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A Meditation

October 14, 2018

autumn

There is a trickling of time in my life,

A cascading mountain stream of moments

That connect each spring and fall,

Each blossoming and harvesting.

What will be the colors of my flowers

Come next Beltane time?

The answer lies in the ways

That I now prepare the soil

Of my inner garden,

And in how lovingly I water the seeds

From summer’s fruit.”

Danaan Perry

 

 

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What’s In A Name?

September 15, 2018

What's in a name

A while ago, I was squirreling around trying to think up words to use as passwords for my computer files. I stumbled upon some foreign words for “storyteller”. A-hah, I thought – and began looking up others – and the curious words brought back memories; images of tellers I’ve seen and experiences I’ve had. The strange thing was – sometimes… the cultures and the tellers/experiences did not match.

KADHAAB: the Arabic word brought back a teller from Cameroon in Central West Africa. A college professor in Cameroon, he came to a storytelling institute I held in the capital city of Yaounde. When he walked into the hotel room, he was quiet, composed… his clothing and demeanor very professorial…very Western – until he got up to tell. Suddenly he had on a large, multi-colored cape – and he was dancing and leaping about the room, creating loud, rhythmic calls and responses, and bringing his audience of teachers from five African countries to their feet, laughing and clapping and shouting. Suddenly the walls of that hotel vanished and we were in a village with a fire blazing, dogs barking, children dancing, and the beaming faces of the villagers reflected in the firelight.

CUENTISTA: the Spanish word created a picture of a young Mexican man who was doing some yard work for me. We got to chatting one day and he told me – shyly – about his new infant daughter and how he sometimes sang Spanish songs and lullabies to her at night. I was pleased – and told him so. We talked a bit about the importance of sharing our cultural heritage with our children. As we talked, I could see him sit up a little straighter; speak with more confidence – and I was glad. Sometimes, what we do as storytellers has little to do with performance….

SUTORITERA: the Japanese word conjured up a tiny Japanese-American teller re-creating the famous tale of “The Crane Wife”. I have told this tale myself – many times – but never the way she did…. Soft-spoken and still, she created the unbearable tension of this gentle, sad tale with powerful pauses and exquisite hand gestures.

CONTEUSE: the French word brought to mind a Canadian teller I saw in Vancouver BC at a national festival. She was telling a rollicking folktale – in French – and I was trying – mightily – to follow along. I remember the rush when I finally was able to nail an entire phrase or sentence! But, at the end, when I was clapping and hooting with the others, I realized that it didn’t matter that I’d lost at least half the words. I had still managed to participate; to be a part of the telling of the story.

I am humbled to be part of this world; to stand shoulder to shoulder with storytellers and their stories from all over the world.

Visit 2018

August 26, 2018

Who is this child-woman in my house? She bears scant resemblance to the kid I once knew.

The child squeaking out “Hot Cross Buns” on her sax in my dining room is now a confident member of her high school marching band.

The little girl timidly stirring a steaming pot is now stirring, pouring, and putting lids on delicious jams.

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The kid who couldn’t find what percent 7 is of 35 – now looks it up on Google!!

But some things are still the same: the giggle, the disapproving look as she stares at me and then – “Oma!”, the impulsiveness, the raucous laugh – and gentle spirit.

Time passes… and as she gets more energy – I get less. But it’s OK, because we make the necessary allowances for one another. “Oma, you’re tired. You should go to bed” Good advice. So I can be ready for the excitement of tomorrow.

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The child who was (and still is) squeamish about bugs can now watch surgical operations at the vet clinic where she is shadowing this week – without a flinch. She has wanted to be a vet since she was six. Of course, goals can change…but my bet is that this one won’t.

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We’ve traveled together: rode horses in Arizona (god, it was hot!), visited a wild wolf preserve in Oregon, walked the Capilano Suspension Bridge in BC, and flown kites on beaches in two states.

And it’s grand – really grand – to know that now, years later, we still share many of the same interests, can teach one another new things, and – sometimes – laugh uproariously at the same joke!

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Kids and History

August 5, 2018

Road Scholar July 2018 (2)

“Wind up the Apple Tree – hold on tight!     Wind it all day and wind it all night!”

Fourteen giggling kids ages 9 – 13 formed a line – tallest kid to shortest – and proceeded to wind themselves up. They were playing a game that pioneer farm children who lived in this place many years ago might have played. The kids – and their grandparents – were part of an Inter-Generational Road Scholar program that was exploring Whidbey Island. As a presenter/performer, I was introducing them to Ebey’s Landing, the Ebey family and life as a pioneer.

That morning at the motel, they learned a bit about Rebecca Ebey and her long trek from Missouri to Whidbey with her two sons, Eason and Ellison, in 1851. They learned that over 120 years later, many of the lands, farms, and forests of those early pioneers were preserved: at Ebey’s Landing. Later, we played Cat’s Cradle and taught each other string tricks and fooled around with simple wooden toys that Eason and Ellison may have whittled and then played with. Then, we took a bus out to the Reserve.

It was a beautiful sunny day and the wind off Admiralty Inlet wasn’t too strong. As we walked along the trail to the Jacob Ebey Farmhouse, I talked a bit about Whidbey Island farming – then and now. Did they know that Whidbey Island – back in the 1920’’s – produced more wheat per acre than any other place in the US? That- today- 50% of the world supply of cabbage seed is grown right here? The grandparents were suitably impressed; the kids were busy chasing one another and goofing off. But everyone listened as I described the back-breaking work of clearing the land and the fears that first winter when the potatoes froze.

Then the mood changed as I taught them the game. They looked a little foolish, but I could tell they were game. The grandparents joined in the singing as the little line wound up tighter and tighter…

Road Scholar July 2018 (3)

“Stir up the dumplings —  the pot boils over!”

Laughing and lurching back and forth, the kids unwound themselves – and managed to keep the line intact. Their grand-parents and I applauded.

We finished the session with a group shot on the steps of Jacob’s farmhouse. As cameras clicked and kids tried out silly poses, I thought about Jacob Ebey. His wife Sarah bore him twelve children, but only seven made it into adulthood. I could almost imagine him peering out the window at this bunch – with a big smile on his face.

Road Scholar July 2018

Ray

July 26, 2018

 

 

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It was an early fall day as we wound up Old Mountain Road to the top of Beech Mountain in North Carolina. I was a novice storyteller living in nearby Jonesborough, TN; I was on my way to meet a legend.

At my first National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, I had become vaguely aware of an old man, a traditional teller, who had – along with others – started this festival. People said he came every year. I quickly found out it was true; he had performed every year – for 30 years. He had also received a Heritage Fellowship Award from the National Education Association in Washington DC and been written up in newspapers and magazines from Los Angeles to New York. I was more than a little intimidated.

As we climbed the mountain, I remembered hearing stories about how Ray sometimes “schnookered” visitors. A Yankee reporter would stop his car and ask where Mr. Hicks lived. Ray would smile…”over yander” – and the duped driver would continue on up the road. By that time, as a gullible Yankee, I’d been schnookered a few times myself….

When we reached the house, firewood was stacked all the way around the porch. Inside, there was no greeting; Ray was in the middle of a story. He sat in an old upholstered chair near an ancient wood stove. The floor was bare planks. After a few head-nods and smiles, I sat – and listened. His speech was so strange. An anthropologist once said that George Washington and Daniel Boone would have recognized it. I had a little more trouble. But gradually, I was drawn in, fascinated by what I was witnessing. At funny moments, his face would crinkle up with glee – and he’d laugh with us. This was FUN!

At one point, I wandered into the kitchen. Ray’s wife, Rosa, was drying apples. As she put yet another huge tray of apple slices on top of the old wood stove, we talked. Bundles of herbs hung in every corner of the room. We went into the spring house and she showed me her preserves. Then she dipped a tin cup into the water and handed it to me. I will never forget the taste of that ice-cold spring water.

Later, in the car, in hushed tones, I talked about what a unique experience it was. “I’ve just witnessed a piece of living history!” Jim, the driver, nodded. He’d heard it all before. But for me, that afternoon was so special… a gem I would hide away inside me to keep…forever.

For the next three years at the festival, I always went to Ray’s tent early – to be sure and get a seat. In between, I read every Jack Tale (the stories Ray told) I could get my hands on. Bit by bit, I began to really understand; I even got the jokes! Each year, Ray would sit – in a brand new pair of overalls – onstage in his chair… and 800 people in that tent listened. He was kind and generous and funny – and utterly genuine.

I have a souvenir from those times – a buckeye nut. In Tennessee, the saying goes that if a friend gives you a buckeye nut, you must keep it always and never lose it. The nut is kind of bumpy and old and worn – just like the man who gave it to me. Both Ray and his wife, Rosie, are gone now. But I will never lose that nut…not ever.

                                                                          Rosa, Ray, Jill Johnson 1

 

Jacob and Me

June 24, 2018

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This handsome farmhouse, caught between two shafts of light on soltice eve was built over 150 years ago by Jacob Neff Ebey. Jacob and I have more than a nodding acquaintance with one another: Isaac Ebey was his son and Rebecca Ebey his daughter-in-law. In my show, “Rebecca: the story of Rebecca Ebey”, Jacob played an important supporting role.

Like so many of those early pioneers, Jacob moved around – a lot. Born in Pennsylvania, he married Sarah Blue and moved to Ohio. There, he and Sarah had eight children- five of whom survived to adulthood. Isaac was his second child and first son. In 1831 the family moved to Illinois. There, in the Black Hawk War, Jacob was a captain in the same battalion as a young lawyer named Abraham Lincoln. Then, in 1840, they moved again – to Missouri. Finally, following his son Issac west, Jacob and the remainder of the family joined him here on Whidbey in 1854.

The Aebi family can be traced back to the 13th Century in Switzerland. Theodorus Durst Eby, Jacob’s first American ancestor, settled in Pennsylvania – and the land he tilled is still being farming by the Amish… strange to consider as I look out on Jacob’s alfalfa fields. Those fields of Jacob and his son, a rich panoply of brown and yellow and green, are still there – thanks to Ebey’s Landing, the 17,000 acre preserve created in 1978. Third and fourth generation descendants of Central Whidbey’s pioneer community still farm some of those lands.

Jacob and Sarah named their farm – right next to their son’s land claim – Sunnyside. He didn’t have much time to enjoy it; he died on February 24, 1862 only four years after it was built. His younger son, Winfield, wrote in his diary: “This is a day of sorrow and mourning. Our dear Father died…. I shall feel very lonesome I know…. I have so long been with him.” By the time Winfield died three years later, the Ebey family had lost so many: Jacob and Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca and their daughter, Hetty, and Isaac and Winfield’s sister, Ruth. Overcome with grief, Jacob’s oldest child, Mary Ebey Bozarth, created the beginnings of the Sunnyside Historical Cemetery, located on Jacob’s claim. Eventually all the Ebey family grave sites were moved to this spot and remain there today.

I have been to those grave sites many times, stood beside them, read the names, and thought about this family that- through research and imagining- I have come to know. They are like old friends – Jacob and Sarah and Isaac and Rebecca and the others. I picture Jacob: the farmer, the old warrior…bearded…sturdy and strong. The farmhouse reflects the man: simple yet beautiful. I am so glad it is still here.

Berte Olson is back!

May 24, 2018

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