I'm from...........

Recently I have become a huge fan of Minton Sparks.  She is a spoken word artist here in the Nashville area.  Last year she was the main attraction at the Midnight Cabaret of the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough. She's a poet, a storyteller, buck dancer, and has a wonderful guitarist, John Jackson, who accompanies her. I've never seen anything like her in the storytelling world I live in.  She makes me laugh and sometime her humor is so poignant it takes my breath away. Here's the link to the website. http://www.mintonsparks.com

One of Minton's most loved pieces is "Where are you from?"  This morning I woke up with part of this piece in my head and this blog is my attempt to describe where I am from.  

 I'M FROM........

I'm from people of the mountains; quiet people who don't let you inside 'em for a long time.

I'm from rural country with muddy roads that go nowhere or to a lonely shack.

I'm from Minnie and Ewing, Issac, and Edward, Phrona, and Dona. Seventeen aunts and uncles who came and went out of my life.


I'm from hog killings, chicken butchering, cattle dehorning, bull castrations, and bee keeping. I learned biology and animal anatomy before I knew my own anatomy. 


I dodged spittoons, ambeer, pork and bean cans, and Aunt Ruby's spit that could travel 6 feet. I know Days Work and Garrett's Snuff and the feel of spittle on my hands from chewing 'tbacker'spills.


I'm from illiterate, fist pounding, Bible waving, foaming at the mouth preachers screaming scripture and ignorance in my face. I'm from February baptisins' in frozen creeks and ice clinging to my pure white dress pinned between my legs. I'm from preachers who knew a woman's place and when on the road for revival meeting visited those wet, warm places.


I'm from Aunt Ruby who loved me like her own and helped me forgive my Mama when she "didn't know no better!"


I'm from green, thick mountains that change clothes ever season; mountains where rugged, dirty people survived a cruel civil war and then family feuds.  The Hatfields and the McCoys are in my bones along with the Greene - Jones feud from my own ancestors. Folks fightin' so long they almost forgot what they were fightin' agin.


I'm from clapboard schools built by the WPA, three rooms, three teachers, a coal pile and two outhouses and still I know the capitals of all the states, the order of the presidents, and the love of folks like FDR and Eleanor who thought we were something. 


I'm from mountain creeks filled with leeches, minners, smooth rocks and skinny naked kids. Creeks now full of toilet paper, plastic milk jugs, refrigerators, pesticides, coal bi-products and blown away hillsides from strip mining.


I'm from runnin' shine in muscle cars, meth labs, oxycotton addiction, and good people who say, "There ain't nothing you can do about it."

I'm from Ewing who told his youngins they could make it in a larger world if they got educated, tried and left the places where they had learned to survive one kind of life. Ewing, who could not escape himself because his wife could not imagine a bigger world than she knew.


I'm Patsy with three brothers who loves the PBS series about the Appalachian Mountains and still holds hope for all that is good and right in Appalachia.

A Visit With John Denver

It happened right there in Kroger's while I was shopping for a frozen box of spinach. Herman was picking up a prescription in another part of the store. I seldom hear the background music in stores when I am shopping, and if I do it's usually a catchy, upbeat, dance piece; but, somehow today was different. There I stood looking at the freezer items singing out loud to John Denver's "Sweet Surrender" totally lost in time and space to the lyrics. I did not miss  

single word!

And I don't know wht the future is holdin' in store

I don't know where I'm goin', I'm not sure where I've been.

There's a spirit that guides me, a light that shine for me

My life is worth the livin' I don't need to see the end.

Sweet, Sweet Surrender

Live, live without care

Like a fish in the water

Like a bird in the air.

I never commented to Herman about my behavior or my thoughts as we drove home and resumed our separate routines. About an hour later Herman comes down the stairs with our old John Denver album and puts it on the turntable. Neither of us comment while we continue with lunch preparation and emails.  

I was lost in images, lyrics and so many memories I could not wrap my self around it all. Our oldest son, Cree, was born during the John Denver years.  The first song he ever sang was, "Thanks God I'm a County Boy"; our first major vacation outside Tennessee was to ........yes, Denver. "On the Road" followed us as we moved to the Chesapeake Bay area, and "Grandma's Feather Bed" brought memories of Herman's Granny, and "Annie's Song" was heard as we traveled through a June snowstorm in the Rocky Mountains. It was really a love song written to his first wife Annie, but because of where we were driving when I first heard it, for me it was always a song about nature.

While teaching learning theory in my general psychology classes I usually illustrated classical conditioning with song lyrics and learned emotional reactions. On those days when I discussed how memories and songs are intimately tied to the human experience, I asked my students to provide their own examples of learned emotional experiences.  It always seemed to be one of their and my favorite class days.

Yesterday was a revisiting of my early adulthood years. It was too powerful to share with Herman or with my readers. Today has brought some distance and this article.  Today I am focused on the lyrics of "Sweet Surrender" and what it says about where I am now.  I find most news, no matter whether it's television, magazine, email, text messaged, etc., quite depressing, and I often get too consumed by what has forced it's way into my life.  Somehow rediscovering John Denver and having a conversation with him through his lyrics was the meditation I needed for where I am now. I hope you have some artisans in your life with whom you can engage in a conversation. 

Barbecue Dinners and Krispy Kreme Donuts

Growing up in Sneedville provided limited opportunity for social events outside of the church so when the annual Rural Electric Membership meeting occurred each year it was a big deal.  Like most Tennessee communities, the electric cooperative included all the families who received their electricity through the cooperative office in Jonesville, VA. The bylaws called for an annual meeting of the membership each year, and this meeting was like a big company picnic.  The cooperative provided the main dish of fried or barbecue chicken and the dessert which was always Krispy Kreme Donuts from Knoxville. Each family brought other dishes to round out the meal. Held in September at one of the local schools in Sneedville or one of community schools such as Greene Lawson or Flat Gap Elementary Schools, nobody in their right mind missed this meeting.  

For me this meeting was the only opportunity I had to be with people outside of my little community in the Seventh District of Hancock County. It was so exciting to go to this event because of all the people and the food.  Every year my family either talked with the Kyle Lawson family or sat near their table. My Dad and Kyle had both been on several county boards with each other.

It was here that I first remember seeing Herman, Kyle's son.  He came from a family that loved food and ate plenty of it. What I remember was his 10 year old round body and red hair cut in a flat top. He was friendly, but odd to me in some sort of way. I remember his Granny slipping him money under the picnic table which also seemed odd to me.  I had not had any experiences like this in my family so it seemed strange. But the thing I remember most was the barbecue chicken and the Krispy Kreme donuts. We never had barbecue chicken at home and donuts were out of the question since we didn't travel to Knoxville. The night consisted of eating, playing chase with other kids and catching lightning bugs while our parents talked till after dark. It was such a special event and I always looked forward to it each year. Years passed and I eventually married Herman Lawson, that red headed boy who slimmed down in adolescence.

This week as Herman and I were celebrating my birthday in Nashville we stumbled across the Krispy Kreme Donut shop on Church Street across from the Baptist Hospital. While I never eat donuts at my present age, I will confess to buying a whole dozen, eating three of them, and having a lot of conversations with Herman about donuts and the Electric Cooperative's annual meetings.

Hummingbirds and Pigs

Today a friend sent me a power point presentation about hummingbirds. Knowing that I have a love affair with these tiny creatures, she perceived that I would enjoy receiving this.  And I did.  As I shared it with others who I knew had the same love affair I shared the story of discovering why I had so little luck this year, and last, attracting them to my feeders.  

I got my nectar solutions out early both years and hung them in places where I could enjoy watching the hummingbirds dine. I rarely saw these tiny birds at the feeders, or they came quickly, looked at the feeder and promptly flew away.  I could not figure it out.  Two years ago I had many hummingbirds; now there were none.  What was the issue?  

The other day I spotted one coming in for a landing. I stopped to watch closely. It stuck it's beak into the plastic flower, quickly extracted it, and flew away. A voice in my head spoke for the hummingbird saying, "You surely don't expect me to eat this s***!"Suddenly I had an insight. Perhaps they were unhappy with the taste of the solution. 

Two years ago I had made my own feeding solution from sugar.  The last two years I had used a commercial solution that I mixed in water. Hummingbirds are noted for having gourmet tastes. Why had I not remembered that until now?  Immediately I grabbed the feeders, poured out the solution and put a new batch on the stove.  While I did not remember the proportions of sugar to water, I did know that sweetness is important. As soon as the solution cooled, I put it in the feeders.  The next day I saw three or four coming by the feeders; then I began to see the characteristic air fights that hummingbirds have waiting their turn at the feeders.  THEY WERE BACK!!!  It was the solution. 


As I shared the power point with other hummingbird lovers, I sent along my home recipe for the solution along with comments about changing the solution often, keeping the feeders clean and whether or not to add red food coloring to the solution; supposedly hummingbirds are attracted to the color red. I also mentioned that they tended to be 'gourmet eaters' and could be finicky about cleanliness and not sharing the nectar solution with other hummingbirds.

By the time I had finished with my email and instructions I began to wonder what had attracted me to these little, finicky, gourmet creatures in the first place.  Why would I bother to work so hard to please them and become annoyed with their peculiarities?  I never got this question satisfactorily answered, but I did decide that I might enjoy watching pigs more because they are known to eat anything and can live with filth quite well; but, then, there is the issue of having one housed in the back yard.......

The Season of Weddings

It's June, the wedding month, and once again I'm taken back to a memory fifty years ago.  It was the first wedding in our family; a 'fancy affair' of sorts in East Tennessee which thrust our family out of our comfort zone in a big way.  We weren't fancy people and had little confidence in our ability to participate in a wedding affair. Mama and Daddy chewed tobacco daily, farmed our 65 acres and lived a simple Appalachian lifestyle.  The plans for a fancy wedding took us not only to a new place, but also to a new way to act. We had to learn how to act the part of, "the grooms family" and do our best not to embarrass ourselves and the rest of the family.  It was weeks and months of learning what NOT to do which all climaxed on the day of the wedding when Daddy surprise himself, and horrified the family, by having an emotional outburst of crying and wailing just as the minister said, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."  Mothers are usually the ones to cry at weddings, not fathers, and he didn't just cry he WAILED and, try as hard as he could, he could not stop himself.  Being 12 at the time and very self-conscious this was enough to take me over the edge in terms of embarrassment. I've never wanted to run away from my family as much as I wanted to run away at that moment.

In two week we will have the first wedding of one of our two sons. This fifty year old story is now back to haunt me, and I'm just now beginning to experience some of the same feelings my Dad had at his first wedding. Recalling memories of your children as they grew and learned about life is just part of the wedding experience regardless of whether we show or talk about them.  While the events at the time may have produced feelings of anger, disgust, inadequacy, embarrassment over our child's or our own behavior at the time, in an event such as a wedding twenty or thirty years later these feelings  wrap themselves around a sentimental story moment that defines us and our children.  We're all pretty prone to fall apart and weep because this is really personal history that has shaped us as a family.  

Somewhere in this mixture of stories and memories I am trying to find the right way to welcome my son and new bride into their new life as a couple and to accept the change in our role as parents.  I really do not desire to create an emotional display like the one my father did over fifty years ago, but I am very aware now that the potential is there. In some way, I suppose his emotional outburst made him more real as a person. 

Are there some similar experiences in your life? Feel free to comment.

Good Story Listeners

Over the past ten years I have been very involved with my family stories and getting others to see the richness and beauty of daily life as it has been lived by others.  I also perform stories for companies, non-profits, assisted living facilities, and I speak at a wide variety of events.  Over these years I have begun to notice folks who are especially good story listeners. For every good storyteller there is also a need for a good listener. Below I will outline some of those features.

Good story listeners are curious about what they hear. They ask questions at appropriate places which help to draw out details of the story.  They also do not interrupt the teller while they are speaking. They wait for the appropriate time to ask and usually open with, 'I'd like to go back to something you mentioned earlier and have you tell me more about it."

Good story listeners, really listen and pay attention to the person who is speaking.  They are not 'pretending to be listening' and really just waiting to butt in with their own story or funny thought.  Probably nothing is more of a turn off to the teller than someone who won't let you finish or immediately jumps at any time to tell their own story.  These insensitive folks usually begin with,''If you think that's interesting, I have something that will knock your socks off!" A true listener knows when it is time to be the listener and NOT be the teller.  No one wants to be cut off to hear another person's story or their insensitive remark. 


Sometimes elderly people get lost in telling their story and a good listener can usually bring them back to the story with a question or two about the comments just before they got lost. A good question at this point may even bring the person back to new ideas and thoughts.  When you don't understand what the person said, wait for the appropriate time and go back to the point in the story where you got lost. This is where you will ask for further clarification.

Good story listeners understand that humans are infinitely connected to each other through our basic make up.  We differ largely only by the experiences we have had.  It is here in these differences of experiences that we need to connect.  This part helps us understand different cultures, different customs, and the things that often separate us from others.  A good listener can accept that we are all defined by experience and somewhere in this knowledge is the way we begin to accept and forgive others.  Stories help us see the picture from the other side.  


It's my genuine hope that you are a good story listener first and a good storyteller secondly. 

Doodles

It happened every February. The rural mailman drove into our driveway to deliver Mama's annual order of Doodles from the hatchery in Knoxville. The order was always 100 week-old baby chicks, 50 males, 50 females. The only thing that changed was the breed of the chicken; sometimes it was white leghorns, sometimes Plymouth Rocks or Rhode Island Reds.  This new 'crop ' of chicks would become both our laying hens and our food supply for the next year.

After opening the box in the kitchen near the stove Mama and I sorted the baby chicks into two categories, well and not well. The well ones were sent to the heated brooder in the chicken lot near our out house; the sick ones became my charges, either to nurse them back to health or to find a burial spot. This was my first experience to ever care for another living thing.

For three months we watched these doodles transform themselves into three or four pound chickens. They grew beautiful wing feathers, larger webbed feet, and larger vocal cords for bigger sounds than 'peeps'. While it was exciting to experience the weekly changes, always looming in the background was butchering day, sometime in June, where every male would be sacrificed except the one that Mama had chosen to keep around, "to keep the hens happy." The females would be spared because they were to become our egg supply.

While I was expected to help with the butchering each year, I always hated the process. It never seemed right or fair, yet I was told it was necessary for our family to have food. The slaughtered chickens were put in our Philco freezer for eating later.  Nobody talked about having a chicken as a pet or eating vegetarian.  

Farm life has many hard lessons about birthing, growing and dying. It also has many lessons about caring, nurturing, and surviving.  While I eventually came to accept each of these lessons, I think I'll always wish that all 100 of the doodles that arrived each February could have survived. Couldn't Mother Nature find another way to make this food change business work out another way?