Out With The Old 2010, In With the New 2011

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Christmas In The City

The view from my hotel window

     I had a wonderful time over the Christmas weekend in Philadelphia. However, I have only this one photo to show for it. During the snowstorm and downtime in a hotel room, I was reading my Nikon camera guide trying to learn some things I didn't know about my new camera. Unfortunately, I thought I was deleting one picture but it turned out I was deleting about 20, including the horse and carriage ride I took with my son Alan and a wonderful picture of my two sons and I standing in front of a beautiful Christmas tree in the elegant lobby of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. My heart is still crying which is better than the cussing out I gave myself at the time.

     The highlight of my weekend was two fabulous, and expensive, meals at two fine dining restaurants on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Paying for them was my Christmas gift to my sons and son-in-law. Then they turned the tables (pardon the pun) and informed me they were paying for the Christmas Eve feast. When I saw the bill the next night, I was very glad they had helped me out that way. But thinking about it, I have always spent that much and more when I've entertained family here at Castle Yonder for Christmas.

     We ate at Fish one of the top 10 restaurants in Philly and chose to have the traditional 7-course Italian dinner with the wine pairing. Selected wines were brought in small portions that complimented that course. We started out with baby Bibb lettuce salad with anchovies, then (and I won't remember these all in order, I'm sure) an oyster on the half-shell, clams with linguini, roe, shrimp, octupus (!), and salt cod. These were all served with lovely sauces in beautiful presentations. Dessert was a cake-like nut bread with whipped cream and tiny diced peaches. The restaurant setting was very intimate, and the ambience was warm with dark red walls, and low, artistic lighting. 

     Our Christmas dinner was at the Ten Arts, a restaurant inside the elegant Ritz-Carleton Hotel. Our table was surrounded by mammoth marble columns, and crystal chandeliers hung above us. It was as elegant as Fish had been intimate. We chose the 5-course dinner with the wine pairing. The courses I remember was a magnificent truffle soup with a parmesan and foie gras embellishment and the thinly sliced skirt steak. I'm sorry I can't remember all the courses but by this time there were just too many unfamiliar foods to remember. 

     It truly was two of the most elegant dinners and restaurants I've ever experienced. My sons don't eat this way except on very special occasions, but they are fine food conniseurs. My son, Alan, was trained as a pastry chef and graduated from the Philadelphia Restaurant School twenty years ago. I had the same fun I have when I go on a cruise which is pretending to be a member of the jet set. That's what happened to many of us who grew up during the Golden Age of movies. We aspired to be the Beautiful People.

I make no apologies.  

Christmas Blessings

GOD BLESS YOU MERRY LADIES AND GENT'MEN

Nostalgic Christmas Presents

     What does the recording of The Nutcracker Suite, a toy machine gun, and oversized red mittens have in common? They are all gifts I remember from my childhood that I received at Christmas time.

      I think The Nutcracker Suite was my favorite. My brother-in-law, Bud, worked on the B&O Railroad in Garrett, Indiana where I grew up. He loved to go shopping on Maxwell Street in Chicago when he had to lay over there on his trips as a fireman on the steam engine. Laying over meant he shoveled coal into the engine's furnace all the way from Garrett to Chicago; then the rules prevented him from turning right around and riding an engine back to Garrett. He would go to a boarding house, bathe, eat, and rest and then wait until his assigned engine made the trip back to Garrett. Maxwell Street was an infamous city street where great discounts and sales could be found, both inside the stores and outside on the streets. Bud loved to get a bargain.

     One year when I was about 8 he brought home an early Christmas present for me. It was a small  electric turntable in a brightly colored case that had a small record with it--The Nutcracker Suite. I had never heard music like that before, and immediately fell in love with Tchaikovsky. I'm sure I wore that record to grooves and scratches. I have no idea what happened to it or the turntable, but I still have the memory of Bud and his present whenever I hear "The Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairies," and all the other compositions.

     I grew up during the Second World War. I was 7 when it started and 11 when it ended. These were my "tomboy" years. The street on which I lived, Second Street, was full of kids my age, eleven if I count everyone from a little older than I and a little younger. Some people called us "The East End Kids." We loved to play War although all of us played American soldiers, and the Nazis and Japs we killed were all imaginary. One neighbor had a beautiful bing cherry tree with one low branch that made an ideal airplane, and we were excellent marksmen as we bounced on it up and down. Amazingly, it lasted a couple summers before it finally broke.

     Another battleground we created was in the large empty lot next to my house. My brother, who was eight years older than I, had found a discarded telephone pole, erected it in the field, and put a basketball hoop on it. However, when he joined the Navy at age 18 and left home, my Dad took the pole down. This left a large hole where the pole had been which became a perfect foxhole. We knew about these military things because many of the movies we saw had battles and war themes.

     In keeping with my Army spirit, even though I felt loyal to the Navy because of my brother, I wanted a toy machine gun that made a eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh clicking noise that would make our games more realistic. I don't think I still believed in Santa anymore, but I could still make out Santa wish lists, usually based on the Sears, Roebuck Christmas catalog. I put a toy automatic machine gun on my list, and amazingly, I got one! Fortunately, it didn't shoot bb's or I might have put my eye out!

     The third memorable Christmas present was more of a lesson than the machine gun had been. I was a young teenager and both my parents and I were shopping in The Boston Store in my little hometown. It was unusual for the three of us to be shopping together because my Dad worked for the B& O also, and his work schedule was erratic since he went to Chicago also when certain trains went. The Boston Store had a little bit of everything in the way of clothing for babies, children, juniors, women, and men. We were easing around the aisles picking up and unfolding things, feeling material, appraising and generally shopping. Then I saw the most amusing item. Bright red fuzzy, and oversized, mittens. They must have been a good 12 inches long, sticking out way past the end of my fingers when I tried them on. We all laughed when I waved them in the air. "Do you like those?" my Dad asked. "Yeah!"

     But honestly I did not like them well enough to be my major Christmas present that year! But they were, and I wore them and at first had fun when my friends saw them.  But the fun and the novelty soon wore off, and then I was stuck with bright red fuzzy oversized mittens for the rest of the winter. I learned to be careful what I enthused about on future shopping trips.

     These are lovely memories that let me know now that I was loved. Happy Christmas presents to you all!   Mimi

A Personal St. Nicholas Eve

     When my family came to the United States from East Germany in 1906, they dedicated themselves to becoming Americans, especially my father and mother who started their own family in 1917. Through each year they put more and more of the German traditions and customs aside--except for Christmas.

     My mother continued to bake her special Papanut cookies. That's what she called them using the low German dialect, the language of the folk who lived in the lowlands near the Baltic Sea in the northern Province of Mecklenburg. This is not the high German taught in the schools and used by authors in literature.

     My father loved to belt out "O Tannenbaum" every day of Advent. He also joyfully decorated the Christmas tree and loved to sit and look at it in the silence of the evening. Every year he'd tell the story of how his mother baked Papanut every Christmas holiday, a ginger cut-out cookie, and hung them in a china cabinet and how he got in trouble because he ate them one day when all the family had gone to church. 

     He took an active part in putting the tree up, twining all the lights around, and then hanging each ornament hook by hook. He let me help him a little more each year. When the tree was loaded with every last ball and bauble, we would throw packaged icicles on all the branches for the finishing touch. Then we'd turn off all the overhead lights, run out the front door and across the street to ooh and ahh over our lighted tree which was placed right in the middle of our living room window.

     But even more magical than that moment was the moment I saw Santa Claus on St. Nicholas Eve. This was a well-loved legend that had come across the pond with my family members who hung onto it until their four children had outgrown Santa. I, as the youngest, was their last chance to vicariously enjoy the innocence of childhood.

     The saint for whom December 6 is named has many legends and mythology based on his life although the facts of his bio are brief and obscure. His legends have now been documented back to the Nordic pagan culture. The evolution of many myths have now been traced throughout the northern area of Europe. St. Nicholas eventually came to be known as Sinterklaaus in the Netherlands and Belgium. One can easily see how Sinterklaaus eased into Santa Claus. In fact, my father always referred to S.C. as Santy Claus which is very close to the European.

     Sinterklaaus came into the United States with the Dutch settlers of New York. However, the English speakers eventually prevailed and it's been Santa Claus ever since. For more history of St. Nickolas, type it in the Search box on Wikipedia. For my personal memory, read on.

     I was five years old. December 6 had been a snowy day, and when I came home from school my mother met me at the door and swept me off with the broom because I had made snow angels all the way home and my snow suit was covered with snow. She took off my boots and set them on the doorstep leading into the house.

     At the supper table, my 13 year old brother started talking about Santy Claus and wasn't this the night he flew overhead and left presents in children's shoes if they had been good? My mother answered yes and then passed around dishes of Jello with sliced bananas. Suddenly, my brother jumped up and said, "Listen, I think I hear sleigh bells!" 

     My mother agreed and grabbed her heavy sweater that hung on the doorknob of her bedroom door. My sister, Vi, grabbed my snow suit jacket and started pushing my arms into it. Everyone was talking at once, about hearing sleigh bells. I didn't hear a thing.

     We rushed out the door and down the porch steps. They started looking up in the sky and pointing. I remember seeing bright stars overhead. "Look, there's Santy Claus," my brother yelled and was jumping like he always did when he got excited. My sister knelt beside me and my mother held my shoulders from behind me. "Do you see him, Irma Rose? Do you see him?" I didn't see a thing.

     But they insisted, and I wasn't one to give up even at age 5. I looked and looked, strained my eyes looking at black spaces between the stars.  "Look Irma Rose, it's Santy Claus, look right up there." And my sister gently turned my head a trifle and tilted my chin upwards. And suddenly I could see him. I saw him in his sleigh gliding across the dark sky. "Can you see him?" they asked and I nodded my head, too overwhelmed to speak.

     And then Santa was gone. Off to somewhere else to excite a family and bring wonder to the wee ones.  We walked toward the house, and as we climbed the porch steps, my mother stopped, and said, "Look Irma Rose. There's something in your boots." I looked and there was a flat package wrapped in white tissue paper with a red ribbon around it. My sister, Vi, took it out of my boot and handed it to me. "It looks like Santy Claus must have left you a present. You must have been a good girl this year."

     We walked into the house and Vi pulled my jacket off me. I sat down next to the hot air register and pulled the red ribbon off the package, and then I tore the tissue off. It was a book! It was an Uncle Wiggley book! I opened it, and started looking at the pictures. "I'll read it to you when you get ready for bed," Vi said.

And she did.

     I eventually outgrew Santy Claus and the next generation of my family let the St. Nicholas legend become only a memory. But when I tell it, it becomes a story.

Top Ten List - " I Know I'm Not Aging Gracefully When..."

    I've been trying real hard to age gracefully, but I just can't do it.

Oh, I age all right--just not gracefully.

     I try to be joyful about it, put on a happy face; I say aging doesn't matter; quote articles about how older people's brains work better in some instances than younger ones; how exercise, fiber, and pedicures keep one feeling sexy; how aged wine is quality wine; how other cultures revere the aged; how people grow wise, not old.

     But it's no use. I hate aging and never have been particularly graceful. I hate losing my figure, getting wrinkles on the back of my arms, psoriasis on my legs, breasts that look like pendulums, colorless hair, not being able to walk across the room without poot poot pooting six or seven times.

     I cannot deny my own behavior. Every 24 hours I'm reminded that now I'm a day older. Not wiser, not revered, not even graceful--no more "Master of my Fate;" no more "Commander of my Soul."  Since my body grows more ungraceful, how on earth can I say I'm aging gracefully? Who even suggested such a thing? It must have been some social worker who didn't want her clients to look so unhappy. "Gracefully," I can imagine her saying, "A real lady (or gentleman) ages gracefully."


Here's a Top Ten List I created:

 Ten Ways I Know I May Be Aging, But I'm Not Doing It Gracefully

• I may need a rolling walker; I order it and use it to fight my way through stores on Black Friday,
• I use my cane because I love style and bought it online at  fashionablecanes.com,
• I prefer to rest in the evening with a glass of wine to socializing at a church social,
• I play computer games all night and get my rest by sleeping all day,
• My favorite TV shows are nostalgic pieces like Mad Men, and Boardwalk Empire because they use "dirty" language and it helps me stay in touch with the younger generation,
• I accept dinner invitations not so I can be social but so I can bring home the leftovers for lunch the next day,
• I refuse to call cotton t-shirts "layers." I call them underwear because I'm cold and that's what my Mommy put on me when I was a little girl,
•  I cuss like a rapper after measuring myself for new clothes and discover my chest, waist, and hips are all the same size,
•  I substitute a bag of microwave popcorn for my veggies; after all, corn is a vegetable,
•  I write lists like this to get people to pay attention to me, an old lady.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING! 2010

    

     I wanted to write something holiday-ish this week for the Thanksgiving weekend. The ordinary thing to do would be to tell about my grandchildren's and step-son's upcoming visit and our plans, and I'm happy about spending the time with them, but it didn't seem interesting enough to be blogged.


     I thought about researching Wikipedia and writing some Interesting, but dull, facts about this first banquet the English settlers shared with the native Americans that has more legend in it than fact. Too common and ordinary!


     I mused about going to one of the photo sites and finding photos to create a slide show or a collage or something. While I was musing--I lift my chin sometimes when I muse--I noticed the turkey and roaster salt & pepper shakers I had added to my fireplace mantel Autumn decoration.

     See the little yellow and brown spot just to the center right of this picture of my fireplace mantel which is a very old chestnut log saved from a demolished local log cabin. That's a set of salt and pepper shakers belonging to my collection; I've been collecting since the 1940's. The long-barrel rifle hanging above the mantel is an antique Pennsylvania long-rifle dating to c.1820 that Rocky purchased in his teens in Delaware.The quilted pumpkin on the left was purchased in Jonesborough at this year's story festival. The cornshuck witch that you will see in the next photo was given to me by Rocky purchased from the Blue Ridge Folk Art Center near Asheville. Here's a better picture of the witch and the salt and pepper shakers.

     The roaster is one shaker and the turkey is the other. I still collect s&p's and have 350 or so. Many of them are known as novelty shakers, which makes sense since I was only 7 or 8 when my mother started me off with a little bride and groom that she had been given as a wedding gift and let me play with them in my doll house. A number of my early ones are chalkware which is a very fragile material and chips as easily as plaster. It is not a collector's choice because of this. Chalkware was used during the Second World War for novelty goods since metals and glass were restricted for war use. The turkey and roaster are ceramic. Plastic was not well developed until after the war.


     In the right-hand side bar are some photos of my other salt and pepper shakers which have something to do with our wonderful American thanksgiving legend although some of them are a stretch. For instance, the people look more Amish than Colonial, but they're all I had.  Mimi

The Wayne Project

     This is a picture of my friend, Wayne. He has been Rocky's and my friend for the past decade when he first attended a Tellabration! late in the '90's and then joined the Beaver Creek Storytellers. Rocky and I mentored him, but he is a naturally-talented storyteller. Shortly after, he attended a workshop in Bristol led by Gay Ducey. She was quite impressed with him, and encouraged me to keep encouraging him.

     Wayne crept into all members' hearts as he began to perform with BCS. For Rocky and me he became our trusted house and dog sitter when we traveled. He also helped us with yardwork, mowing the sides of our long lane, blowing off leaves, running the pressure washer, and planting bulbs etc. as we grew less able to do those things. Every tulip I now have was planted by Wayne who had never before, in all his life, planted tulips!

Tulips 2007

     But bad luck seemed to follow him, especially in his employment and health. He had several jobs that ended in lay-offs or company failure, but he finally settled into a low-paying job in the warehouse of a Christian publishing company in Johnson City. Then his health began to deteriorate once he developed adult diabetes and some other problems.

     A couple years ago, Wayne fell on his apartment house stairs and broke his ankle. He did not stay off it as he was told to do because if he didn't work, he didn't get paid and he needed the pay. The pain meds the doctor prescribed interfered with his clarity of thought and judgment, he neglected himself, and his wound became infected. He was hospitalized, but the wound continued to worsen and he ended up having his left leg amputated. 

Wayne in 2008-9?

     I encouraged him to apply for social security disability but, in his late '50's, he wanted to work and went back to the warehouse as soon as he could talk a doctor into letting him. His workplace gave him a scooter to ride, but his health just kept getting worse. Finally, last winter I knew he had been hospitalized again and could no longer work, but by Spring I couldn't find him in any of the hospitals or rehab centers to let him know Rocky was in serious condition.

     A few days after Rocky died, Wayne's son brought him to Castle Yonder; Wayne had been living with them for a short while. His daughter-in-law understood the health and social security system and had located a HUD apartment that was only 3 miles away from our house. Wayne had not been able to say "goodbye" to Rocky which bothered him a great deal.

     Since that time, Wayne has continued to be hospitalized off and on usually due to medication problems. He has been in rehab centers and nursing homes. But last month he was released back "home" to his apartment. I have discovered that I feel so much better if I am helping him out in some way. I have provided transportation for him, helped him shop for a car, taken him to the grocery store, shared groceries and meals with him. So many angels showed up during Rocky's ordeal to help us that now it feels good to be in the "angel" role, which is what Wayne calls me.

     Last week, Wayne was notified that his furniture that had been stored in a truck that belonged to his former work place 30 miles away had to be removed because the truck was to be sold. He was given last weekend to get it out. There was no way Wayne could do it, even with the help of his son over the weekend. I have a truck but it would have taken more than a few trips to Elizabethton and Wayne had access to no other labor.

So, Mimi came to the rescue. I paid for a U-Haul (Wayne hasn't been approved for SSI yet) and we drove it to the former workplace. Yes, Wayne can drive just fine even with an artificial leg. We lucked out and two of their employees unloaded the furniture from their truck and loaded it back into the U-Haul. Then the company was kind enough to let those two guys follow us back to Bristol where they unloaded some things at Wayne's, then brought the rest to Castle Yonder where my garden house and basement have become depositories.

     It is fine furniture, Thomasville and Bassett. The above photo is of a cherry sofa table, solid wood, reproduction Federal style, that Wayne gave me to reimburse me for my expense. He once worked for Thomasville in Johnson City and when they closed their business there, Wayne accepted his pay in furniture which he needed at that time. Unfortunately, a few pieces were damaged from being stored haphazardly in a truck-type van, which took away some of the joy of recovering it . But he'll get over it--with a little help from his friends and the angels in his life.

Wayne, on right; Pastor Robt. Rainwater on left.

My Grandson's Birthday

Chris Rockwell, my grandson who lives in Lynchburg, celebrated his 17th birthday on Nov. 10, last Wednesday. I had promised to drive over, but changed my mind about the driving because I've had two episodes of becoming extremely sleepy when I'm driving on the Inter-state. In fact, once I found my eyes closed and my head nodding and when I jerked upright, realized I had almost fallen asleep.

However, I really wanted to go because with Rocky being gone this year, I thought it very important to make a special day for Christopher. I had already given him my present, some money towards the car his family has just purchased for him. However, I had a special present of a pocket watch that had belonged to Rocky since 1952. It belonged to Rocky's father from 1902, and to his father before that. During the year before Rocky died, he showed the watch to me and told me to give it to Christopher. I had taken it to a jewelry appraiser who confirmed that indeed it was old and was in very good condition. In fact, he wound it and instructed us to look at the time 24 hours later and if it had not stopped and was on time, it wouldn't even need to be taken to a jeweler for cleaning or repairs. When we checked it the next day, it was accurate with my atomic watch. There was hand engraving on the front of the watch case that said "Merry Xmas '02."

So, not feeling secure enough to drive, I decided to take the Greyhound bus. It would leave at 9:30 a.m. on Wed. and arrive around 3:00 p.m. I planned to take Chris, and other family members out to dinner and spend the night there. My return bus wouldn't leave until 3:00 Thursday afternoon which meant I would have all morning to sleep late as I am wont to do, and have plenty of time to get to the bus station.

The most interesting thing about the trip was the wait at the Bristol bus station at 9:00 a.m. The station master was most accomodating and friendly. He let me park my car right in front of the bus station where it would sit overnight and it would be dark before I could pick it up again.The bus was one hour late. There were four passengers waiting, a female student going to Springfield Mass., a middle aged man from Abingdon going to Atlantic City, and a 20-ish woman going to New York City. The wait was tolerable since a good-sized group of musicians were playing bluegrass music in the adjoining room.

The bus stopped in Marion, Wytheville, and Roanoke. The stop in Wtheville was at a McDonald's which was the only place one could get a meal. The other stations had only snack and drink machines.
It also had a clean functioning restroom where the other station's restrooms were poorly maintained. In fact the bus stations themselves looked like a 1950's movie set with wooden benches separated into sections with wooden arms. I did not use the restroom that I was told was on the bus, so I can't report on it.

The ride was bumpier than I expected and there were no seat belts. There was room for two people to sit side by side, but there were so few people riding that everyone got two seats to themselves. As we got closer to the East Coast, however, more people got on. I really didn't notice until I boarded the return bus for Bristol on Thursday and had to go about 3/4 of the way to the back of the bus before I found an unoccupied seat.

My grandson picked me up at Lynchburg in his new car, a 2005 Jeep. It was immaculate both outside and in. I was so excited to see it and ride in it with him driving that I forgot to take a picture. I had not taken my Canon Power Shot so I had only my iPhone camera. When we got to their home, I gave him Rocky's gift of the pocket watch. No one else was home yet so we had some quiet personal time to ourselves. I had written out the history of the watch the best that I could remember so he will have written documentation of its history.

He helped me take my bags downstairs to his bedroom where I was going to sleep. He had done a great job cleaning it up and had even re-arranged his furniture and created a little "studio" for himself that he called his "office." Here's a picture of him sitting at his keyboard where he composes music for his trumpet.

He is a very talented young man and has a great passion for music. He was a really good Little Leaguer and had several parts in plays with a Lynchburg theatre arts group, but he has given all that up in order to follow his dream of becoming a musician and composer. He has spent two summers with the International Drum and Bugle Corps traveling and performing in many of the U.S. states and plans to tour with them again in 2011.

Chris, his sister Jessica, his mother Ann and I went out to dinner at a restaurant called Jimmy's-On-The-James. I slept well under bright yellow sheets and a black down comforter and was up by 10:00 the next morning. Chris had left for school, Jessica had gone to work at a restaurant, and Ann was meeting a client for coffee at Starbuck's. So I had some quiet alone time until Ann came home and then she and I went to lunch at the restaurant where Jessica works. That was fun to have her as our "server" and I left a big tip. Ann and I made a quick run to Chico's where I bought a dressy scarf and some earrings.

Then Ann took me to the 1952's bus station on time only to hear that once again the bus was running an hour behind. When it finally arrived, it was fairly full and half a dozen people were waiting to get on. There was still enough light for me to read and when we got to Roanoke I was able to find a seat closer to the driver where I had been advised to sit. Once again we stopped at Wytheville McDonald's for half an hour and I ate the first Quarter Pounder I'd had this year.

As far as traveling as an older woman alone with a majority of men as fellow travelers, as was the case returning from Lynchburg, as it got dark I became more aware of that fact than I had been in going over to Lynchburg. Overall, I observed that most of the young men simply ignored me, and the middle-aged and older men were perfect gentlemen. One man chatted with me while we waited to re-board the bus asking where I was going (he was going to Dallas) but did not try to sit near me or pay any attention once we had boarded.

A mature adult male of Spanish descent sat opposite me and one row ahead, and when he turned his overhead light on he got out a book and began reading. I could see that it was printed in two columns and had those little indentations to mark the chapters and I realized he was reading the Bible. Not many overhead lights came on. Most people dozed, a few chatted especially on the earlier bus trip (interestingly, about the government and politics).

Except for one instance, the women also ignored me. The exception was a lady who chatted a lot and had participated in the political discussions. She engaged me in conversation in McDonalds on Wed. She was on her way to Richmond.

So overall there were no unpleasant incidents, smells, or conversations. Even the restrooms smelled o.k., just the reminiscent odors of 1950's paint and tiles. I think if the Greyhound Bus Company wants to expand its services, then they ought to fix those restrooms up a bit and have more food available. The bus upholstery was clean and the seat protectors for the head looked very clean. There were no lap trays which would have been nice. The windows are very large and gives nice views. When the sun shone in, however, I noticed that the blinds had been removed so I was glad I had remembered to take my sunglasses.

Once I got home, compared to other trips where I'd done a lot of driving or flying, it didn't take me as long to recover. In fact I've been working on another project since I got home, and I'll tell you about that in my next post.

Mimi

The Egg And I

     Little discoveries are becoming the highlight of my day. I've been passing an odd house on the back road between Bristol and Abingdon for  months now that has a sign on the front fence post "Eggs For Sale." But the house is a wee bit intimidating because it looks so odd that I've never stopped. I don't know why the style of a house would intimidate me, but perhaps I irrationally thought that if I stopped at an odd house, I would be thought to be odd. Or maybe I expected odd people would welcome me, like the Addams Family. Saying that out loud doesn't make sense, but there has been some reason that I've never stopped.

   The house is odd because it's in the style of architecture developed by Buckminster Fuller; it's a geodesic dome. It sits close to a very traditional house on its one side. In fact, all the rest of the houses for 8 miles are Traditional homes, suburban ranches or southern colonial with faux columns. There's even one or two that could be called mansions with long tree-lined lanes leading to them. And there's an upscale Country Club just up the road with large traditional houses around the golf course. And mixed in with all that is the occasional farm that hasn't been sold for residential development yet and a couple small houses that have been there for at least 50 or 60 years. The geodesic dome sitting on a flat level plane that once was pasture land or a tobacco field clearly looks strange.

     However, I have grown so tired of store-bought eggs that seem to be growing more and more tasteless. Last week I friend two eggs because I hadn't had any for awhile and was hungry for eggs over easy, toast, and orange juice. All I could taste was the canola oil I had fried them in and maybe the salt and pepper. The yolk (the best part)had no taste and neither did the white. I was disgusted and that's when I decided I was going to check out the egg house.

     I did my errands in Abingdon and on the way back I turned into the lane with the sign that said, "Eggs For Sale." The driveway led me to the back of the geodesic dome where several trucks and cars were parked. There was also a golf cart and a gas grill. Clearly, active people lived here. 

     I remember growing up in small town Indiana. My sister was married to a farmer so we often got fresh eggs from her. But if her hens weren't laying, I guess hens take vacations,

we'd drive out to some farm to buy eggs from a nice country farmer's wife. So I remember what free-range eggs from free-range chickens taste like, and I hadn't had that taste in my mouth for a very long time.

     I knocked on the back door, and a very up-to-date woman answered. "Do you sell eggs?" I asked. "I sure do," she answered. "I want a dozen," I said without asking the price, "Oh, I'll take 18, a dozen and a half, if you've got them." She walked across the entry room and brought me a dozen and a half; she said her mother only takes half a dozen each week. Three dollars is all they cost me. I was delighted for buying; she was delighted in selling. We smiled at each other.

     Then we exchanged names and chatted a bit. We could see my lane from her back yard.

I told her I was a storyteller and she wanted to know where I told stories. (Everyone asks if I tell in Jonesborough, meaning the National Festival--I wish!) She gave me her e-mail address so I could put her on my mailing list for Bristol events--she said her daughter would love that.

     I drove away cheerfully! Not only had I bought a dozen and a half eggs, but I had met a new neighbor as well. I wondered how many other people have (not) stopped at that odd house. I was so glad I finally did.

     When I drove into my driveway, I felt like I should go in my house first and put on an apron--I was just that nostalgic for the days my mother and sisters and I would drive into the country to buy eggs.

     I carried them gingerly and all by themselves into my house. I opened the cardboard containers. The eggs were brown and large. I carefully removed one egg. I fried it in margarine and salt and peppered it. I flipped it over so I could make an egg sandwich for lunch. I laid two pieces of Arnold's harvest wheat bread on a small plate and put my gold and white beauty between the slices. I poured a glass of orange juice and put it all on a tray so I could eat lunch in front of the fireplace. The taste of my egg sandwich was wonnnddderrrfulll.  

     If you don't have a farmer's market near you, take a drive out into the country and don't be afraid of odd houses.  

Mimi

Antique Appraisals

     It was necessary for me to have an appraisal done on the antiques here in the house that are to go to my step-son Geoff when I am finished using them. So all summer I have been trying to find a Bristol appraiser and had two leads and neither one worked out. So I called the Ken Farmer appraisal company in Radford, Virginia and on Sept. 20 an associate of Ken's, Bob Miller, came to Castle Yonder and did an appraisal of 12 different items, mostly furniture.

     He did not have the expertise to appraise two musical instruments I have, a Gibson mandolin and a Gibson banjo. So we decided I should bring them to the fundraiser for the Bristol Public Library on Oct. 9, last Thursday, when Ken Farmer would be present who does have the expertise.

 Gibson Mandolin from around 1918 or so.

Gibson 4-string banjo, c. 1920's

     I need to send these photos to Ken Farmer and then he will give me a written appraisal of their value.
He will need to research them more fully in his Musical Guides which he did not have with him.

     I had a good time at the fund raiser. Because the instruments were bulky and awkward, I put them across the hand rails of my new rollater (a walker on wheels) and rolled them in. Jud Barry, the library's Director, carried them out for me and put them into the truck.

     I thought readers might like to see some of the things that were brought in by the public. There seemed to be a lot of art, some original, many prints, and a few engravings. There had been another session during the day so if it was anything like the evening session, some unusual items were appraised.

 A German WWII Uniform with medals and swastikas

 The audience gathers and compares items. Lots of stories!

Ken Farmer examines an old fiddle.

Bob Miller called this 1950's portrait done in oild "iconic American." 

 Bob Miller, a retired history teacher and lifelong collector, explains this original painting is done "en grise" French for "all in grey."

 Bob Miller shows an antique primitive locally made wall cupboard.

 Bob Miller holds a regional face jug. The face is applied in slip on the other side. Ken Farmer comments about its rarity.

Ken Farmer called this "the ugliest cookie jar." C. 1950-s, 1960-s.

Jonesborough Storytelling Festival, Day Two

     I managed to get to Jonesborough by noon, time to get a pizza slice and roll on over to the Library tent to hear Kevin Kling tell his stories "Chicken Soup For The Chicken." Kevin had a series of well-crafted tales of his search for courage, adventure, and self-knowledge. He has a wicked sense of humor (meaning it's sharp and on-target) so the audience is highly entertained but each vignette had an inspirational, but not sentimental, ending. I really enjoyed the whole hour and left with great admiration for this teller.


     I moved over to the College Street tent when Kevin finished to hear Andy Offutt Irwin in his program "Maybe He'll Get It Out Of His System." I'm sad to say I listened for half an hour and then left and moved back to the Library tent to hear the last half of Eth-Noh-Tec, "The Stories On Which We Stand." The subject was the story of three generations of a Chinese family in America and I'm happy to say it gave me some ideas about how to present my German-American family.

Saturday's audience waiting for Andy Offutt Irwin

     A few comments about Andy's program. I found it dragged, in spite of the laughs. This is only the second time I've heard Andy; the first time, he portrayed his Southern Aunt Margaret which I really liked and was disappointed this time when he told a nostalgic family story.

Andy Offutt Irwin playing his guitar for a sound check prior to his show.

    I want to add here some second thoughts about the Susie "Mama" Whaples stories I heard yesterday. A friend of mine and I compared notes today and she loved the same program that "Mama" did with which I had found fault. Where I thought it seemed like a comedy routine, my friend said she likes the "fast pace." So, it is all a matter of taste. My friend assured me that she has heard some of "Mama's" stories that she is sure I'd like. 


     I try to make only positive comments to storytellers because most of those who I come into contact with locally are amateurs and get easily discouraged. But I've decided "only" positive feedback can be a disservice to tellers who are already professionals. So I'm planning to be as honest as I can be, especially in the written words of a Blog, and share feedback that includes both the positive and negative with the understanding it is only my opinion as a listener and observer and I am certainly no professional storyteller or expert in any way. 


     I've been waiting many months to hear Jay O'Callahan tell his long story "Forged In The Stars," which he was commissioned to create for the National Space Administration. Somehow I had downloaded a recording of the story over iTunes during the summer. Yesterday I had an opportunity to chat with Jay and he told me that the final version which he was telling today was somewhat different. So I was very much looking forward to his show.

Jay O'Callahan speaks privately to M.C. Beth Horner

     One of the reasons his subject matter excited me so was because my family and I lived in Houston for seven years during the moon landing and early manned space flight. My ex-husband had been an electrical engineer who worked for a NASA subcontractor and his office was on the Space agency's campus in Clear Lake City. Several of our neighbors and many of our friends were involved with some aspect of the space flights. So, even though I had nothing to do with the space work, just being in the same locality and knowing a couple people who had important involvement gave me an emotional investment in NASA. 

Jay O'Callahan waits to be introduced.

     Jay O'Callahan's 80 minute story was amazing! The two main characters provide a love story complete with dramatic tension and an opportunity to combine science and imagination in dialogue including the history of the space flights. Jay's creativity and organized mind has been able to arrange his words in such a way as to totally engage and mesmerize the audience. Providing evidence for this is the fact the audience jumped to its feet at the conclusion and then applauded so long that Jay made three "curtain calls" back onto the stage. I wish you could all have been there.


     Here are a few pictures of people you may recognize, or not since some are just shots of audience members:

                            Connie Reagan Blake waits to M.C.

Charlotte Blake-Alston and Doug Elliott after Charlotte's performance.

Jim May with fan from audience

Friend Millie Sieber from Tennessee Storytelling Association

Paul Conco and Me

Sisters In Story, Norris Spencer, Me, Diana Conco

Jonesborough Storytelling Festival, Day One

     My red rolling walker (rollater) was a super help for me today at the Jonesborough Storytelling Festival. It did just what I'd hoped, gave me something to lean on and steady myself so I didn't get out of breath. We walked on asphalt, bricks, grass, sidewalk, and straw to get to the Library Tent.


     Because I had to go to the bank this morning, then get gas and a cup of coffee, I didn't get to Jonesborough until noon, but I stayed until a few minutes after 7:00 p.m.  I had arranged for a reserved parking place at a house just across from The Visitor's Center and down aways, so I was close to the two tents I wanted to go to and it turned out because of the programming, I had to alternate tents for all the sets. But that gave me the opportunity to do my daily exercise of walking and running into (not literally) good friends and acquaintances. 


     I'm amazed, however, at the multitudes of people I don't know and sometimes find out this is the first festival they've ever attended. It's the 23rd for me! Last year I wondered if I'd be able to continue attending. So I've been planning some kind of alternative transportation around the grounds. My cane is good for short distances, but wasn't doing the job for festivals. I thought about a power scooter, but with the doctor's order to walk daily, my "Red" friend is ideal.


     The first teller I heard was my good friend, Kim Weitkamp. This is Kim's first year there as a "New Voice." Her first set in which she told the potholder story and then sang a song about her father was terrific. She was energetic, she was fast paced, she appeared relaxed, and definitely enjoying herself. 


     Kim was followed by the storytelling icon, Kathryn Windham, who tells her age graciously as 92. She told a story about trying to downsize her home and her presentation was full of images that allowed me to "know" her and imagine how she lives. Kathryn is always able to draw people into her stories with seemingly little effort and afterwards you get the sense you've had an intimate visit with her.


     I changed tents to listen to Rafe Martin and Carmen Deedy. I heard Rafe Martin years ago and wasn't impressed by him and that continued today. I'd be happy to have him in my local guild because he can tell a fine story. It's just that he doesn't elicit the power, or excitement, that other national storytellers can achieve.


     Carmen Deedy is a different story, thankfully. I've known Carmen's work since 1996 and have hosted her in my home for a Barter Storyteller's event. The story she told was "Waltzing Hilda" which I've heard before, but I enjoyed it all over again. I haven't seen Carmen for several years so I stayed after and "Red" and I stood in a long line just to say "Hi." She said she had just found out that Rocky had passed away and was glad I had stayed to chat with her a moment.


     Then it was West Virginia's turn, our neighboring state, featuring Suzie "Mama" Whaples and Bil Lepp. Bil informed us that they were the only West Virginia storytellers to appear at a national story festival so far. "Mama" started out fine with a story about the West Virginia State Fair, but then it began to sound like a comedy routine, with a punch line coming after every few sentences. She has some wonderful body movements that are both girlish and charming and I hope she develops these and times them appropriately to enhance her presentation.  I enjoyed her set, but was conscious of these things I've mentioned. I also noticed she ran only 20 minutes, although she may have willingly given her time up so Bil could tell a story that ran over his half of the hour. 


     Bil's story was hilarious, as usual, about how he had met his wife, Paula which involved his first time riding a horse, which turned out to be a "devil" horse. It ended as a tall tale which kept up Bil's reputation and fame. He is one funny fellow.


     My day ended with the Exchange Place, a favorite session of mine because I often hear excellent tellers there and sometimes they go on to get a spot on the national stage.  In fact, Kim Weitkamp was an Exchange Place teller a year or so ago. Each teller represents his or her region of the country as they have been traditional divided by the storytelling organizations. I won't take time to review everyone's story, but my favorite was Hannah Harvey, who told a powerful and riveting story of a Virginia coal miner. She alone of all six tellers got a standing ovation.


     Here are a couple photos I took today with my iPhone. I am not satisfied with the quality of the pictures because, perhaps, my hands are not steady enough and there seems always to be a fuzziness to them. Of course it doesn't help that no photography is allowed during the performances, so most photo ops are of close friends with their arms around each other, someone posed with a featured teller, or in my case, of the audience.

Audience, the gentleman standing up in the background is Jay O'Callahan talking to a fan.

More audience in the College Street Tent

Programs over; let's go eat

(In my case, it was time to go home)

Peeking through shoulders in the row in front of me, take my word for it, it's Jimmy Neal Smith and Kim Weitkamp.