I'm not sure much more could have been packed into one weekend, but Springfield and the surrounding area tried. And though there were many other things going on the ones I was involved in were the Springfield Area Highland Games (http://www.central-illinois-celts.org/), and the Clayville Spring Festival (http://clayville.org/home).
With the Games I balance being chair of the Heritage Area and storytelling, but once set up was completed, and Iain Thompson completed his "Introduction to Gaelic," I settled in for some tales. I put up the "Storyteller is In" sign, and gratefully moved my chair into the tent's shade - for the day (despite ominous weather warnings) was sunny, hot, and windy. The ebb and flow of visitors offered a fascinating array of individuals. One couple stayed after a "Introduction to Gaelic" class, and to them I told an Orkney tale about "The Storm Witch." This is a tale of a young woman, named Janet, who was caught in the 17th century witch craze, and was rescued rather dramatically by her lover. It was my first time telling it in public, and I was satisfied it flowed well. Though I had a moment or two wondering how my audience received it as the lady sat silent. Finally she said, "My name is Janet." Then she smiled a little, and said, "I wonder where that took place - I got to visit the Orkney Islands once." After that she told us about what all one should see if visiting. Along the way I told the Irish tales, "The King Who Was a Gentleman" and "The Wolf's Story." Of course "Tamlin" was a favorite. The audience ranged from young to elders, and all in between, and at the end of one tale a gentleman said, "You are the first storyteller I have ever heard, though I have been interested in it for a long time." So he and his wife told me a little of his days as a pastor, and how they were researching which storytelling festivals to go to. I was able to recommend the going to the Illinois Storytelling website (http://www.storytelling.org/) for their calendar. It's an interesting feeling to learn that you are the first of your art that an individual has heard, and you hope you represented the art form well. And when 4 came around my friend, Amanda, and I packed up and headed wearily, though pleased, to our respective homes. ________ For we both knew we needed rest for Clayville the next day, since we're both involved in both festivals. The weather was still holding, though the reports remained ominous, and with less to haul we headed out. I was offered a place in the Broadwell Tavern, which was very pleasant with both doors open to provide a breeze. A fact that was very welcome as I was in my full civil war era gown. My first audience was a lad about 4 years old, named Otto, and his parents; they stopped to listen to "The Two Foxes." As folks came to see the Inn they stopped to listen. As one lady approached she exclaimed, "I knew it was you! I recognized your voice!" It turns out that she had retired several years ago from Horace Mann, and remembered me from when I performed at the Horace Mann's United Way Talent Show. She remained for a story. Others stopped for "Jack and the Gower." (Including another lady from Horace Mann who remembered me from the Talent Show). And to keep us from being bored the members of the 10th Illinois Volunteer Cavalry (http://www.10thillinoisvolcavalry.com/) changed to cowboy garb, and offered many an entertaining shoot-out. Oft using the Inn as a staging point. But the thunder rumbling overhead put lie to the sound of their blanks, and soon everyone was squeezing into all available buildings. If buildings have memories I am sure the Broadwell Inn had a sense of deja vu - for once again the Inn sheltered mothers comforting babes, bored children seeking entertainment or comfort, and equally bored men standing at the doors watching the deluge. How many times did the Inn have such crowd during its stagecoach days? And from the crowd came little Otto, and who found me watching the rain too. Who looked up at me and said, "Could you please come and tell us all a story?" So while the thunder broke overhead and told him, "Michael and Friendly Leprechaun."
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Though a touch warm today I doubt that any could complain of such a lovely day, and the retirement village I was telling at today is a well-planned, attractive, locale.
The residents were gathering in the dining room, which is a spacious community room, with good acoustics. And I actually had a decent turn out - considering there was a Cardinal game. Once everyone was settled in I began my half hour program; telling such tales as: "The King's Rice Pudding," "The Twelve Months," "Tamlin," "The Stolen Bairn," "The Pedlar of Swaffham," and "Jack and the Friendly Animals." At the end of the program many of the residents asked if would come back, and one said that while I was telling my stories you could hear a pin drop. All in all it made for a very pleasant day. This thread comes from the fact that all I have been only able to ponder, and not to type. It is a train of thought begun by a discussion on the Storytell list about the American focus, at least at festivals, on personal stories as opposed to folktales.
I will fully admit that I haven't followed the current storytelling festival scene due to household logistics and lack of interest. I only have time, and resources, to focus on researching stories, and performing storytelling; as opposed to traveling out of town to hear it. And I count myself lucky that during the days of the Clayville, and New Salem, storytelling festivals, which were near, that the focus was still mainly on folktales. Plus there was the added benefit of the many years that Prairie Grapevine, the local folklore organization, brought in nationally known tellers. Nor do I have anything against personal stories. I have heard many fine, and powerful ones. Personal tales are part and parcel of human communication since it has we shape our world. and with some being told often enough to enter folklore themselves. What I have dealt with, though, is that for many of my audience, be they adults or teenagers, folktales are alien creatures. Maybe there is an obsession with reality? Maybe a a fear of the imagination? What makes up a lot of folktales? Magic. Or a least of hint of magic. To process the stories the listener has to call upon both creativity and the imagination. But what is the current popular fare? It is reality television shows, news shows, and talk shows. We even chase ghosts with electronic gadgets, and probably most of the audience is ambivalent about whether they want it to be a real ghost or not. A real ghost would open up doors of far vaster worlds, which can be scary to consider. This fascination, or "obsession," with reality might somewhat explain the focus on personal stories on stage. What does concern me is how to help bring back the wonder tales and legends, and other folklore, to the modern culture, particularly the modern, adult, culture. From everything I have read about storytelling that less than a hundred years ago, in some regions, these types of stories were still part of evening entertainment for the adults. There were certain types of stories for the younger children, and it was considered a mark of approaching adulthood when a youngster was allowed to listen to the later tales. Now all things magical and wonderful, at least when it comes to storytelling, is mainly considered for children. And it has reached a point where storytelling is mostly considered only for children. It has been forgotten that along with the wonderous tales that there are also wisdom tales that focus on the very human condition. I find this somewhat ironic since there is also a popular fascination with "supernatural" romance and mystery novels, and with gaming. Yet very, very few make the connection that the source of the "supernatural" elements, however weakly, have roots in folklore and in oral culture. I still remember last fall when a 13 year old girl was amazed at hearing "Tamlin," and "Jack and the Gower" (a Ozark version of a dragon slaying - in this case it was a giant alligator). She told me she had never heard anything like them; that all that was in books and tv right now was about vampires and that type of stuff. Magic and mystery can't be done away with, but they can be diluted to safe, often cliche, levels. So, have I come to any great insights into how to bring folktales and wonder tales back into popular culture? Only what I have been doing - dogged persistence, and a firm belief that these tales deserve to live and be heard. This Story Musing offers a bit of a challenge as I am mostly trying to type one handed, and am counting myself lucky, since for the most of the month I have been dealing with a strained shoulder.
It has also been a busy couple of months, starting with the Root of Nature conference in March. This was a wonderful launch of a new nature education conference for early education teachers, which was hosted by the Springfield Audubon Society. Brian "Fox" Ellis offered a fine keynote address, and equally fine workshop. I'm still amazed the conference is now over, since it has been in the planning for so long. The following week I had the pleasure of performing at the Illinois State Museum as they opened their Play Museum. I was actually settled on the first floor, under their very realistic looking tree. It was great fun as I worked with my Folkmanis Gray Fox puppet, which got hugged by many children and petted by a few adults. It never ceases to amaze and delight me how people, young and old, react to the life-like animal puppets; the movement catches their attention, and even when they realize it is a puppet, they still pet it. And in the middle of this I was able to offer such stories as, "The Two Foxes," and "The Fox Wife." And when I had my squirrel puppet out I added in the French story, "The Fox and the Squirrel." Now I am trying to play "catch up" on both storytelling material, and more mundane activities; plus gear up for the St Andrews' Highland Games on May 21st, and Clayville's Spring Festival, which is May 20th, 21st, and 22nd. A strange mix true, but I'll blame it on the weather. At least the weather of a month ago, when Springfield was handily buried beneath snow. The city was still digging out by the time the Chinese New Year's came about, and so the show I was doing for the Springfield Art Association was held over till last night - to join with Mardi Gras.
The Springfield Art Association was hosting a family night on both nights so they combined all of their hands on projects - masks, and paper lanterns, beads and other fun. And it was fun. While I was waiting for my scheduled time I was able to wander about and look at their exhibit, Pastiche: Art Made from Disparate Sources. This is well worth seeing, and pondering. I was grateful for the brief overview from the artists so that I could better appreciate the stories they were trying to impart in their mediums. I also had a few moments to appreciate the Edward Place's lower floor, which is filled with elegant Victorian furniture and portraits. The watchful gaze of many of the first residents look upon the visitors. Then back into the light and the life. Most of my audience were toddlers so we started off with the French tale of "The Squirrel and the Fox," and "The Yellow Thunder Dragon." As I was telling some older children came in, and I went ahead with the Chinese tale of "The Magic Brocade," which seemed appropriate to the Art Association. This is a wonderful tale of a older woman who falls in love with a painting, and sets out to weave the scene. It also shows how her sons deal with her passion; the elder two only wish her to focus her talents on profitable efforts, while her younger son will do whatever needs to be done for her to see the work of art to completion. He is also the only one who will seek the brocade when the spirits "borrow" it." What was very rewarding was the little ones thanking me, and when one of their fathers came over and thanked me. His 3 year old son and 7 year old daughter were enthralled. It as a lovely evening. If ever a book revealed how storytelling was integrated into a community I would have to say it is Marie Campbell's Tales From The Cloud Walking Country; a book I wouldn't have known of it hadn't been a reprint of "The Girl Who Married a Flop-Eared Hound in a Reader's Digest collection.
The story had caught my attention for a couple of reasons; the first being that it was an interesting blend of traditional fairy tale, with a very American touch; the second being because I have a young hound. The story has a king getting lost, and coming upon a talking hound, that asks to marry one of his daughters. It then proceeds fairly normally in that the youngest does marry him, which turns the hound into a man, but then she has to seek him because she broke a taboo. If I had thought that tale intriguing I wasn't prepared for the actual book. Marie Campbell taught in the eastern Kentucky mountains between 1926 and 1934, and had the foresight to listen to the old tellers, and to collect what she heard. And from what she says in her introduction, this book was the first of a series, though I have not found any others. She focused this book on the fairy tales, the marchen she collected. The seventy plus stories were either handed down by the tellers' families, or provided by seasonal help, or other visitors. It is fascinating to see how many of the old world touches linger, like kings and princesses, but their favorite foods are those of the region. Basically you can see how the stories were shifting - not only because of region, but as they began to merge pieces of various stories. And that is without the effects of memory, which also came into play in some cases. Another thing the book made me aware of, though in a rather indirect way, is how these "fairy tales" were obviously prevalent on an even broader scale. They not only were providing entertainment to rural communities, but they had entered what the narrators called "blackguard" tales. Basically the fairy tale had also entered the strictly male terrain of the dirty tale. In several cases the male narrators would tell part of a fairy tale, but just end it because what they had heard wasn't fit to tell a young teacher. Not something a storyteller can use, but it reaffirms for me that once these tales, in many forms, were offered for a wide, wide audience. They were not just for the children. While I have done parts of my "Threads of History's Lore" Program over the last couple of years today was the first time it has been fully presented.
Nor could I ask for a more perfect setting to offer an hour presentation of folklore from some of the many cultures that settled in, and around, Springfield. I was offered a lovely parlor at the Springfield Art Association's Edward's Place (http://www.springfieldart.org/). And even though the temperatures had been brutal the last few days, and were only slightly better today, there was a moderate audience. For this particular program I focused on two parts of the immigrations: the settlers coming over from Eastern and Southern states during the early part of the 19th century; this I followed with tales and history from the English, the Irish, the Scottish, the French, and the German. Some of the tales I offered were such as: "Jack and the Gower," (US tradition); "The Three Sillies" (English); "Michael and the Friendly Leprechaun" (Irish); "Tamlin" (Scottish); "The Queen and the Frog" (German); and "The White Cat" (French). Along with the tales I spoke of why the stories would have been important to these varied wanders - how, when faced with the great unknown, that faith, music, and stories were really all the had left. And to my joy and delight the program, this labor of many years' love, was well-received. Of late my reading material has covered a couple of interesting books.
One of which I gave as a Christmas gift to myself, and in keeping with the season, was James Ballowe's Christmas in Illinois: A Collection of Holiday Memories, Recipes, and Images. The book does not go in chronological order, but has material organized under various headings: "Christmas in Illinois History," "Living Traditions," "Songs and Symbols," "Christmas Outdoors," "Eating Merrily," and "Memories." The book is enhanced by lovely photos, and recipes; plus a fine bibliography. Some of the items that caught my attention were such as these..... That due to the overly-rambunctious nature of the early Christmas and New Year festivities in some regions, which seemed to carry a healthy dose of the medieval "Lord of Misrule," many were endeavoring to develop a family-oriented holiday. The New Englanders' holiday of choice was Thanksgiving, and this they carried to the Midwest, with success. However, by the 1840's and 1850's Christmas and New Year's were being more celebrated, but with a more family focus, and many of the traditional Thanksgiving foods being used for the later holidays. The other thing that caught my attention was that one of the favorite, and traditional, were molded chocolate cockroaches. This was followed by other insects molded from chocolate. The other book I had the opportunity to read is A True Picture of Emigration, by Rebecca Burlend, and her son Edward Burlend. Rebecca and her husband John Burlend, traveled, with five young children, from England to Illinois in 1831. Later, when Rebecca was able to return to England for a visit the two grown children she had left there, she recounted her experiences to her school teacher son, Edward. The pamphlet was later used to give prospective immigrants a view of what might face them in America. The style is very straightforward, and more effective for it, as Rebecca describes the arduous years before they were finally comfortable. One can just imagine the horror she experienced when she saw that her little son had crawled onto the bowsprit, and then fallen asleep. So, with great presence of mind, she stayed silent, and just as silently signaled her husband to the danger. The boy was carefully rescued. The book is a treasure. While Rebecca's son, Edward, who was both a teacher and a poet, did the writing he did not try to add flourishes. His mother's reflections, memories, and information are offered in a unassuming manner. She was endeavoring to offer a clear picture to any considering such a monumental undertaking. For me the Christmas holidays have always been a time of contemplation, but in the recent two years this has become more so. I have come to truly understand why so many old holiday songs and stories recommend that we think back to times and friends long gone.
Yet, in many years, and during many events, I have never quite felt the sense that not only myself, but many others, were being woven into the vast weave of local history. And truly felt a kinship for so many others that have lived in Springfield - from the pioneers that remembered The Great Snow to the citizens who remembered the tornadoes of a few years back. For any who live any length of time in a place you begin to accumulate a store of memories and stories about the people and events of that place. And in one's life you also accumulate a store of momentous national and international events. The sad event that made me stop and feel that touch of weaving was the shocking death of Springfield's Mayor Timothy Davlin. The news of his death literally stopped a town in shock. It's not that I ever knew the gentleman, but he seemed a fixture of Springfield. And he was a man of vision for the town - with a fine grasp of the importance of Springfield's history. True his death, while shocking, is only one event out of many in Springfield's history, and is tiny in comparison to the events of the globe. Yet, it is all those tiny events that make up the tapestry we call "History." And for me that news made me stop and catch a glimpse of the needle and thread. Later this made me wonder why this news, more than so many more shattering events, gave me that sense. And for a while I thought back - realizing that my memories of the tornado and the blizzards, and so many other events, were clouded by the fact that my whole focus had been on care giving for my mother during those events. That this time I could be aware of the event clearly, with no distractions. And maybe because the event again reminded me that while the holidays are meant to celebrate those things bright - love, family, togetherness, and renewal - that the cold and dark of winter reminds us that all things end. A friend once said that all the lights that decorate the homes and trees seemed to him to borne of a very primal desire to chase back the night and the spirits. Which could well be true. But I will not end this musing on a sad note, but with a story that seems to me to sum up the complex nature of Christmas. This is a Wisconsin story I found in Mary Beth Crain's Haunted Christmas. The tale takes place in the later days of the 19th century, with a middle-aged bachelor, named Aaron, returning home from a Christmas Eve service. On his way through the snow he thought he heard soft footsteps following him, but when he looked he saw no one. He was not troubled as he knew sound carried, and was oft distorted, on clear winter's nights. When he reached home he was ready for another routine evening. Long since he had given up decorating for the holiday - not because he disliked Christmas - there just didn't seem to be a reason. And the idea depressed him a little - a dull, but well-known, ache he could ignore. Though, on these nights, the house seemed too large and too quiet. He took off his coat, and headed for his study, where he knew his housekeeper would have set out a cold meal for him before she left. His eyes widened in surprise and delight upon entering his study, for there sat his chlldhood friend, Charles. "Charles!" Aaron cried out, "When did you get back from Washington?! What brought you back?! Is your family all right?" "Oh, yes," Charles answered, standing, and coming over to grasp his friend's hand. "Everyone's fine. I just got in a mind to come see my old home town, and more important, my old friend." Aaron noted that the food that his housekeeper had left for him was untouched, and he said, "You should have helped yourself...but wait a minute and I'll get us set up." He hurried to the kitchen and fixed up another plate of food, plus stopped to get a bottle of his best brandy. Now neither of these men were normally given to being talkative, but that night passed in good conversation - covering everything from memories of shared boyhood exploits to their work. At last, though, Aaron noted that the hearth had burnt down, and when he looked at the clock on the mantel it showed that dawn would be coming soon. He laughed at how they had carried on, and led his friend up to his own bedroom, since it was already made up. Then, despite Charles's protests, he went to make up a room for himself. It wasn't till he heard his housekeeper calling that breakfast was ready that he stirred, and after dressing, went to knock on Charles's door. When he received no answer he figured that Charles was already in the kitchen. As he made his way down he stopped and stared at his parlor - for there was a brightly decorated tree. "Charles!" he called out laughing and went onto the kitchen, "Quite a sur...." But it was Aaron that was surprised, because it was only his housekeeper who greeted him in the kitchen, and she was looking bemused. "Did you help Mr. Drew with the tree?" he asked. "Sir?" his housekeeper said, "No one has come down, and I've been cooking breakfast this morning." Aaron didn't wait for further discussion, but ran upstairs to his bedroom. A room that had not been disturbed - the bed as nicely made as it usually was. He ran back to the parlor, and after closely studying the tree he found a note tied to it. The note read, "Enjoy. Next year you will be sharing one with your wife." "Sir," his housekeeper said, "A letter was delivered for you yesterday - after you left." She held out the sealed letter. He noted the return address, and took it to his study to read, and there he found that Charles's plate still contained food, and his glass was still full of brandy. Food and brandy he would have sworn his friend consumed. And then Aaron learned from Charles' children that his childhood friend had died in Washington several weeks ago. In the year that came and went Aaron was to remember that wonderous night - for the following Christmas he did indeed share the decorating of a tree with his beloved wife. To all who read this - May all of you have good holidays. Holidays to be shared in light and love, with friends and kin near. And good memories of all who have passed before. May all of you have a bright New Year - filled with Health, Love, and Prosperity! Cathy It seems both odd, but appropriate, that this blog has come full circle. My first "story" post was "Christmas at Clayville," and again we return to that event. I feel that I have again returned to my storytelling roots.
Oh so many years ago, in another incarnation of Clayville, I sat in one of Dan Keding's storytelling workshops, and I know that last year it felt so appropriate to be telling at the resurrected Clayville (http://www.clayville.org/). And the phoenix continues to rise. Last Christmas everyone was amazed that the Pleasant Plains Historic Society had managed to get the site ready for a Christmas event. And we spent a chilly, but loving, day. This last Saturday it promised to be another chill, and very wet, day. However, this time the Broadwell Inn was warm with a furnace, and gas fires. (Though it does have one working fireplace.) I was stationed in the parlor, with the gas fire, so I wouldn't have problems with wood smoke. And while most stayed across way with Santa (and were often loath to brave the rain to come to the Inn) some did come over; offering a very friendly audience. I wish I could have stayed longer, but I was warmed to see that despite the weather people were turning out for the event. Many coming because they wanted to pay homage to how Clayville was rising again to take its place amongst Illinois's historical sites. |
Cathy Mosley
I am a Springfield, IL based storyteller with a fascination for how folklore travels, and for history. Archives
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