Southern Appalachian Storytellers--Charlotte Ross

McFarland Publishers released my book, Southern Appalachian Storytellers: Interviews with Sixteen Keepers of the Oral Tradition in 2011. Collecting oral histories from those folks took me all over the mountains of the southern highlands, including Boone, North Carolina. That's where the Legend Lady lives. She and her husband oriented their home to ensure a prime view of Grandfather Mountain. The ancient mountain's profile is stunning in every season and a wonder to behold. The first time I consciously saw it, I had to find the likeness; now I see it and know it for what it is--part of my personal landscape--a place marker.

Charlotte, born to an Appalachian family in north Georgia, learned to find her way home using the peaks, ridges and valleys as her guide. Taught the skill by her grandfather, she stores the mountain-scape in an ancestral memory bank that goes clear back to the famous Native American, Nancy Ward.

On my last visit to Charlotte's home, we sat in her cozy den surrounded by objects collected throughout a life-time dedicated to all things Appalachian. Each piece held a precious bit of story within.  The Legend Lady spun stories from them all afternoon in a rich, low voice--a whisper touched by the ancestral memories of general stores, pot-bellied stoves, corn pipes, long-houses and music made from mysterious flutes.

This remarkable storyteller, the repository of several thousand stories collected throughout her lifetime, came to my attention through Dot Jackson, storyteller, and former investigative reporter from Pickens, South Carolina. Friends for decades, Ross, Jackson and their friend Betty Smith, a revered ballad singer and teacher now living in Black Mountain, North Carolina, enjoy a friendship filled with the memories only long-term acquaintance can bring.

You can find Southern Appalachian Storytellers: Interviews with Sixteen Keepers of the Oral Tradition at www.mcfarlandpublishers.com, or Amazon.com.

Heartbreak in a Little Red Truck

I told stories in a small town near here last night, and noticed that while some folks still shoot little jokes out about the election, others fail to respond. It's a "let's get on with life," attitude that I can live with.

Things are beginning to settle down a bit, and it looks as though there is sincere interest on both sides of the field in helping Americans, instead of fighting over us. Florida's votes finally came in and the president won a tidy victory there, avoiding the dreaded re-count of the past; that's a profound relief to this native-born Floridian.

Speaking of living with something, I very much fear I saw death last night and it was more than a ghostly specter. Anticipating directions from my GPS, I turned too soon and had to take an alternate route or turn around. Tooling along on the highway, my destination almost in sight, a white truck blinked its lights at me.

"Oh, great... radar ahead," I thought, and slowed down.  Well, law enforcement was indeed in the vicinity, but it appeared to have just arrived and they weren't trying to slow us down; they wanted us to stop. Just ahead was a dull red truck, nose down in a ditch, its rear end pitched high in the air. I could plainly see it was crushed into the passenger compartment. Something in my heart constricted when I saw it: someone's day had altered critically in only a moment's time.

As we waited, two cars drew up, doors slammed and several people rushed towards the crash. "Oh, no!" cried one. Another, her voice sucking inward on the words, said, "Oh, my God--no!" Panicked, they ran towards the truck, heedless of those trying to stop them. We watched from our cars, knowing heartbreak lay just ahead. I have no idea what happened or if the occupants lived or died, but pain was there and yes, the potential for death. It rides with us every time we enter our cars and take to the road, no matter how defensively we may attempt to drive.

Some time ago, I drove home in snow, making it up my hill with no problem. I couldn't, however, maintain a steady speed to access my sloping driveway and slid backwards, narrowly missing the ravine. There being two access points, I tried the other one. There was no way at all to get up enough speed to make that one, with the result that I slid sideways down the hill. Landing on a Confederate Rose and the light pole I came to a stop, but couldn't get out. I stayed there, trapped and cold, but unharmed until help arrived. I can only imagine what could have happened had I really lost control, missed the pole and the bush and careered down into a big tree at a greater rate of speed. Blessings come in interesting ways.

Take care out there, wherever you are. We've got to watch after one another--life, each moment of it, is precious to us all.

It's a great day for America--hooray for President Obama!

November 6--such a day it was. My candidate for president won and I couldn't be happier. One dark spot or blemish is Florida, my home state. I worry that what was once a forward-looking place has become a drudge filled with trickery and misdeeds in the world of politics. I was there when George Bush slid into office, and remember the sickened feeling in my belly; its one of the reasons I finally left the place of my birth and have been reluctant to return.  There is no excuse of any kind for our voting conditions to be anything but as honest, professional and mechanically up-to-date as possible.  This is not the America of the thirties, folks--it's 2012!

 I voted early this year, enjoying the camaraderie of my fellow Americans in the basement of our old courthouse. The line was long, but it was busy and felt almost like a party. In a way it was a party--a joyous occasion in which we had the opportunity to have our say.  Several children were there with their parents, eagerly asking questions about the process, while some voters were quiet and pensive. Some chatted all the way to the voting box, but once in, their voices still in concentration.  I had the feeling I was in a nest of Republicans, but I didn't care--we were there to exercise our rights as citizens. I believe the best man won, but many others were downcast this morning.   I feel for them because I know they believe their path to be the right one. I don't know that mine is right, but I believe it is best.

I would have supported Romney had he won, but I'm glad he didn't.  No matter what he said or did, or perhaps because of what he said and did...I couldn't identify with him. There was a strong feeling that he was just a party animal, and some things he said didn't seem as though they belonged in his mouth. I couldn't understand why the man who got healthcare reform passed in Massachusetts refused it for the rest of us...and why some folks couldn't see that corporations like his are so far removed from ordinary people (and no, corporations are not a person--they are composed of many, many people who usually have no idea what they own, and are directed by those who do) that we are faceless beings--the masses of humanity. How else could the atrocities of the big-business Bush administration have occurred?

The next four years won't be a picnic I'm sure. We need a saint with wisdom and a big stick to meld the drastic differences of opinion that exist among us. I don't know that President Obama is a saint, but I believe in him and support him all the way. He's started too many good things to stop them mid-stream. Join me now, and let's move forward to make our America the place of unity and good will.

Ideas, Influence and Choices

A couple of years ago, I noticed a phenomenon at our local library: three dogwood trees stood near a lamp post in varying shades of leaf color--this after most had long-since lost their leaves.

It was November when I walked out of the building shivering in the late afternoon chill. For some reason, I had failed to notice those three trees but this time, I saw a flash of white. What?  Sure enough, the dogwood tree nearest the lamp post had new green leaves and white blossoms clustered near red berries! When asked, the librarian told me staff believed the new LED light bulbs in the lamp posts were responsible for the phenomenon.

Last year, those three trees conformed to the others in the area--did they change the light bulbs?, but I cannot forget the year that one tree bloomed out of season.  Sometimes we do that--something will happen that causes us to respond uncharacteristically, causing a blind reaction. It's my I hope that we are aware of the influences around us and take great care before allowing such change without thought.

As with chemical and industrial discoveries, so has the realm of the mind been uncovered. That leaves us incredibly vulnerable. Perhaps it's time to cut the TV/Movie/Internet/Tablet/Phone habit and begin to think on our own again.  What are your triggers? What do you do, what do I do, that influences my ability to make choices for myself? Think about it.

We are living a story: Obama/Biden, Romney/Ryan

I've been thinking a lot about the election lately...how can I not when I'm confronted with it on all sides. This is the time of year I almost completely withdraw to print media, refusing to allow all my senses to be manipulated, but election time also provokes me to thought outside my usual boundaries.  In that light, I was listening to commentators on NPR today and realized we are again riding a swinging pendulum. When President Obama ran, he was the first 'black' man to run; Romney is the first Mormon to run for president. How we do love labels, but this goes beyond mere labeling--Americans are searching for something and using elections as a tool to find whatever it is but there seems to be an element of hysteria this time around.

My question is this: must we vote on someone's personal issues? Aren't there bigger things out there than someone's color, religion, preference for alcohol or non, abortion or no--these things are huge triggers than can move a voter's finger in a heartbeat, but how about poverty; hunger and pain in a country held in a corporate death-grip?  We are so vulnerable to those triggers that we will overlook the warts on our noses once the trigger is pressed. Maleable, self-centered, fear-filled minds are not given to rational thought.

The story goes like this: we elect a president who is different and we are absolutely positive will solve all our social and international problems. Turns out the problem takes longer than anticipated and is extremely complex, so let's push that pendulum as far as possible the other direction to see what happens--get someone else who will reverse everything, take four years to do it and figure out it didn't work. Somewhere, we may decide to literally think for ourselves and make rational decisions without our strings being pulled.

Follow Me

I just signed up for the Following gadget which you'll see near my photo on the right.  It's my hope that you will join me so that we can have a conversation about all the interesting things in our world and beyond.

 Having just completed Ursula K. Le Guin's The Dispossessed, this topic is on my mind. I write stories, tell them, too, but folks can rummage around in the brain matter and come up with some pretty incredible material.  Of late, I've been writing darker stories. I don't know if has anything to do with the last four years of recession or not, but I do know I've been influenced by this period of time, much like rings on a tree.  We cannot live untouched by what happens around us.

By the way, since the world loves stories, check out the Jonesborough Storytellers Guild website.  We are also on Facebook.

Rich Man, Poor Man--a folktale for today

So what is America's story today?  We are now a country of dark contrast that sounds more and more feudal: an unrestricted and petted upper class, and a pacified lower class consisting of former middle class members with fond memories of a better past.  We somehow find it difficult to require our wealthy elite to share the wealth, still thinking our lottery ticket will come through some day.

A recent rumor resonnated with me, since I've been feeling this way for some time:  tax the rich, drop health insurance for all public officials; discontinue pensions for elected officials, and stop paying the student loans of politicians, their families and friends.  Those in high position would be restricted from taking employment for 5 years after leaving office in fields related to their recent employment by the government. Nice, yes?

I'm thinking of a story about a rich man and his poor neighbor. There are loads of these folktales all over the world since disparity is an age-old problem. In this version that I tell, the two lived side by side and shared all that they had until famine struck.  The rich man fired his shepherd who just happened to be the neighbor in question, caused a great wall to be built around his property and brought his family and herds into the compound to ride it out in safety.

Finding no work, the poor shepherd and his wife prepared their last meal, but they had no salt for the little pone of bread they would eat.

"Go next door and beg a pinch of salt." said the wife, so the man went but the door was closed to him.  Starving and hurt by rejection, he sat down and leaned against the wall.  Smells wafted from the window over his head and he realized it was food cooking. He sat there until the family's meal was done and went home for his wife.  They came back and sat together under the window while the rich man sat at table, and savored the smells of real food.

The next day, the shepherd was looking for work at the market and saw his former friend. He told him what had happened but the rich man was angry. "You stole from me!" and hauled him to court.

The judge, who just happened to be appointed to office by the rich man, adjudged the poor man guilty of theft and fined him one donkey.

A donkey! He who could not afford a pinch of salt had to find a donkey and give it to the rich man. Desperate, he headed home to his wife, passing the village storyteller, who was leading a donkey, on the way.  "Why are you so downcast?" she said.

He told her the awful story and she gave him the donkey and some food.  She told him to care for the animal, and take it to court the next day. He had to be silent and do exactly what she required of him.

He and his wife loved the little donkey and dreaded parting with, but he took it to court and prepared to give it up, or whatever the storyteller asked him to do.

She approached the judge and told him their version of the story. The rich man looked uncomfortable and refused to look at the shepherd.

Strike that donkey with your staff," she told the shepherd.  He never struck his animals--he couldn't hurt the little animal, but he had promised, so he hit the donkey. The donkey was so surprised it brayed and jumped and bucked and it took all he could do to get it to calm down.

"Now," said the storyteller, "you have payment for the smell of your food. Take it and leave this man be."

Speechless, the judge and the rich man had little recourse. Besides, the rich man saw the folly of his ways and felt foolish.  The storyteller told the man to care for the donkey and keep it with him always and so he did. The rich man caused the walls to be torn away from his home and rehired the shepherd to watch his flocks and herds.  Best of all, they both shared what they had with one another and others and all was well.

Learn from the wise among us and share that which is given.

Photo by Becky Campbell

The 2012 Campaign: Big Money, Deep Pockets, and scare tactics

I've been paying close attention to the political posturing of our candidates of late and must confess that I am concerned.  I am a Democrat and my admiration for President Barak Obama knows no bounds, but I confess to thinking something is really wrong with our way of campaigning.  The Supreme Court's decision to allow superpacs to exist and contribute to campaigns is little different from corporations, except these corporations and individual donors join together to create staggering amounts of money in virtual anonymity.  Such power is almost unthinkable, and on top of it, we have a Republican candidate who is so wealthy that these guys jump right into his pockets and make themselves at home.  Now, even though President Obama has been backed into using Superpac money, the Republicans still outspend him

. And we wonder where our money goes when it evaporates...it's not gone, that money was lured to those big pockets like a magnetized vacuum cleaner--suctioned to the top.

I find myself even more concerned when voting districts are re-cast to ensure success for certain parties. I am worried about folks not getting a chance to vote--those most needy who would benefit from voting for a broad-based platform the Democrats put forth. What's a vote worth? I'm not sure anymore, but I keep doing it.  Earlier this year I went to the polls in my town to vote.  "But there's nobody for you to vote for," they said.  I answered, "Oh, yes, there is," and went over to the booth and pressed the button for the Democratic Primary--President Obama.  Don't let anybody else make up your mind for you--vote.

It bothers me too, that a voting public, we can be bought and paid for, and so easily swayed by advertising.  It seems the candidate with the most bucks to spend on it wins. Whatever happened to listening to candidates and making up our own minds, then following through at the polls?  For instance, how many times I have we heard Romney contradict himself? I've lost count. We simply cannot let someone else make up our minds for us.  I will not answer a political call, I do not watch television, and I'm darned careful what I read.  If I can't hear it from the candidate's mouth, and read what that person has written, I'm not interested.

Grimm's Fair Tales in concert

Last night I told The Glass Coffin, a Grimm's Fairy Tale, at Rocky Mount Museum outside of Johnson City, TN.  There were six of us, all from the Jonesborough Storyteller's Guild, and all telling scary stories collected by the brothers Grimm 200 years ago. Our notions of what it meant to tell a tale of that sort varied, but all were true to the nature of the stories as translated from the original transcripts.

  While the subject matter was emotionally difficult, I found the telling of it easy--there is a clear path to follow in the story's setup: a defined beginning, middle and end. When a story is well-constructed like that, all a teller need do is prepare by learning it well, and then allowing the story to become what it wants to be at the moment of performance. In this instance, I was slated last on the program. I knew we had kept a room filled with adults interested, (and even some brave children over age 12), but it was my job to wrap it up and send them home with a good memory of the night.I think I did that, but more than anything, I hope that story settled into their collective psyche's as it did mine.

You see, The Glass Coffin involves a young woman literally preserved in a glass case, buried deep in a cavern under the earth's surface. She was violated--emotionally and probably physically, by a dark stranger in her own home. She refused to submit to his demands, and paid dearly with the loss of all she knew, and loved.  Her brother turned to a stag, her castle and village shrank to a miniature--also under glass. There are strange inscriptions etched on cave walls, the life forces of her people captured in glass bottles, and she, the young woman, wrapped in her own hair for cover, and a lucky young tailor who just happens to be in the right place at the right time. Check it out--it's a thought-provoking story that may change your way of thinking about fairy tales.

Performance Storytelling--Dispatches from the Other Kingdom

This past weekend I was at the National Storytelling Network annual conference in Covington,Ky. As part of a troupe including Joseph Sobol and Kenneth Tedford, I was honored to perform in Dispatches from the Other Kingdom featuring cancer stories taken directly from interviews with three people.  Joseph told his father's story, Kenny told his own, and I told a cancer patient's story.

Each time we perform this piece, the result is amazing, as people are stirred, and reminded of their own brushes with this dreaded disease.  It seems no one in today's world can escape cancer's tentacles, and everyone has either experienced it personally or knows someone who has.  Cathy touched me deeply when I interviewed her. I was still in the master's in storytelling program at East Tennessee State University, and working as the graduate assistant with a grant in conjunction with the Quillen School of Medicine, when we met. She had lost so many family members that to hear it was beyond staggering. On top of that, she lost her husband in an accident and then she got cancer.

Interviewing 28 people with cancer in various stages including hospice-care was a step beyond my experience in community relations at Big Bend Hospice in Tallahassee, Florida. I should have known when I left there that those stories I heard would follow me.  When the call came to interview these people and then share their stories, I was ready.

My reason for sharing this is to remind all of us to listen without judgment. People undergoing horrible life experiences may need only to share, and to feel human understanding in return.

What makes you happy?

Monday night I told a version of the Italian tale Happy Man's Shirt at the Jonesborough Yarn Exchange radio hour. It's a story that has been around forever and I first read it in one of Jane Yolen's incredible collections, Favorite Folktales from Around the World. I brought the story forward in time--not quite contemporary but almost.  Our performance included a piece about kudzu and the potential for a kudzu theme park, so I gave the solemn boy a rich father who owned properties in Jonesborough and beyond, in the land of kudzu. The father wanted his son to be outgoing as he was, so that when the time came to inherit his properties his son would flourish and prosper. A preacher, thinking a spiritual transformation was in order, suggested a "come to Jesus" moment and baptized the boy who never cracked a smile. Then a woman with fifteen raucous children invited him to stay with them for a bit, but he was not amused by the noisy bunch. Finally, a politician approached him and talked him practically into the ground about any and everything, but the boy looked at him with solemn, intelligent eyes and refused to agree and laugh with him.

 Finally, the father was out hunting one afternoon and wounded a rabbit. He followed the rabbit but was distracted by wonderful music coming from just over the hill. It was a young man singing happily amid a flock of sheep and a herd of goats.

"Come with me," said the father, "and I will make you rich if you will make my son happy."

"No," said the singer, "I have everything I need right here. I live in a beautiful place, I have a guaranteed job--goats and sheep love kudzu. No, I'm happy here and I will not leave."

"Then let me buy the shirt off of your back," said the rich man.

The young man stepped back, alarmed. "You are crazy, go away and leave me alone."

But the father, in desperation, grabbed him and ripped his jacket open to seize the shirt off of the man's back, but he discovered the shepherd wasn't wearing one.  He went home dejected and depressed, but when his son welcomed him with an open heart, he realized he had overlooked something very important--to love his son just as he was. They lived happily ever after.

Cancer strikes again

I just lost my friend Rita to cancer. While we were not close, she was a loyal person whose smile and willingness to participate in anything I came up with was always appreciated. I will miss her.  As a supporting member of the Jonesborough (TN) Storytellers Guild, she was superb, attending meetings, offering to help those of us who are performing storytellers in any way.  Just two years ago, she and her husband walked in the Jonesborough Days Parade, holding our banner between them. Not long after that, she was diagnosed with dread cancer; now she is gone, but her memory will linger long.

Equal pay for equal work in America

Whether we like it or not, women still earn a lot less than men, often for the same work. It's time we made some noise like our ancestral sisters did when they demanded the vote, or when our sister Rosa Parks refused to move to the back of the bus.  Thank goodness for a president who speaks for the people, whether the people choose to listen or not. Equal rights belong to all of us--male, female, black or white and no matter where your ancestors came from.

Hooray for President Obama--let equal rights reign!

Ted Hicks, Appalachian Storyteller

The man and his stories--Ted Hicks' 

photo taken by Valerie Menard of SilentLightImages.com

 on Beech Mountain

Ted Hicks--more than just Ray Hicks', the storyteller's son

Some time ago, when I was collecting the oral histories for my book, Southern Appalachian Storytellers: Interviews with Sixteen Keepers of the Oral Tradition, I visited Beech Mountain.  For those of us immersed in the world of Performance Storytelling, going up to that fabled mountain is akin to a sacred journey.

 The ancestral home of Ray Hicks and his family sits on top of Beech Mountain in a hollow so secluded and lovely, one would never know there was a madhouse of a resort on the other side of the mountain.  Since the discovery of Ray's oral tradition storytelling in the early 70's, many have made that trek and left with a curious sense of satisfaction and mission.  Hicks' language was, in many ways, linguistically connected directly to the old English spoken when his ancestors migrated to America.  That he knew the stories they brought over the water with them made him even more unique.

Unfortunately for me, I made the trip long after Ray's death in 2006, but it was still a rare treat to listen to his wife Rosa, and his son Ted speak about him and tell their own stories.  Tall--but not quite as tall as his father was, Ted is an imposing man in his fifties with dark brown hair and an expressive face, and at times, it took all I could do to disentangle the stories of mother and son from one another.

I asked Ted when he began telling stories, and was surprised to learn he had always known the stories--having heard them from birth, but never told them.  It was not until illness struck that he began to express himself as a storyteller, entertaining other folk on the van down to the doctor from the mountain top.

Ted's storytelling is completely natural--a simple extension of his normal self, albeit a compelling one! Having listened to many of his father's recorded stories, I detected the cadence learned from Ray, but the authentic storyteller's voice is all his.  Ted Hicks walks in his father's footsteps, but he is the tradition-bearer now, strong, humorous and true.

Doc Watson, the man and his music

I saw Doc Watson last year at the Downtown in Johnson City. Attending with friends, I very nearly missed it; now I'm glad I was there.  The Downtown--the sound alone is phenomenal in that space-- is one of those places one is likely to hear the best of musicians at any given time, and it's my understanding Doc Watson graced that stage many a time.

The night I heard him, I was surprised by his appearance: his blindness meant little to this observer, because he had something else--a presence that went beyond what he couldn't see with his eyes.  Tall, white-haired and a bit fragile, all that was forgotten when he took his guitar in hand and began to play. Call it magic, skill, charisma or all of the above, that man could play the guitar.  Those old fingers fairly raced over the strings, drawing enchantment into the room. All those in attendance were still--we couldn't move for fear of disturbing the aura.

Long live his memory and the music he shared with us.

Memorial Day 2012-a Salute

I've got to admit I'm a war-like passifist.  In other words, I don't like war and would prefer to pursue any way to get around it, but once we're in, let's win it and get our soldiers back home.

One of my cousins is my personal hero. A Vietnam-era veteran, he wears the scars of war in both body and mind, but he does so with dignity.  I remember well when he left to join the war effort, spiffy in his pressed uniform and close-cut hair--a youthful eagerness enveloped him then. He was always one of my favorite cousins and it was hard to see him leave and know he might not return. When he finally came home, some years later, I found a man much older and "wiser"; one who experienced much in my place, and one who would do it again should he be called.

So, with this experience in mind, I thank all the men and women who fight to keep us free. Salute!

Topless mountains-can we still call them mountains?

I saw my first flattened mountain a couple of years ago while driving to Kentucky. Soaking up the abundant, verdant beauty around me, I was unprepared for the specter looming in front of me: the mountain was gone. In its place was a gaping hole in the sky.  Dust, grit, carved tracks and deep ruts, despair and sickness filled in the gap, while someone--possibly you or me, made off like bandits with the energy robbed from that place.

The shock of that day is still with me and hard to think about, but recently I was again confronted with it, this time through a movie--The Last Mountain. In it, I saw more than just that one mountain stripped and flattened--there are thousands of acres of land decimated all the time, most of it in Appalachia.   The wealth from mining goes not to its few workers who run mammoth machines, but to robber barons who stand on the backs of our people, strip the earth of its resources and then send it someplace else.

Will we ever learn that the earth is more than a resource and that much of what is here is finite?  Can we restructure corporations so that blind acquisition no longer drives them to rob our world to line the nests of the few?

 The thing about most energy sources is that once we use them, they are gone. Whack the mountaintop off, rob it of the coal and other minerals collected through the eons, and there is no more. Gone; used up.

Farmers Markets, Then & Now

In the fifties, I went to my first farmer's market with my grandfather in his cream-colored Ford coupe. It was a  big day for us and held in a very special place in downtown Tallahassee, Florida. In those days many farmers still worked the land with mules and draft horses and it was exciting to see the wagons piled high with colorful produce parked in shade in front of the market, where the mules and horses accepted pats and gifts of food as city folk passed by.

Held less than a mile from the state capital building, the market stood behind an ancient live oak, its trunk knotty and broad, with branches spreading over the building to shade and protect all within.  It was an open-air, long, rather primitive building, built of nothing more than pine poles and a tin roof, but under that roof were tantalizing smells, bright colors and wonderful sounds. Linguistically, it was a smorgasbord of southern back-country/elite southern/northern accents mixed with the occasional bray of a mule, a heavenly cacophony of sound to my young ears.

While I've not been back to a market in Florida in many years, I have been to a fabulous farmers market in Paris, France, where it seemed every vegetable and every piece of fruit was dripping with luscious flavor and color, with piles of burgundy grapes, pears and greens set as if in a painting. Lyrical French was spoken there as strolling musicians played violins and guitar, and mimes turned up on every corner; to me, everything I saw and heard was beautiful.

  Here, in contemporary Jonesborough, TN, I enjoy the market for what it gives me beyond organic fruits and vegetables. Here, I am part of a community, buying from farmers I know, eating from the land on which I live, and I find the experience both comforting and exhilarating. Here, I've eaten lettuce just taken from the earth in Curtis and Marilyn Buchanan's garden, and reconnected with folks I met while in a play.  Here, I've made new friends, like farmer Jose` who grows the tastiest potatoes I've ever put in my mouth, played with Betty, the nattiest little chicken ever, and bought a lovely deep berry-red Mandevella for my garden.

  When it comes down to it, not only is it healthier to eat organic and close to home, but there's also the organic experience of becoming part of the place in which one lives. Long live the farmer's market.

Medical Care for the Multitudes

One of my neighbors spent his weekend with several thousand others in line for free medical care. A veteran of the Vietnam War, he is now retired and living on an extremely reduced income. Luckily, he has access to the VA for most of his medical expenses, but not dental.

So what is getting adequate care like for those of us who are not flush with money and have little or no insurance? Daunting is a good word for it.

Finding no dentists willing to work for almost nothing, my friend heard about the free clinic coming to the Bristol Motorway in Bristol, Tennessee, and left here Saturday morning at daybreak to cue up for a ticket. By the time he got there (and thank goodness he has a car to get there in), all of the tickets were gone.

"Come back later this afternoon, between 6-9," said the compassionate attendant, "Maybe you can get a ticket for tomorrow." He went back--by now having driven two hours on borrowed gasoline.  He left again at five and snagged a ticket, went back to his car and slept the night in the cold--again, thankful he had a car, as some did not. The next morning he saw a wonderful dentist who was able to help but told him a root canal was necessary. This is where things get complicated--the one clinic in our area that serves needy clients isn't accepting new patients.

I can see it now: the well-heeled executive, or person who has always had access to insurance, who might be reading this may be thinking, "Well, that's the way the cookie crumbles." I'm here to tell you the cookie has crumbled.  Many of us are sick and tired of money low-paying jobs or no jobs at all, and all of the money being suctioned upwards in well-crafted funds and trickery. There's no such thing as a "trickle down" effect.

Some time ago, I was in an accident and tore the meniscus in my knee. The pain was beyond excruciating. I've been considered uninsurable most of my adult life due to several chronic conditions, so when I called the clinic I attend, they told me to go to the emergency room. There, while I was treated politely, I was treated lightly--a clumsy Velcro brace that refused to stay up, nothing at all for pain, and no physical therapy. I can assure you that had I had insurance, my treatment would have been completely different.  While many fuss and complain about the concept of universal healthcare, had there been such a thing, my treatment plan would have been completely different.  And while we are at it, for those of you who complain the poor get free care at the emergency room--sometimes that is true, but the kind of care differs drastically from what an insured person gets, with no follow-up.

 Money buys almost anything, doesn't it, and it has bought the most wealthy among us freedom from taxes--and some have the gall to say requiring payment is class warfare on those who have worked hard to make it.  Phooey! The absence of money is a nightmare, and those who would refuse healthcare to those without it should experience it first hand. That might make a difference.

Thank goodness for compassionate medical providers who are willing to give of their time to those in need, but where is Scrooge's ghost when we need him for those who consider themselves above us all?

Marketers to Cell Phones Beware: Do Not Call.gov

I've been privy to the protection of "do not call.gov"  on my home phone for a number of years, but when the most recent round of cell phone warnings cropped up, I ignored them. My cell phone is safe from marketers, I thought to myself. The thing that changed my mind and made me take it more seriously, was when a random "fool call" call got through and irritated the living daylights out of me.  Frankly, folks, some things need to remain private, and to me, that's my cell phone.  It's an expensive piece of communication equipment, I carry it at all times and usually answer when someone calls; that makes it a vulnerable target for the cut-throats of the marketing world and they are working hard to break through the barriers we've erected to protect ourselves.  It's my opinion that I shouldn't have to go to such lengths to enshroud myself with a veil of impenetrable mystery, but there it is, and so I have just now made the call to "do not call.gov" on that phone, to protect myself from unwanted intrusion. How about you?

Tornadoes--life and death

After the tornadoes of last night, I, and millions of others, find myself confronting fragile mortality again.  So many people lost their lives--at last count, 28 people who were alive and vital just yesterday are no more.  They are simply gone, erased from a planet rapidly growing more and more inhospitable to our kind.  As I watched the news this morning, it was with a deep sense of anguish, and felt the odd catch in my breath as I identified with the losses.  I understood my life, too, could have become a statistic, but it wasn't my turn.

When I went to bed last night, dire warnings filled my head, I wondered if it would be my time to experience death. Blessed sleep overtook me, while others experienced hell not far away. Death is present in every breath we take, every sneeze we make, and each tiny bug we casually squash underfoot, but the reality of the kind of monumental loss from the massive erasure of a big storm, or that of volcanic activity,or tsunami is something for which we cannot prepare.  As one man said this morning, his community thought they were prepared, but the storm was bigger than they were.

The sight of a mobile home pad covered with debris was especially disturbing, since just last year the mobile home that previously occupied the same site was also destroyed in a tornado.  It's easy to grow complacent when life seems "normal," but perhaps it's time we realized normalcy as we experienced it is a thing of the past.  For whatever reason,   we live in precarious times--the weather is not predictable, and its violence is increasing.  Perhaps it really is time to live in the moment.

Kindness at the end of a Big Black Boot

I just did the most foolish thing--I wrote an entire piece on this blog and neglected to save my work.  There's something about this setup that fools me me into believing my work exists on its own, but it doesn't--it must be SAVED!

I wrote about the Big Black Boot I wore for several months after taking a nasty fall on a puddle of water December 6.  My life changed in that moment, and I learned about pain and endurance instead of partying, telling delightful Christmas stories and enjoying holiday delicacies with my family. Fortunately for me, this was the year my children were coming to me in the mountains of East Tennessee, but until they arrived, my neighbor and good friend, Jim, took over, nursing me, keeping the apartment from falling into a total shambles, and taking me to the doctor. I will never forget his kindness.

Kristy flew in from Tallahassee and hit the ground running.  She knew I was mortified by my apartment and wanted it clean and decorated for the holidays, so by the time Kitty and Ron and the grandchildren arrived, all was neat, clean and ready. Then Kitty did the laundry and Ron shopped while I played with the grandchildren. Such love.

Speaking of kindness, it is alive and well, at least where I live.  It took about a week for the word to get around in the community, but when I posted on Facebook, things started perking, particularly among my cronies in the storytelling and poetry groups. Until I began to drive again two weeks ago, I never went without food.  Ben brought gourmet chili and then potato soup, Marlene brought fresh rye bread and beef and barley soup, and Sandee sent all kinds of delicious goodies.  Marjorie and Harry brought props for my back and legs--the list goes on and on, including toothpaste from Linda when I was scraping the tube.  They provided everything including vacuuming, the laundry and more. I am still amazed by it and learned much.  Now when somebody needs me, I will be there with some idea of what to do, but it took being on the receiving end of kindness for me to truly understand the nature of what it means to be kind. It's that do unto others as you would have them do unto you thing, and it seems to be a universal truth. I'm glad I learned it, but if I need further instruction, I'd just as soon not have a broken bone for a teacher.

Lessons learned from a lichen

Last week, I created a post and managed to send it to this blog from my documents with a photo, and it was successful. I tried it again tonight, since the experience was fun, but nothing doing. How frustrating! What I must admit is that it's my own fault: there is so much fascinating and useful information out there that if I don't write down the source, that resource disappears into the ether. It's still there, but my very human brain can't access it.  Come thou elusive bit of resource, come to me...

I found the lovely space ship attached to a tree down from my apartment last summer. It is so simple and yet complicated, much like my experience trying to work on the web, but somehow, I think this lichen has got it figured out-find your right place, learn it well and stick with it.

An interview with Artis Connell in Cody, Florida, 2011

Artis is my late Mother’s first cousin.  I saw him at his home in Cody, an old timber town. The place has changed much since his birth in the 1920’s, going from truly isolated and rural, to a suburb of Tallahassee, Florida’s capital.
When I was a child, my grandfather, Albert Connell took us to see Artis and his family a number of times and I grew to love him; I still do. I see him as an incredibly brave man whose strength comes through his faith in God.  The Connell family donated the land for the Cody Pentecostal Holiness church, which Artis continues to attend.  Some years back, before his wife Betty passed away (she made the best chicken & dumplings on the planet to my way of thinking) he was paralyzed after an accident. I was there, at the rehabilitation hospital when he first moved his toe. It was reason for great rejoicing, because no one knew if he’d ever walk again. Now in his 80’s, not only does he walk, he still lives an independent life with his family surrounding him.
During our conversation, he told me stories about a great hurricane and torrential rains--a time when the rivers and creeks overflowed and Cody was covered in water.
Excerpts from this interview with Artis will be published in my book of essays, stories and interviews of the North Florida I know and remember, working title: FLORIDA BEYOND THE SUN
 

A Fresh Look at the New Year

Happy New Year! Yes, I know, I promised to be here faithfully . . . and here I am, bright, eager, and totally excited about what the new year will bring. I had an eventful autumn that was filled with storytelling and speaking opportunities, and I was looking forward to more this winter until I broke my ankle December 6. Pretty much sidelined for a bit, I had to focus on writing, which I didn't mind at all. What I did mind was the pain of the break, and the inconvenience of it. I am one of those last minute shoppers--you know the type--we wait until Christmas Eve and then panic, go crazy at the store and then have a blast. This year I did my shopping online, and it was relatively stress-free. In fact, it was so easy that I may make it part of my Christmas tradition.

While I hobbled around here in the Boot or kept it propped, I finished Swamp Woman, my suspense novel, which is set in North Florida (more about this in another post), completed a mid-grade fantasy piece named Opal Dragon Hold inspired by my grandson Tucker, and wrote several poems. I won third place in the Watauga Pen Women's Poetry contest, and honorable mention in a contest sponsored by the Poetry Society of Tennessee. Let's just say all of this activity helped me keep my sanity while I was home. . .

In addition to writing and storytelling, both of which are ongoing, there are several special events on the horizon I'd like to share with you:

Check out my Saundra Kelley Facebook fan page, which is a growing discussion about my book, Southern Appalachian Storytellers: Interviews with Sixteen Keepers of the Oral Tradition. That book just keeps on going, and it is taking me along for the ride. In March, I will be at The Virginia Festival of the Book with it, and will post my lecture time as soon as I have it. I've lectured at several universities, and hope to do more this year. I am booking lectures, workshops and story-concerts, and will be happy to add your organization to my schedule.

In June, I will perform in Dispatches from the Other Kingdom, with Dr. Joseph Sobol and Kenneth Tedford at the National Storytelling Network Conference in Ohio. The stories in this performance are deeply personal for all three of us: Joseph tells of his father's experience with cancer; Kenny shares his own, and I speak for Kathy Collins. All three were interviewed under the auspices of a communications grant at East Tennessee State University, and I was fortunate to be the one who spoke with Kathy. At the time, I was the graduate assistant with the storytelling program, and ultimately interviewed 28 people with varying experiences with cancer and the medical community. Her story staggered me, and I was honored to be asked to more or less channel her experience. Each time we perform this trio of interviews, lives are changed, and greater avenues of communication opened.