The old cabin sits hunkered down
Covered deep all round by snow.
No path is worn to the porch
Not does smoke curl from the chimney.
Not far behind, the unpainted barn
Has that forgotten, unkept look
As if folks had just wandered off
Leaving barn doors open, swaying in the wind.
Snow drifts deep into the barn
Deeper still on the broken down porch.
Snow covers porch swing and Maytag washer.
It banks high against the old screen door.
From the old dirt road it is a lovely scene
Drawing on memories of beloved times past.
Go closer, see the neglect and you almost hear the moan
Of a once loved, now... forgotten... home.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Lights in the dark
Some time ago I sat and spoke with a group about Appalachia, the folks back home, the way it used to be and what we all missed. Needless to say, it was sometimes emotional for all of us who lived in the mountains.
One by one folks who were not storytellers stood up to tell their stories from their childhood, from the hills. We all celebrated the hard times shard by many. We laughed at "off plumb" uncles and aunts that kissed folks right on the mouth to say hello!
We seemed to share a common bond of Grannies and Aunts who loved us, cared for us, slipped us a biscuit or tater in between meals as our bodies grew way too fast. Uncles that gave us our first pocket knife, taught us to hunt and fish.
Those coveyed up there fell in love all over again when one then another arose and spoke with tears in their eyes of lost loves from childhood, of those who wait for them on the other side of the Jordan, of rugged cabins stuck with determination on the side of a mountain.
Then came the story that stopped us all for ever so long in quiet reflections.
A dear woman rose carefully and told us she promised not to cry. She spoke of her life in Eastern Kentucky, of her Mama and Daddy and little sister, of her Granny who watched them during the day while her Mama went off to clean house and cook for the superintendent's wife at the coal company while her Daddy went deep into that mine to dig coal. She spoke with love about that Daddy who would walk out at night and get in the truck, careful not to rub the ever present coal dust onto his sweet darlin' as she sat beside him.
They would arrive home about the same time each night, hindered occasionally by snow or high waters after a hard rain that would swell the creek bed that was also the road for a good part of their journey.
Once home, her Daddy would take off his work clothes while her Mama boiled enough water for him to go on the back porch and wash the coal dust off. Hot water, rough washrags and Lava soap would leave his skin rough and red, but clean. It took that to get the dust out of his pores each night.
When her Granny would see the lights come on across the mountain, she would bundle both girls up, give them lard buckets filled with dinner, maybe fried chicken and biscuits in one, bowls of slowly cooked green beans with ham hocks, turnip greans, butterbeans, maybe a big bowl of fried taters in that other lard bucket, all carefully wrapped with wax paper so there would be no precious food spilled.
She and her sister would follow the path to home. The start of the trip was always easy, but after about 100 yards they would go down into the holler. Though the path was clear and wide, it always made them fearful. Those girls would cling tightly to each other as they walked, carefully holding the handles of their lard buckets. Every sound would make them jump. Yes, they were country girls, but as she said, "we were all girl". We all laughed at that.
She then broke her promise as she spoke of walking up the last rise in the holler. That was their favorite moment. That was when they knew they were almost home.
She said, "When we got to the top of that there rise we could begin to see the lights of home in the dark. We knew Mama and Daddy were there. We knew that if we called out they would come. We saw the lights in the dark and knew out short journey home was complete, that the dark and the holler were nothing to be afraid of. When we climbed that rise and saw those lights we felt safe, happy and loved."
We all helped her break her promise not to cry as she concluded, "Oh, if I could just walk that path again. That little holler wouldn't scare me anymore. I have been there and it is just a short walk. Don't y'all think my folks were cruel, we probably didn't walk more than a minute in that holler. We were just little girls goin' home."
She paused, turned and got a hankie out of her purse, "This is silly, cryin' like this, but I would give all I have to walk that path one dark night, just one more time, say goodbye to Granny with a hug and walk down into that little holler. I would run through them woods and up that hill just anxious to see the lights in the dark. I would run to the porch, hollerin' as I ran, Mama, Daddy, I am home, I am home and its supper."
Wouldn't all of us love to run back home just one more time, to the mountain we love, down the hollers and up the rise, to the memories we cherish, cryin' out, "I am home and its supper"?
One by one folks who were not storytellers stood up to tell their stories from their childhood, from the hills. We all celebrated the hard times shard by many. We laughed at "off plumb" uncles and aunts that kissed folks right on the mouth to say hello!
We seemed to share a common bond of Grannies and Aunts who loved us, cared for us, slipped us a biscuit or tater in between meals as our bodies grew way too fast. Uncles that gave us our first pocket knife, taught us to hunt and fish.
Those coveyed up there fell in love all over again when one then another arose and spoke with tears in their eyes of lost loves from childhood, of those who wait for them on the other side of the Jordan, of rugged cabins stuck with determination on the side of a mountain.
Then came the story that stopped us all for ever so long in quiet reflections.
A dear woman rose carefully and told us she promised not to cry. She spoke of her life in Eastern Kentucky, of her Mama and Daddy and little sister, of her Granny who watched them during the day while her Mama went off to clean house and cook for the superintendent's wife at the coal company while her Daddy went deep into that mine to dig coal. She spoke with love about that Daddy who would walk out at night and get in the truck, careful not to rub the ever present coal dust onto his sweet darlin' as she sat beside him.
They would arrive home about the same time each night, hindered occasionally by snow or high waters after a hard rain that would swell the creek bed that was also the road for a good part of their journey.
Once home, her Daddy would take off his work clothes while her Mama boiled enough water for him to go on the back porch and wash the coal dust off. Hot water, rough washrags and Lava soap would leave his skin rough and red, but clean. It took that to get the dust out of his pores each night.
When her Granny would see the lights come on across the mountain, she would bundle both girls up, give them lard buckets filled with dinner, maybe fried chicken and biscuits in one, bowls of slowly cooked green beans with ham hocks, turnip greans, butterbeans, maybe a big bowl of fried taters in that other lard bucket, all carefully wrapped with wax paper so there would be no precious food spilled.
She and her sister would follow the path to home. The start of the trip was always easy, but after about 100 yards they would go down into the holler. Though the path was clear and wide, it always made them fearful. Those girls would cling tightly to each other as they walked, carefully holding the handles of their lard buckets. Every sound would make them jump. Yes, they were country girls, but as she said, "we were all girl". We all laughed at that.
She then broke her promise as she spoke of walking up the last rise in the holler. That was their favorite moment. That was when they knew they were almost home.
She said, "When we got to the top of that there rise we could begin to see the lights of home in the dark. We knew Mama and Daddy were there. We knew that if we called out they would come. We saw the lights in the dark and knew out short journey home was complete, that the dark and the holler were nothing to be afraid of. When we climbed that rise and saw those lights we felt safe, happy and loved."
We all helped her break her promise not to cry as she concluded, "Oh, if I could just walk that path again. That little holler wouldn't scare me anymore. I have been there and it is just a short walk. Don't y'all think my folks were cruel, we probably didn't walk more than a minute in that holler. We were just little girls goin' home."
She paused, turned and got a hankie out of her purse, "This is silly, cryin' like this, but I would give all I have to walk that path one dark night, just one more time, say goodbye to Granny with a hug and walk down into that little holler. I would run through them woods and up that hill just anxious to see the lights in the dark. I would run to the porch, hollerin' as I ran, Mama, Daddy, I am home, I am home and its supper."
Wouldn't all of us love to run back home just one more time, to the mountain we love, down the hollers and up the rise, to the memories we cherish, cryin' out, "I am home and its supper"?
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Postcard Marketing
A while back I wrote several blogs about the best marketing tool a performer can have… a business card. I carry cards with me anytime I am out and hand them to others constantly.
There is another card to be played in a winning marketing hand. It too is inexpensive and easy to use. I am talking about the postcard, of course!
As I mentioned before, I use vistaprint.com for most of my printing needs and postcards are no exception. There are several other good online companies that you may choose to use to order postcards.
I use postcards in place of brochures much of the time. Brochures in smaller quantities run about $1.00 on vistaprint. Postcards about 7 cents. This is a no brainer.
A lot can be said on a two sided postcard. I personally don’t use color on the backside, black and white printing is usually free, but it really doesn’t increase the cost much if you choose to do a color backside.
Full color postcards are often on sale at vistaprint with the first 100 free or significantly discounted. The last cards I ordered cost about 7 cents each. Combine that with 28 cents postage for a total of 35 cents per mailed postcard or $35 per hundred.
Important note! Postcards are not a part of a broad marketing plan for me. I tend to start with e-mail which is free or very low cost to do mass contacts. Postcards are used for specific projects and/or specific mailings to a limited group.
The front side – in color is the hook to get the attention of your designated audience. The backside allows you to give more information. If you want to know how clean your mailing list is, be sure to include your return address on the backside. If you know the list is clean, save that room for copy and forget the return address.
Pay attention to font size. You may be able to use a size 4 font and get a ton of information on the back of a postcard… BUT NO ONE WILL BE ABLE TO READ IT!!! Limit the content to a reasonable amount and use a decent sized font.
Keep it brief. Make the point you want to make and point the recipient to your website or blog. I prefer to have my website address on both sides of the postcard.
Include your phone number! Make it visible and easily found.
Want to add more information or send an additional note? Find envelopes that fit your postcard. Use the address area to write a note or add info. You would be surprised how cool it is to open an envelope and pull out a full color postcard!
If your printer can print on postcards, don’t use labels. Stack them and print the address on each card. If you have a small number to send, consider hand addressing them. If you need to send a large number, consider the invisible labels.
The oversized postcards are nice, but the mailing cost is 44 cents, the cost is higher and averages about 60 to 65 cents each. Almost double the cost of a standard card. For a special event or program they are neat. You can also get envelopes to fit them and you have more space to write in the address area.
I have several postcards I am using at present. I redesign the postcards to fit specific needs and order limited quantities so the messages stay fresh.
The great thing about postcard marketing… you can try it without major expense!
Friday, October 08, 2010
Jonesborough Friday
Cousins,
Friday started as I shared breakfast with folks in the Retreat Center. We talked at length about who we wanted to see and hear. The drive to town was slow and filled with anticipation as I pushed through heavy mists and seemed to come out of the past and into today. I parked in the lawn of a cool gentleman and we talked for a while. I crossed the tracks and walked through Jonesborough, snuck in a few shops and made my way to the tent where Corrine Stavish and Kathryn Windham were to tell. I was not disappointed in making this my first tent of the morning. Both were funny and caught the audience by the heart.
I always make the tent where Kathryn Windham will tell my first. I don't know how many time I will get to hear her, so I make it my mission to hear her ASAP. The neat thing is I renewed my membership to NSN that day and received a CD of tellers from past Festivals. It had an earlier version of her Scooter story on
it. I listened to it as I traveled home and the contrast was interesting. The early one was awesome, the current one she told on Friday was just as lovely. Different, from an older Katherine, but just as good.
Several years ago Chuck Larkin told me I spent too much time in the tents. I followed his advice over the weekend, shared that advice with my friend Ellouise and heard those I wanted to hear and spent time on a few benches, visiting with friends, meeting folks, greeting folks, making contacts. I had 6 walking sticks
I made and shared them as gifts with several friends along the way. In some ways those are my favorite memories.
Kevin Kling was terrific, Bil Lepp... gotta love a tall teller! I heard a woman talking on the phone about Bil. She told someone they would like him, she wasn't sure if he was a stand up comedian or a storyteller. I wanted to tell her a comedian doesn't tell stories. Bil is a storyteller.
Carmen Deedy, Andy Offutt Irwin, Michael Parent (who looked thin) and my sartorial hero and role model - Donald Davis. Oh my, what a story about his Mama and pimento cheese. I will always think of him when I have a pimento cheese sandwich. (wait, was this when I heard him Friday or Saturday?)
The exchange place was electric! Nothando Zulu told a Langston Hughes story that just took hold of me and wrung me out. Whew!
Our own Jeff Gere, what can I say? I thought I was animated! Give me a double gallon dose of habanero sauce with itching powder as a chaser and I might be able to match him. His story of a homeless woman who stopped the world... and a bulldozer kicked backside.
Afterward I accepted a gracious invite from Megan Hicks, met some great folks, talked about the Viet Nam draft and being of a "certain age". I was able to visit with Mary Hamilton and Charles Wright around the table also. It was over way too soon.
I made my way back, down the quiet roads with no sound but the engine, re-hearing and remembering the day and the stories. I rode with windows down, my hair that is too long blew in the wind as I remembered the conversations around Megan's table about our youth. I felt my hair go every way in the world,
remembered when my hair was longer, darker, almost black... stories and friends made me forget today and for a moment, just a moment I knew I and my stories and the stories I heard that night would live forever.
Friday started as I shared breakfast with folks in the Retreat Center. We talked at length about who we wanted to see and hear. The drive to town was slow and filled with anticipation as I pushed through heavy mists and seemed to come out of the past and into today. I parked in the lawn of a cool gentleman and we talked for a while. I crossed the tracks and walked through Jonesborough, snuck in a few shops and made my way to the tent where Corrine Stavish and Kathryn Windham were to tell. I was not disappointed in making this my first tent of the morning. Both were funny and caught the audience by the heart.
I always make the tent where Kathryn Windham will tell my first. I don't know how many time I will get to hear her, so I make it my mission to hear her ASAP. The neat thing is I renewed my membership to NSN that day and received a CD of tellers from past Festivals. It had an earlier version of her Scooter story on
it. I listened to it as I traveled home and the contrast was interesting. The early one was awesome, the current one she told on Friday was just as lovely. Different, from an older Katherine, but just as good.
Several years ago Chuck Larkin told me I spent too much time in the tents. I followed his advice over the weekend, shared that advice with my friend Ellouise and heard those I wanted to hear and spent time on a few benches, visiting with friends, meeting folks, greeting folks, making contacts. I had 6 walking sticks
I made and shared them as gifts with several friends along the way. In some ways those are my favorite memories.
Kevin Kling was terrific, Bil Lepp... gotta love a tall teller! I heard a woman talking on the phone about Bil. She told someone they would like him, she wasn't sure if he was a stand up comedian or a storyteller. I wanted to tell her a comedian doesn't tell stories. Bil is a storyteller.
Carmen Deedy, Andy Offutt Irwin, Michael Parent (who looked thin) and my sartorial hero and role model - Donald Davis. Oh my, what a story about his Mama and pimento cheese. I will always think of him when I have a pimento cheese sandwich. (wait, was this when I heard him Friday or Saturday?)
The exchange place was electric! Nothando Zulu told a Langston Hughes story that just took hold of me and wrung me out. Whew!
Our own Jeff Gere, what can I say? I thought I was animated! Give me a double gallon dose of habanero sauce with itching powder as a chaser and I might be able to match him. His story of a homeless woman who stopped the world... and a bulldozer kicked backside.
Afterward I accepted a gracious invite from Megan Hicks, met some great folks, talked about the Viet Nam draft and being of a "certain age". I was able to visit with Mary Hamilton and Charles Wright around the table also. It was over way too soon.
I made my way back, down the quiet roads with no sound but the engine, re-hearing and remembering the day and the stories. I rode with windows down, my hair that is too long blew in the wind as I remembered the conversations around Megan's table about our youth. I felt my hair go every way in the world,
remembered when my hair was longer, darker, almost black... stories and friends made me forget today and for a moment, just a moment I knew I and my stories and the stories I heard that night would live forever.
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Jonesborough & The National Storytelling Festival
Cousins,
I left for Jonesborough early Thursday morning. I was up at 4:30 am and getting
ready since I was too excited to sleep. It had been 3 years since I had been to
the Festival and I was ready. The trip is always cool for me since my Hollen/Holland family
moved into that area in about the 1760s. As I drive around the area I recognize
towns and names that have importance to our history and wish I knew those
ancestral stories better.
I arrived, registered and went to the little Methodist camp I stayed at, settled
in and enjoyed the mountains for a while. I could have stayed and listened to
the little creek behind my cabin forever. The tall pines cast a dampness all
round and it seems the mist never rises in the holler where I was.
Back in town I wandered a little, looking at the preparations, thinking already
about who I wanted to hear, who I hoped to see, friends I wanted to run into. I
stopped and looked at Doc McConnell's Medicine Show wagon (not only nostalgia,
but also to get ideas to build myself one) and was reminded that his family were
to donate it to the ISC on Saturday morning. I made a note to be there.
It started to rain a little and i decided to find a place to eat... found a
Chinese buffet and snuck in. Before I finished a storyteller friend, Eric also wandered in and
we sat and shared a meal and talked of many things. Eric and I live maybe 12-15
miles from each other here and it is cool he was the first person I connected
with. We talked of many things, shared our opinions and enjoyed the conversation.
Thursday night rain sent me back to the camp and into that little holler. I sat
on the small porch with my harmonica and played a while, listening to the
rambling creek, the drips of rain that eventually found their way through the
thick pine canopy and the wind that danced with the trees.
I sat and thought of staying with Chuck Larkin in that very cabin several years
ago - his last Festival. I thought of the tellers we have lost over the past
few years and the legacy they left. For a while I felt so very old (at 57) as I
thought of friends that have gone.
Enough of the melancholy, I thought and went to bed. Life is grand, happiness
is like moonshine and I am in Jonesborough! Excited about the morning, about
seeing friends, hearing stories... starting a new adventure in my life!
I left for Jonesborough early Thursday morning. I was up at 4:30 am and getting
ready since I was too excited to sleep. It had been 3 years since I had been to
the Festival and I was ready. The trip is always cool for me since my Hollen/Holland family
moved into that area in about the 1760s. As I drive around the area I recognize
towns and names that have importance to our history and wish I knew those
ancestral stories better.
I arrived, registered and went to the little Methodist camp I stayed at, settled
in and enjoyed the mountains for a while. I could have stayed and listened to
the little creek behind my cabin forever. The tall pines cast a dampness all
round and it seems the mist never rises in the holler where I was.
Back in town I wandered a little, looking at the preparations, thinking already
about who I wanted to hear, who I hoped to see, friends I wanted to run into. I
stopped and looked at Doc McConnell's Medicine Show wagon (not only nostalgia,
but also to get ideas to build myself one) and was reminded that his family were
to donate it to the ISC on Saturday morning. I made a note to be there.
It started to rain a little and i decided to find a place to eat... found a
Chinese buffet and snuck in. Before I finished a storyteller friend, Eric also wandered in and
we sat and shared a meal and talked of many things. Eric and I live maybe 12-15
miles from each other here and it is cool he was the first person I connected
with. We talked of many things, shared our opinions and enjoyed the conversation.
Thursday night rain sent me back to the camp and into that little holler. I sat
on the small porch with my harmonica and played a while, listening to the
rambling creek, the drips of rain that eventually found their way through the
thick pine canopy and the wind that danced with the trees.
I sat and thought of staying with Chuck Larkin in that very cabin several years
ago - his last Festival. I thought of the tellers we have lost over the past
few years and the legacy they left. For a while I felt so very old (at 57) as I
thought of friends that have gone.
Enough of the melancholy, I thought and went to bed. Life is grand, happiness
is like moonshine and I am in Jonesborough! Excited about the morning, about
seeing friends, hearing stories... starting a new adventure in my life!
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