Words

"Words are but symbols for the relations of things to one another and to us; nowhere do they touch upon the absolute truth."  ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Words, we all use them.  Words, they help communicate our needs, desires, pleasure, disdain.  I’m using them right now to communicate with you, Dear Reader.  One of the greatest events I witnessed was my grandsons learning language through sign language before they could talk.  They were communicating with words before most children do much more than cry, point and try their darnedest to make their wants known.  If these two toddlers wanted something to eat or drink, they told me with words.  Exciting!

Sometimes our words run all over each other and at other

times we cannot find the words to express what we feel, need to communicate.  Relationships grow and change and fall apart (not necessarily in that order) through words as well as actions.  Some of us use a language with a set alphabet that is put together in ways to make words which we, who speak that language, understand.  One of the first pieces of knowledge I gained when I traveled to China was that with the Asian languages where a symbol represents a whole word, most people never learn all the symbols for their language.

So what do we do with our language made up with words?  One thing we can do is tell stories.  We can pass down family stories so that future generations know why Uncle Oscar wouldn't speak to his sister and she wouldn't speak to him for the rest of their lives.  How did our parents and grandparents meet and fall in love, or did they fall in love?  How did we come to be?

The folktales and fairy tales which are a large piece of our collective heritage are fun to learn and tell and retell and change a bit and retell again.  I learned how to do this at a young age.  Mom read many folktales and fairy tales to my sisters and me.  I retold them as best I remembered, while sitting in the rock garden, to my imaginary brother who never seemed to be around for Mom’s reading.  It was fun.  I corrected what I’d forgotten with the subsequent readings of the same tales.

Have I told you the absolute truth with my words? No, I have only told you my truth.

What do you use your words for? 

(Come back for the next installment which will include a story or two.)

If you found this post interesting or useful, please let me know by leaving a comment.  Your words will let me know that I am not just blowing hot air into the atmosphere.  Thanks.

Julie Moss © 2015

Q is for Queen

Queens like many women in the old tales play an important but secondary role.  They die off, they are step-mothers (with all the old connotations), they are not listened to, and in general are a bit superfluous.

Two of my favorite queens are the Queen from “The Lute Player,” of whom I spoke Saturday, and the Queen who outwits her husband the king by taking him with her.  There are various tales in which this happens; “The Basil Plant” from Chile is one.  I found it in Suzanne Barchers book, WiseWomen.  There is also “The Peasant's Clever Daughter,” which I have seen various places.  Here’s an internet link to “The Peasant's Clever Daughter.”

So both stories go that a clever peasant girl marries the king.  In “The Basil Plant” the girl’s one-up-man-ship is too much for the king to bear; so he feels he must marry her.  “The Clever Peasant Girl” answers the riddle: "Come to me not clothed, not naked, not riding, not walking, not in the road, and not out of the road, and if thou canst do that I will marry thee."  Once married the king tells his new wife to keep her nose out of his business.  But when she sees how he dispenses justice, she just can’t sit around doing nothing. 

 

Knowing she is behind the “tricks” being played upon him, the king plans to either send her home or burn her up.  But she is allowed to take with her “from the palace that which was dearest and most precious in (her) eyes” or to ask a favor.  In both cases the king is her choice.  He sees the wisdom of her actions and from then on she is either the one who dispenses justice or she helps with it. 

Not a bad way to get noticed.  The king couldn't very well ignore his queen and go on ruling himself if he died in the fire with her or stayed at her cottage for the rest of their lives.

P is for Play

Last spring about this time of the year, I was readying a story I have wanted to tell for years.  Kevin Cordi came to Colorado for the Rocky Mountain Storytelling Conference and offered a Master Class as well based on his Permission 2 Play philosophy.  The story – “The Lute Player.”

Kevin gave us permission to play with our stories.  First we told a piece of them to one or two others, taking turns.  Kevin asked leading questions to help us discover what we needed to play with in our stories.  We went on to tell other bits and pieces to other partners.

Finally Kevin asked for volunteers to let him show everyone who was attending how to dig deep into the story we had chosen to play with.  I was first and had no idea what to expect.  What I discovered in the early exercises was the fact that the queen’s journey as the minstrel boy was a very important part of the story which is usually glossed over to some extent.  So when the whole group helped me play, I was shown just how arduous and treacherous her journey was.

Back home, I thought about the story, the queen’s journey, the journey I've been on.  And then this winter I had the opportunity to tell the story to an audience.  The debut of my version of “The Lute Player.”  My debut as a storyteller for adults in my new community.

Here is a sampling of what I found storytellers have said about the queen’s journey in various versions of “The Lute Player.”

1.    The Queen traveled far and wide, disguised as a boy, playing her lute and singing as she went.

2.    The queen played her lute and sang her songs for anyone who would offer her a ride -- whether by caravan or ship, and after many months she reached the land of the evil lord.

Here’s my version after being given permission to play with the story:

She traveled about, as a minstrel boy, here and there, singing for her dinner and a place to lay her head.  At times she joined with other minstrels, but often she was alone.  She never revealed her identity.  Her travels were long and her travels were difficult.  Many people were mistrustful as she would not explain where she was going or why. 

Her clothes became worn and her skin brown, but still she traveled on.  And wherever she sang, people listened.  She sang of love and of longing.  She sang of flowers in the spring and cool waters to rest beside.  Those who listened never grew tired of her voice and commented that it was sweeter than a lark’s.   

Kevin’s workshop is now in book form, published by Ted Parkhurst.  Check it out!  Thanks Kevin!

L is for Libraries

I am a former librarian.  All the librarians I know would fit the mold of once a librarian, always a librarian.  Librarians worth their salt are standing on the threshold of freedom of information, barring the way when the censors show up and allowing the “common man” entrance.

And librarians are always sharing stories as there are so many, many stories in a library.  All the fiction books are stories of one kind and another.  Biographies are stories, as well; they’re just about real people.  When Mr. Dewey set up his system of classification, he placed the stories in the 800’s.  But the very best place to look for stories is 398.2, this is where the folktales, fairy tales, tall tales and all the other stories that represent our cultures reside.  Now, “Why?” you may ask, “are these stories, which are obviously not factual, placed in Customs?”  Because folktales and their ilk are our heritage.

In many of the libraries where I worked, the 398.2 section was large, containing both anthologies and picture books.  Some of the older anthologies were simply given the number 398, and many of the newer picture books had numbers added after the .2 to tell the origin of the story.

Next time you need a new story to tell, want to brush up on one you already know, find variants of various kinds take a trip to the library and check out the 398.2 section in either the juvenile or adult sections.  You just might find what you are looking for and a lot more besides!

K is for Kindness

What is better for our souls than a dose of kindness?  Does it matter whether we receive the kindness or give it?  What does story tell us about kindness?

Usually kindness is repaid in-kind.  The characters who treat others kindly are rewarded with an act of kindness as well.  Think of the Sir Gwain and Dame Ragnell.  Mufaro’s youngest daughter.  All the youngest sons who share their meals.  Old Pipes and the Dryad.  All these characters were repaid for their kindnesses with an act of kindness from the character they helped.

Have you heard of Old Pipes?  This is a story my mother read to me from Book Trails (the Red Books) which I later found again in an old book I pounced on at a library book sale, Story-Telling for Upper Grade Teachers, copyright 1918.  Frank R. Stockton is the author.

Old Pipes (called thus because his job is to pipe the cattle down from the hills each evening) lets a Dryad out of her tree where she has been imprisoned by the Echo Dwarf who is to echo back the sound of the pipes.  She repays him with a kiss that makes him 10 years younger.  He receives several other kisses and his old mother as well in return for his kindness.  

The next summer the Dryad is nowhere to be found as her winter tree was toppled in a wind storm.  But Old Pipes and his mother lived on.  

And Old Pipes piped the cattle down from the hills every day for many years.

H is for Hard Stories – Bluebeard and Mr. Fox

Some stories are easier to hear/read than others.  For me Bluebeard was exceptionally difficult to read; and yet I could tell Mr. Fox, a variation of Bluebeard, with no difficulty.  I believe part of the difference between the two stories was my introduction to each of them. 

 

Mr. Fox was a story on Connie Reagan-Blake and Barbara Freeman’s cassette tape, Chillers, which I acquired back in the 1980’s.  I heard Connie tell it in the bone chilling way she has.  It was my signature Halloween story while I was working at a High School and Middle School library. 

Bluebeard is one of the first stories Clarrisa Pinkola Estes puts forth in her book, Women Who Run with the Wolves.  My mother purchased the book for me at my request when it first came out.  I tried several times to read it and could not make it through Bluebeard without whimpering.  The first time the phenomenon occurred, I kept looking about to see where the whimpering came from.  When I realized it was me, I put the book aside.  I’m happy to say I finally made it all the way through the book two years ago, and I got a lot out of it.

Beside the fact that one story was heard, for the first time in a gathering of librarians, and the other was read by myself with no one else around; what is different?  Why was I able to tell one of them and could not even finish the other?

Perhaps it is the fact that in Mr. Fox, Mary is not married.  She is free to choose rejection and does.  The youngest sister in Bluebeard actually marries him and is captive in his castle.  Is that how I saw my marriage?  Was I a captive?  Did I deserve my fate?  As a younger woman, I thought I believed all that.  Now, as I was two years ago, I am wiser.

Our lives are reflected in the stories we tell and don’t tell.  Do you try to tell difficult tales?  

Lucky Me – Stories My Mother Told Me



Mom & Me

My mother, my mother told me stories, sang me songs and read to me every day when I was little.  She told stories about her life, her brothers and sisters, her mother and father.  She read fairy tales and folktales from a set of books we called the Red Books which were part of the deal when she purchased a set of encyclopedias when I was about three or four.  By the time I needed to use an encyclopedia they were pretty much out of date, but I still have the Red Books.

A few times when Mom told us, my sisters and me, folktales and fairy tales she made up little songs to put into the stories.  The one I especially remember is The Three Billy Goats Gruff and I use those little ditties when I tell that story.  I loved listening to Mom tell and read stories.  I wanted to remember the stories she told; so I retold them to my imaginary brother, his name was Bother, when he would come to visit me.

From http://www.bbc.co.uk/cbeebies/misc/stories/

I remember sitting in the rock garden overlooking the valley that was next to our rural Ohio home.  Brother lived in the Valley.  When I called, “Brother, come up!” sometimes he would be there, and I could practice telling Mom’s stories since he never seemed to be around when she told them.  Brother was a good listener.

My grandpa was an engineer for the gas company in Iowa.  The family moved a lot, and Mom told us stories about all the places she lived.  One I particularly remember is about when she and her older brother got in trouble for throwing crab apples at the trolley.  Her older brother taught her how to play basketball.  These were the olden days, remember, and girls played by different rules in basketball than boys did.  They couldn’t cross the line in the middle of the gym.  But Mom learned to play boys’ rules.  Basketball was a big deal in Iowa even back then.  Mom was on the Girls Basketball Team in High School.  The whistle blew a lot when she was on the court – every time she crossed that middle line!



Mom & Daddy

As we got older, Mom’s stories were sometimes about when she met my dad.  It was a blind date, but they weren’t dating each other.  Daddy’s sister went to the same Nursing School my mom did.  She volunteered her brother as a date for a dance.  Mom’s good friend did not have a date; so…  The day after the double date, Daddy stepped way out of his comfort zone and called Mom to see if he could take her out.  She said, “Yes,” and that was it.

Mom is gone from my life now.  It’s been a number of years.  But those stories she told me, read to me, and the songs she sang to me are still part of me.  They always will be! 

Happy Mother’s Day to my very first storytelling mentor – MY MOM!

 

Dreams Do Come True

          In the spring of 1969 as I filled out applications for teaching jobs, a difficult question for an eager young teacher-to-be to answer, “Where do you see yourself in ten years?” needed a special answer.  I loved my student teaching position.  I hoped I would love my first teaching position.  But where did I see myself in ten years?  Hmmm?

Tilton School 2nd grade



              Thinking long and hard I wrote, “I plan to write a children’s book.  In ten years I see myself as a children’s author.”  That dream did not come true.  For ten years later, I was the mother of a toddler with another baby on the way.  What I had done was tell stories to my second grade classes and obtain my master’s degree with a dual emphasis on library and media.  But still I wanted to write.

Preschool Story Hour

 

My son's birthday party.

           My children grew.  The volunteer task of holding the preschool storytime at our public library was offerd.  It was fun, I told stories, learned finger plays and silly songs.  All the children loved what we did and I became a minor local celeb.  But still I wanted to write.



Telling stories at Ortega Middle School

            My children grew.   They started school, I obtained a position as secondary librarian in a nearby school district.  I taught students how to find information.  We used Billy Joel’s “WeDidn't Start the Fire” as a fun way to start the freshmen on the road to scholarship.  The middle-schoolers learned research through History Fair and Science Fair.  And I introduced storytelling to these students, who loved it.   But still I wanted to write.

            My children grew.   They entered secondary school.  I became the elementary school librarian.  I was back with children’s literature!  I told stories and read the latest new books to children ages four through ten.  And I taught them how to find information.  The internet entered our lives – email, lots of information at our fingertips.  But still I wanted to write.

            My children grew.   They attended the colleges of their choice, graduated and started their own lives.  Now I was working only with the upper grades.  I still told stories and read new books to the students.  We learned research skills by making science booklets for the kindergartners and first graders.  The internet grew more sophisticated.  So the students and I together learned how to sift through the myriads of stuff to find just what we needed.  The principal directed me to help with the gifted and talented program.  My partner and I worked on reading, poetry, math, science, computer skills and storytelling.  The storytellers told their stories to the kindergartners and first graders and learned the joy that comes with sharing a story well-told.  But still I wanted to write.

Telling stories for my grandson's class.



            My children grew.   One started a family of his own; the other traveled around the world.  I retired and was privileged to spend nine months with my grandsons - singing songs, reading books and telling stories.  The oldest had his public debut while singing a story song with me to a group of other children and their parents!  And I was writing!

            Following an NSN sponsored trip to China with other storytellers and my daughter where we collected and shared stories, I began to research the story-gifts we had been given.  I told them and worked those stories into versions of my own.  I wrote the stories down and changed them as they changed with the tellings.  There were workshops about writing and books to read about publishing.  Then, oh then, I was ready to find a publisher.  Query letters went out, and my friend and fellow-traveler, Judith Heineman, introduced me to Ted Parkhurst of Parkhurst Brothers, Inc.  He was interested!  And now, very shortly the finished product will be ready and available.  I did write a book, a book not only for children, but also for storytellers and story-lovers.  My Dream Came True!