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!
About Me
- saundra
- Born in Tallahassee, the capital of Florida, I am a genuine Florida Cracker--a descendent of sturdy women and men who farmed their way south from North Carolina in the early 1800's. I am a graduate of Florida State University with a BS in Social Science, and earned an MA in Education/Storytelling from East Tennessee State University. My work is deeply influenced by a love and reverence for the natural world and environmental issues and my love of story. Performance Photos by Valerie Menard, Silentlightimages.com.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Sunday, June 3, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, May 28, 2012
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!
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!
Sunday, May 27, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
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.
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.
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