than in my own backyard, but it is engrossing to work on. It may take me years to get it the way I want it. At the moment I'm enjoying immersing myself in the project.

The show is old, brought from Italy to England in the 17th century but going back much earlier. Sometimes it's called "The Tragical Comedy or Comical Tragedy of Mr. Punch." It's politically incorrect from start to finish, with the unrepentant Mr. Punch happily throwing the baby out the window (or whacking it to death with his stick), beating the daylights out of his wife Judy, the policeman, and in some versions a crocodile and/or a devil. He also tricks the hangman into demonstrating how the noose works. There are other characters who might appear: a dog named Toby, a clown, a horse. None is as important as Mr. Punch. "Root-i-toot-toot! That's the way to do it!" is his call.

I was telling this to a friend, who looked horrified and wondered why I wanted to perform such a meanspirited show. That started me worrying. Why did I? I went back to my research to remind myself. Because it's not as meanspirited as that sounds, and though violent, it's funny. It makes people laugh! In a lovely piece by Chris Somerville entitled Why do we laugh at Punch and Judy, I found this quote:

In Mr. Punch we recognise the total selfishness of the child thrusting aside all those who thwart his immediate desire, and secretly within us all is that child, now tamed by manners and society.

Aah, isn't that it?

My father's voice

Not a real blog post, just a couple of sound clips of my father, from an interview I did with him in 1994.

I was a little disappointed in his reluctance to tell about Banjo Barboza, as I'd heard him recount much more fluently about this character from his childhood in Bristol, RI. I think Uncle Herbert asked Dad to get Banjo's ear for a wedding present, but Dad didn't comply.

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.

In memoriam, Halsey DeWolf Howe

Last Wednesday, Valentine's Day, I was performing at the European School of Brussels. That was one of the days I was in the secondary school library--other days I was in the primary school. Near the end of the last session, I had a little extra time, so I told "The Twist-Mouth Family," a story that was one of my father's favorites. The last time I told stories at my parents' retirement community, my father sat on the side, resting his hand on his oxygen tank as I performed. I looked over at him in between stories and he twitched his mouth slightly, his request for that story.

My father died last Wednesday, at the time I was performing. No, I didn't intuitively know that he took his last breath while I was telling that story, though I knew it was possible, as he'd been in the hospital in his latest battle with COPD (emphysema and all that goes with it). I told it because I was thinking of him and I thought the kids would enjoy it. They did.

Dad was a storyteller in his own right. An Episcopal priest for almost 61 years, he told stories every Sunday. He had a commanding presence combined with a resonant voice. One of my cousins admitted to me at the funeral that as a child she was afraid of Dad--he could be so big and blustery at times. He had strong opinions. He loved a good joke, or even a bad one. At Christmas this year, he conducted his last church service. Before we went to the church, he said, "I'm not going to give a sermon." So of course, he gave a sermon. He started by saying, "I'm reminded of the old wheeze about the first baseball game: 'In the big-inning...'"

He told hundreds of family stories to me and to countless others. When I was younger, I didn't always listen, but I came to appreciate the richness he wanted to pass along. He was the main family historian, keeping records of births and deaths. Relatives came to listen to his anecdotes, to put the flesh on the bones of genealogy. Were these stories true? He laughed when I told him my answer to kids who ask that question: truth is immutable, facts are flexible.

At my parents' apartment, before and after the funeral, we all told stories about Dad. We'll keep telling them as long as people will listen, and probably even after.