Saturday, November 17, 2007
Saturday, October 6, 2007
In the Spring 2008 semester, I will tell primarily to elementary and middle school audiences. Any suggestions that y'all may have regarding stories that go over well and method of delivery will be appreciated.
Of course, I have read many story books and guidance manuals, but I now know that experience is the main source of improvement.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
I have told before five audiences: 38 with early Alzheimer's Disease, 57 Kiwanians, 15 assisted living patients, 15 history buffs in an old historical home in Panama City Florida, and the Okaloosa County Deocratic Party Precinct Committee. Seeing their faces and closeness told me that tellers and listeners are all one and united through story. All is well, and I now understand why I was called to tell.
By the way, I have received two calls from local school teachers wanting me to come and tell. If anyone has a good Johnny Appleseed tale that he/she can pass to me I would love to receive it.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
I am officially in Utah back with Casey so I am getting back to the rhythm of things. In 12 days will be the 18th Annual Timpanogos Storytelling Festival in Orem, UT. I noticed that for the 2nd Annual Timpanogos Storytelling Conference, our professor--David Novak--will be one of the two national tellers presenting.
Until we tell again,
Thursday, August 9, 2007
It is Tuesday afternoon and I had a chance to sit down and write a quick note to let everyone know I am back home. I am going through that readustment phase, that is hard to explain to anyone who has not ever left their state for a summer. Aaron had kept up everything on the home front. The garden looks great and the house was clean, even the laundry was done. I am all unpacked, tonight when Aaron gets off work we will spend some quality time together freezing corn. Tomorrow I am off to meet with the other 1st grade teachers to sort out our new school supplies and reading books. i will find out if my boxes have been moved and if I can get into my new room to set up for the school year. I had a relaxing day at home, after our return from Fargo. Kyle had his wisdom teeth removed. He is doing great! Although he is a tough patient, he argued with the nurse when she needed to use the wheel chair to take him down to the car, and he argues with me about taking the pain medication and antibiotics. He said, after playing hockey this is nothing. Just makes you want to play hockey, Right!!!! We had a fun trip back with a little time to see a few things on the way back, like Opryland, The arches in St. Louis, and the KC Royals stadium and the KC Chiefs Arrowhead stadium. We got to Vermillion, SD by about 5:00 Tues, night. We were pleased that we were making such good time. Then our quick stop at our daughter, AJ's turned into aout a 4 hour stop, so we didn't get home until after 1:30 a.m. It made for a short night with Aaron working on Wed. and me taking sister-in-law Sarah back to Fargo for her to get her car and start across the state to her home in western ND. I have one story to tell on them...we were on our way to Jonesborough to hear Barbara at the ISC, I had let Sarah sit in front so she could see the mountains and Aaron was driving. Sarah wanted to stop at the used book store to check on the Dr. Seuss books, When we got to Market Street I told them, " When you go over a hill, watch for a yellow van that says book store." They went over the first hill and slowed way down. I asked them what they were doing. They were looking for the yellow van. A hill would mean one hill to them and one hill was more than they would see in the Red River Valley. So I found out I needed to be more explicit in my directions. FYI: On the way home Kyle Charles ( thus the KC) called us to tell us the football coach had called and asked him to come out for football. They needed him. We already had the surgery scheduled, so he will have to decide what he wants to do after he heals up. I wish everyone the best in all their projects coming up this fall. Thanks for all you gave to the class, it was a great experience to work with everyone. Take care! Brenda
Tuesday, my Practicum Mentor has invited me to attend her Panama City Storytelling Guild meeting to tell and meet. Also, provided me some sound advice to set up some giggs.
Of Course, Panama City is 65 to 70 miles away, but the Journey of the Storyteller takes good shoes, a big smile, and a lean thumb. I will be there even if I must hitch hile. After all, if Saundra can fire-up a locomotive, and Josh can walk 2601 miles to a vermontster, I can carry the cappuchino on my back for 65 miles.
Have a great day,
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
When Rachel told me inquiry had been made about my storytelling gig on the Moultrie Dining Car, I was surprised. I guess when I made my last post I thought that was it, but here I am again and glad to be here.
The dining car experience was so cool - it's like an aluminum tube inside and all the tables and chairs are made to fit in such a way that 36 people could dine in comfort if not in privacy. All went well until the AC went out and then that slip of metal got hot - very hot. They cancelled the evening performance but by that time I had actually been on the train 3 hours and had told 2x45 minutes each earlier in the day.
Saturday I told a total of 5 full performances and by the time I was done, felt I had begun to truly inhabit the stories. I got a five-dollar tip, signed autographs on tickets and gave out contact information and hawked ETSU Storytelling!
Enjoy the rest of the summer. I think of you all frequently.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
I miss you all, but I glad to be home. My dog climbed in my suitcase as I unpacked my dirty clothes and I swear she gave me a look that said I was not leaving again without her.
I was happy to hear that Danny made it home safe. Did Brenda's family make it in safely? How did Saundra's storytelling go? Is everything still good for the institute next week???
I wanted to write and thank you all for all the wonderful stories you shared during our time together in class. These past three weeks have been wonderful and I'm happy to have had the opportunity to meet and tell with all of you.
Take care and I wish you all the best on all your upcoming projects........your friend in stories, Josh
Saturday, August 4, 2007
It will take some purification to glen the barley, but by telling I will distill and begin to serve to the hearers. Hopefully, the hearers will get drunk on tales and stories. If they do get addicted to telling I will start a TT (Taleteller's Troupe), and there will be a first-ever Storytelling Guild in NW Florida.
DANNY F. PUGH
313 EVERGREEN AVENUE
NICEVILLE, FL 32578
HP: 850-678-0617 CELL: 850-499-5970
Friday, August 3, 2007
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Even before our group storytelling, I wondered if any of my geared-for-kids/family stories would work for the mood and themes of tonight's program. My eyes went big as I realized that I did not have many thought-provoking stories. Obviously, the stories I have in my repertoire caught my attention in order to tell them in the first place. Yet, I have not pondered deeply over them as we have done for our personal and myth stories in class. I went into a type of panic mode that I would not have any stories "worthy" to tell after all the intense mentoring we have received.
Then one has to wonder--is a story ever perfect? Completed?
I plan to look deeply into each story already in my repertoire and re-discover my fascination for them. Perhaps my lack to do such a thing has led me to the belief that I tend to be plastic and manufactured in my tellings. One of the most "alive" moments seemed to be when I shared Grant's story the first day we went to North Carolina. The second "alive" moment was when I shared the Hephaestus story a couple months ago. Please do not misunderstand that I have not enjoyed telling for an audience before--only that the connection was not as strong as to what I'd like it to be. To keep both the Grant and the Hephaestus story alive, I must always be adding or taking or evolving based on the new experiences I receive in life day by day.
On the drive to North Carolina with Saundra and Sandy, we talked about various stories we knew--none of which turned out to be our selection for the evening. My mind was prompted by many stories that I used to tell during my high school days like "Why the Sea Moans", a folktale, or "Goliath II", a story by Bill Peet about a 6" elephant. I barely remember the plots and the endings have long past escaped my memory. I do know that these stories call to me to revisit them. I also want to explore the Dutch tale of an old woman who burns her own home to save the villagers, though the villagers are unaware of her sacrifice.
I know plenty of stories but it is getting the courage to voice them that is most challenging to me. I will always be working on new stories, too, though I should never take for granted the stories I seem to know already.
As Schank remarked, ". . .if you don't think about something you aren't likely to remember much" (p. 223). Simply thinking about my stories makes them more alive to me.
Until we tell again,
Many thanks to our teacher for his caring and yet determined methods of opening our eyes to the stories we have to tell and how and why we tell them, and also putting us back together again when it seemed perhaps we had fallen apart never to rise again.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
I thoroughly enjoyed class today. I'm sorry I had to rush out again and wasn't able to hang around, but I was meeting a friend to go kayaking. It was such a beautiful day!
Now, I'm back to work on my stories for tomorrow. While I was going through my story repertory I came across a traditional Mongolian legend which made me think of Chapter 7 in Schank's book titled, "Telling the Stories of your Culture." In this chapter Schank discusses how we may come to understand a culture (or subculture) by learning their stories. (In fact, he implies that it crucial to ever being accepted by a particular group of people.) When I lived in Mongolia I became fascinated by the fact that whenever Mongolians ate a marmot (considered a delicacy) they would always throw away a little part inside the body. I was interested because Mongolians never waste any part of any other animal. When I asked my host-family and neighbors why they did this, most said they didn't know, but only that it had always been done this way. Finally someone told me that the reason this one part of the marmot was not eaten was because it was once a part of a man. "What man?" I asked. This person didn't know the answer to my second question, but along my journey collecting stories around the country I finally found the answer, which was hidden in the ancient legend of Erkhii Mergen....
Once upon a time, there rose seven suns in this universe, and it, was exposed to a burning drought. The earth was heated fiercely, the streams and rivers evaporated, the plants and trees were parched. People and living beings suffered from intolerable heat, and horses and animals were tormented by painful thirst. It was dreadfully difficult to live or even survive. However, there lived a very good archer, called Erkhii Mergen. He was an excellent archer, who could shoot skillfully what he saw and he hit accurately what he aimed at. A stream of people went to him, and requested him to shoot and destroy the many suns which rose in the sky. Erkhii Mergen was very proud of his accurate shooting. Because he was born a real man among men.
His thumbs were great with strength,
His liver was bursting with health,
He was blessed with the fullness of youth,
His blood was flaming.
Then he said, "I will shoot the seven suns with one arrow each and destroy them," and he made a promise and swore an oath, "If I should not succeed, I will cut off my thumbs and be no longer a man! I will become an animal which never drinks pure water and eats the dry grass of the preceding year and lives forever in a dark hole!" From the Eastern side Erkhii Mergen began shooting the seven suns, those rose in a file from the East to the West, in the sky. He hit and destroyed six of the suns with six arrows. As he shot his seventh arrow, aiming at the seventh sun, a swallow crossed in front of his arrow, its flight screening the sun. Erkhii Mergen's arrow hit the swallow's tail and ripped it. Since then, the swallow's tail has been forked. Nevertheless, the last sun was afraid of the p archer and it disappeared to hide behind a western mountain.
When Erkhii Mergen, the archer wanted to follow on his piebald horse and kill the swallow that had impeded his shooting, his horse said, "I'll chase and catch up with the swallow from dusk to dawn," and he vowed, "If I should not succeed, my master, you may cut my legs off and throw them away in a desert. Then, I would no longer be a horse with a saddle, but would live in a hollow and shallow place!" So Erkhii Mergen chased the swallow on his piebald horse, and when the horse had almost caught up with the swallow, the swallow flew a tortuous twisting path to avoid the horse. This went on from dusk to dawn, but the horse could not catch it.
Then Erkhii Mergen got angry and he cut off his piebald horse's fore-legs and threw them away in a desert. Thus this horse changed into a jumping mouse (or jerboa) and for this reason the jerboa's front legs are snorter than his hind ones. Also the swallow still flies to and fro around a man riding a horse. The swallow flies around the man mocking,
"Can you catch up with me?
Can you catch up with me?"
According to his promise as a man, Erkhii Mergen cut off his thumbs and was no longer a man, but changed into a marmot, which never drinks pure water and eats the grass of the preceding year, and lives in a dark hole. The marmot's claws are four, because of the fact that Erkhii Mergen cut off his thumbs. The marmot comes out from its hole by the morning and evening sun. Erkhii Mergen the archer, wants to forget that he has changed into the marmot, and wants to wait and shoot the last sun at its rising or setting. However, in the marmot's flesh there is a piece of meat called 'man meat', which was Erkhii Mergen's flesh, and to this day people never eat it. People say the last sun of this world was frightened of Erkhii Mergen and went behind a mountain, and it is for this reason that the day and night appear in succession.This legend is full of unique Mongolian cultural elements. First, the main character is an archer. Great archers are heroes in Mongolian society and have been since time immemorial. Second, the narrative explains the origin of the jerboa (jumping mouse), the marmot, the swallow’s forked tail, and why there is only one sun. Marmot is a very special animal for Mongolians, being their preferred delicacy during the summer months. There are entire rituals that have developed around killing, preparing, and eating the marmot when it’s in season. One of which is the ritual of throwing away the “man’s meat” toward the sun instead of eating it. This is believed to be the last remnants of
How great! By learning about this legend I was able to understand an important ritual Mongolians engage in. I also found it very interesting that many people practiced this ritual without being conscious of why! Schank states, "The stories of our culture are those stories that we hear so often that they cease to seem like stories to us. They are the stories that we take for granted." (pg. 218)
After I prepare for our storytelling performance tomorrow I want to examine some traditional prose narratives in our own culture that we either take for granted or have so fully incorporated that we don't even know we're telling them. Please let me know when you all think of some good ones. I'll see you all tomorrow....your bud, Josh
Tomorrow will be a major moment for us as a team, but "Mission Accomplished' will not be my take on our final telling together. For me it will be MISSION STARTED!!! We will now be on a journey together and will use Chaucer's method to move happily together.
This will be my last blog and the computer will go into the bag in a few minutes. Artificial intelligence is a good thing, but as David said today it began with the creation of the alphabet. I am now more focused on a teller's way of word association.
Thanks to all for your leadership and comradery.
Today Rachel and I went to see Barbara Freedman. We hung around after the show and talked with her. I found my self sliding back into my “home voice” as we spoke. Years of work on the radio cleaning up my southern accent is shot to heck two minutes after I sit down with my family. Barbara had the same effect. I felt comfortable talking to her. I realize there is something in that sound of our subculture that draws up a feeling, sort of an unspoken index that reminds a person of the old proverbs, home is where the heart is, and there’s no place like home. My reading tonight was actually more enlightening and entertaining than usual. As Schank talked about the I Ching, I was again reminded of the core principles of palmistry and tarot - people here what they need to here in epigram rich interpretations rendered. I re-evaluated my reaction to a comment Barbara made to Rachel. Rachel reminisced about the answer she had given Barbara about a blue box and confessed she had meant to write a full story but had not done that yet. Barbara told her to set a specific date for finishing the tidbits she was filing away or it would never get done. She said to quite putting it off and do it. Then she said God was a God of completion and when you finish what he has given you, you will not only be rewarded for your good work, you will also find that God will send you more inspiration. Dozens of past conversations came flooding back to me when she said this. I was also reminded of a conversation in the novel Night when an old man explains to Eli that it is an important concept in Judaism to recognize that knowing the answer is less important than knowing the right question to ask. I have been richly blessed and should work much harder in many areas. I think I heard what I needed to hear to discover what I already knew. Of course, statements like that are reason enough to read less Schank. But to give the Devil his due, Schank said it best in chapter 4 when he said, “It is likely that the bulk of what passes for intelligence is no more than a massive indexing and retrieval scheme that allows an intelligent entity to determine what information it has in its memory that is relevant to the situation at hand, to search for and find that information (84-85).” Hummmm . . . cool beans.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Listening to Bill Moyers on PBS this evening, I heard the president use several key story skeletons in a speech: 'inspired ideology' and 'Al Quida.' He used inspired ideology only once but the picture my mind drew was that the ideology was 'cooked up' rather than authentic; Al Quida popped up in almost every sentence - certainly every paragraph of the speech, keeping militant Muslims and their potential for violence at the forefront of the thought process as he spoke.
As with Danny, I enjoyed our time at the theater today, finding it an inspiring, exciting and vaguely dangerous place to be. After the critique session I realized that I should have pursued Bellerophon and Pegasus' adventures more aggressively. Instead, I used the 'The Chimera' from Hawthorne's Wonder Book, edited by Mabie, my book of myths from childhood. It has been with me all the years I can recall and I have loved the story always, but now I see how simplistic it is. Further reading still has not given me the Pegasus I am looking for, but I'm getting closer.
Schank later noticed, "The stories of our culture are those stories that we hear so often that they cease to seem like stories to us. They are the stories that we take for granted" (p. 218).
When I travel outside of Utah, several people request to hear pioneer stories. Though I have heard these stories all my life--or at least heavily during the month of July--I really couldn't think of any pioneer stories off the top of my head to share. Sometimes hearing the stories so much puts my brain on freeze. My ears tend to turn off after hearing the same story read the same way through the view of the same person.
In order to grab the attention of a predominantly LDS audience, I would have to shake up the story. Perhaps the story needs to be told from another point-of-view. Who else witnessed the event? What would happen if an inanimate object--like a covered wagon or a cast iron pot--could tell the story? Is there an imaginary person who could tell it that could still share the facts in an interesting way? What if that imaginary person was not LDS? In the case of the pioneers, this could mean a Ute Indian or a frontiersman like Jim Bridger. I could see this already perking up people in church.
The gists of pioneer stories that I do know focus on the mundane and the ordinary. Schank reminded us that "daily life is filled with the untold stories of the culture" (p. 205). Yet, these tales, told in the proper way, could transform the ordinary to the extraordinary.
Perhaps there is more interest in "growing up Mormon" or pioneer stories outside of Utah because of what Schank said, "Outsiders tell more interesting stories because they tell stories that are not known to their audience. Insiders tell stories that everyone accepts and that everyone has heard before. It takes a great storyteller to make such insider stories interesting" (p. 218).
Regardless of how much knowledge someone has of the LDS people, it is still an "important point [to] to personalize it, to particularize it, to draw as many references as possible to real world events that hearers may have themselves experienced so that they can identify with the story" (p. 214). Alluding to the Oregon Trail could be helpful or maybe something more modern such as military families who are constantly on the move.
In the end, "the ultimate in storytelling is to have the stories become the stories of the listeners, to have them think that these are actually their stories" (p. 217).
Maybe by next July 24th, I will finally have some pioneer stories in my repertoire that all people regardless of creed would be anxious to hear.
Until we tell again,
School isn’t all I am thinking about. I have this urge to pull the weeds I see growing in the flower beds as I walk by them and I know I am missing my annual garden fix. My husband has been graciously freezing beans and keeping the garden watered in the 98 plus temperatures they have been having.. He informs me that the cucumbers are starting to call my name in anticipation of getting turned into a pickle. I also know that by the time I get home the corn and apples will be ready. I do a lot of canning, freezing, and making jelly as did my ancestors of the past. It gets us through the winter and gives us a chance to share home canned fruits, jellies, and vegetables with our daughters. When they come home, they usually take some back with them and it helps them with their grocery bills. One way we can help them out. My memory is recalling other obligations as the days fly by and I am moving on to answer that call.
Afterwards Josh, Brenda, and I wandered around the city streets looking for a place to have lunch. It was refreshing to see the happy street people, and a sidewalk singing group, from somewhere other than Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Josh found a very nice pub called Jack of the Wood that took my mind back to British myths.
See you all tomorrow at 0900.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Whenever I want to start to whine about how homesick I am getting after 8 weeks, out of my comfort zone living at ETSU, I am reminded of Josh’s story of his trip on the Appalachian Trail. I think, if Joshua can do that I can make it 1 more week. I might be roughing it as a student, but I do have more comforts than he had. I do have my own personal mountains that I’ve had to cross, but it is that personal feeling of success when I do get home that will make it all worthwhile. I have many co-workers, who will not take a class in town, unless they know someone else who taking it too. They also won’t attend the staff breakfast at the beginning of school unless they go with someone. “Everyday is like every other…they know a limited amount, never venture outside their limits, never need to grow or change.” (231) So I truly feel I have conquered some personal mountains.
“We are the stories we tell, we not only express our vision of the world, we shape our skeletons to express what has happened to us”(170). When August first rolls around my inner clock, trained after 30 years starts thinking ahead to school. So my mind is starting to go there, even though there is projects needing to be completed here. “coping in one’s world is knowing the stories of the cultures in which you operate"(207). I had the great opportunity to design my classroom to fit my teaching styles and incorporate my teaching philosophies into the atmosphere of the room, during our recent remodeling project. I was able to enjoy the completed project one year. We are now adding full day every day kindergarten to our school system and they needed more rooms in the building where I was working. When return home, I will return to a mountain of boxes waiting in an intermediate grade classroom in another building. I will attempt to turn it into a primary classroom. I have already hassled with the janitors over lowering the whiteboard and finding me primary size desks. I will be on my own to find furnishings, as our curriculum director, who is 77 years old, has not yet accepted the newer reading philosophies. I will venture to the dungeons of our bus barn looking for others rejected, broken furniture in hopes to find something I can use to create several learning centers. Since I had all my other centers built in, I wasn’t able to have them moved. The other option which administrators love is buy my own furniture. So I will keep climbing my mountains, encouraged by Josh’s story, Danny’s sonnet, bits and pieces of all the other sharing. My Maine will be making it to May and be able to say I, too have succeeded against the odds.
As Schank said, "To put this bluntly, dull people tell you what happened to them, leaving no detail out, and often without point. Intelligent people quickly find the essence of the experience they are conveying and try to relate it to the topic at hand in a way that sheds light on the generalizations between them" (p. 234).
A few times Schank has said that a two-week vacation could be told in two weeks if every moment was remembered. As far as I know, I have never written out or told to that extent. Yet, there have been times that my journal entries caused my wrist to hang down and my writer's bump on my finger to throb and grow. After reading some of these extensive entries, I discover that I merely reported on the events. By writing about seemingly everything, I made a once dramatic experience to a yawn-maker.
At times, I feel like if I don't include everything, I will regret it once I decide to transform the experience into a story. Schank insisted, "Intelligence requires you to forget many things and to ignore most things" (p. 224). With the state of my memory, perhaps my forgetfulness could be used in my favor finally.
Rather than share the whole experience of when Brenda and I journeyed to the Roan State Park last Saturday, I will attempt to "forget many things and to ignore most things"--
Brenda and I looked at the map. From where we were standing, we should have been at the Miller's Homestead.
"All I see is this cemetery, unless this is what they meant," I exclaimed.
We scrunched our faces. For having "Miller's Homestead" in big bold letters on the map, this sure was disappointing.
We headed to the car to see if something else would grab our attention. Something did.
"Do you see that wooden sign? You know, like the ones before you head on a trail?"
Beyond the sign, and deep within a hollow, we saw a farmhouse, chicken coup, spring house, and other early 1900s buildings.
By now it was raining and Brenda and I pulled out our umbrellas. With no one about, we entered the farmhouse. As our sneakers creaked about on the wooden plank floors moving from kitchen to bedroom to the family room, we heard a female voice shout, "You can go upstairs!"
I jumped a little. Not seeing or hearing anyone for a while made it seem like we were trespassing, though the sign said we were welcome to enter.
When we went up the stairs, we looked out the window and heard birds twittering from the treetops. Above was a tin roof with yellowed newspapers to insulate the place.
Then, one door called out to me.
The door wasn't one of the normal entryways for tourists. This door was only as tall as my waist and had a rope loop as a handle. There was a wooden switch to keep it closed. I smiled. I didn't see a lock on it. If the woman over the farmhouse wanted me to stay out, she should have had a sign or something.
By now, Brenda has gone down the stairs so I was the only one in the attic.
I pushed the door in and it went "Creeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak!"
I looked about. Perhaps the lady who had said, "You can go upstairs!" would rush up the stairs and pull me back. Nothing happened.
I squatted and stuck my head into the place ever so slowly. Unlike the other rooms, this place had dirt and mud caked on the floor as if someone hadn't walked in it for a few decades. Near the door was a wooden ladder flat on the ground with the rungs rotting away.
Then I heard a high-pitched sound. I remembered hearing the birds twittering and I wasn't sure if what I heard was a bunch of "tweets" or "squeaks".
In the center of this room I saw a brick column that went from the floor to the top of the raised ceiling. I wildly, looked about, half expecting some rat or mouse to jump from the ladder rungs or some bat to swoop from the ceiling. My heart pounded faster.
I closed the door, not wanting to do more than stick my head into the room. Then, I asked myself, "Where is your adventurous spirit? Just go in there. At least then you could say that you did it!"
I grunted at myself.
Once more, the door went "Creeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak!"
I scrunched down on one foot while placing my other foot onto the dirty floor.
I paused. I glanced from side to side.
I almost pulled out my foot. I gulped. Now I knew I wasn't dealing with a bird, but what?
I gritted my teeth and placed both feet into the small door, bent my back, and stood up in the room. I walked toward the brick column and looked at every wall and corner and ceiling space. Nothing. Nothing.
I breathed out.
A bat with a wingspan as long as my arm flew past me. I had my answer.
I rushed to the door, dove through it, and then slammed it behind me. I placed my back against the door as my left hand reached for the wooden knob so that it remained closed.
Someday, someone else will go in there. It just won't be me.
As I walked out the farmhouse door, I saw the lady who had called out to Brenda and I before. I guiltily smiled, wondering if she knew what had happened.
Later, Brenda had her own adventure driving up the Roan mountain with bikers along the narrow road, but that is another story. Perhaps my story would be dull compared to hers.
Until we tell again,
Sunday, July 29, 2007
I flew out of Tri-Cities Airport at 6 AM Saturday morning, arrived in Tallahassee at 10:30, met my daughters and grandson and then drove up to Alabama for the funeral. If you will recall from my previous blog entry, my Aunt Margaret's house was firmly stuck in the1950's; I had written about it some time ago and my cousin asked that I read the poem I had written and make a commentary at the funeral service. Since I thrive on spontaneity, I was happy to comply, but when I stood on the platform and saw all those sad faces, all I could remember was Aunt Margaret's laughter. I read the poem but then I commented on her laugh as one I had tried to emulate, copying it until I nearly had it but it was never mine - it belonged only to her. Her laugh was musical and had a lilting kick at the end that I adored. After that, her charm and the unique laugh she possesed dominated the proceedings as others added their memories to our bank.
I returned to Tennessee today, arriving at 10:30 Am, exausted but glad to be 'home.' My luggage continued on without me: somehow I passed through three ID points without anyone, including me, detecting that I was traveling under the name of Loiss Kelley to Harrisburg . . .why on earth I checked the bag is anybody's guess - disorientation, exaustion, brain fog. I'll miss the simple things I had packed in there. As for Loiss Kelley, who knows? I got my proper identity back in Charlotte, but it was too late to snatch the bag.
So, why did I share this other than simply wanting to tell you my story? I was reading Shank's Shaping Memory chapter; as I read, I found myself thinking about all the things that happened this weekend that will be pivotol in what I choose to remember for the future. Which elements will I retain as I tell the stories and which parts will I simply drop? I suspect I'll let the luggage thing pass now that I've shared it with you, but no, I've got to keep trying to get somebody to help me retrieve it from lost/misplaced baggage heaven which means I'll have to tell it over and over . . .
After the funeral, our family returned to Aunt Margaret's house and many of the relatives wanted to talk about the 'front room.' It seems I wasn't the only one who noticed it. I listened to all those stories and realized that we really do pick up pieces of things and add them to our inventory of memories. That room grew to impressive proportions yesterday as the story was told over and over again and new bits and pieces were added to it. Since the story was already on active file in my 'Memory Organization Package,' retrieval was simple. The retelling polished it and new details were added to enrich the memory for the next time. That the core of the story also exists in written form lessened the feeling that it was just a dream; sitting in Aunt Margaret's front room one more time imprinted it for life.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Enough about furniture – it’s tea time. I worked my way through college doing several different jobs, but my main job was working for a radio station. I started out doing clerical work and moved quickly into sales, writing copy, external PR, and working as a DJ. The station worked around my school schedule so that some semesters I worked sales 2-3 days a week, wrote commercials at odd times, and worked on the air several hours a day. Some semesters I worked on the air on weekends and did little else. The thing is even when I wasn’t really doing sales and such, there were certain clients that I still had to take care of. I might only see them once a month, but I had to be the one to go visit – another salesperson wouldn’t do
One of our florists would listen to any sales pitch I had, but I had to be helping him fix funeral flowers the whole time I was there. He taught me how to tie different bows and use this little machine to put spikes on the end of artificial flowers; he taught me how to bring balance to an asymmetric wreath and write personal messages on wide ribbon (called 40). He almost always greeted me with, “Come on back here – you’ll never believe what I’ve been into.” We would laugh and carry on and work for hours sometimes. I always made a sell and I always had a good time. Other people could go see him, but it just wasn’t the same for him and he would ask for me. One client was the most annoying cuss in town. He liked to pontificate on the state of the universe and he loved to make you come back again and again and again to finish something that should have taken 10 – 15 minutes. He handled the advertisement for the pharmacy which he co-owned and the card shop that belonged to his partner’s wife. My boss wouldn’t go see him. She said the aggravation wasn’t worth it for her. I enjoyed the challenge. It positively hung him up that I could remember things he’d said months or years before. I used to think the man needed to control the sales relationship. I think it was his way of having a captive audience. I listened to him and learned so much about patience. The lady who owned the bridal registry and Wilton supply store became a second grandmother to me. In all honesty, several of us loved Mrs. Lee and we would bargain to see who got to go sell to her. I would visit with her on my day off or if it was snowy and the station manager told us to stay in town and just do follow-ups. Long after I left the station, I would stop by to see how she was or how many baby birds she had. She was in her seventies and loved to reminisce.
While it’s true I have brought donuts or drinks or homemade Christmas candy to these and many other “mentors”, I think the greatest thing I have given is time to stop and really listen. Now I teach and I have been blessed by a cluster of students who take vacation days from there work to return year after year to help with the spring musical. I am equally in awe of those who just pop by to see if they can do anything for me. Many come to my door with a diet soda in there hand, some bring white cake with white icing remembering it a favorite of mine, even more bring chocolate. One student came to see me a couple of years after graduating. She was just getting back in the country and had came to Sparta to see her parents. She had brought me Romanian chocolate and stories of playing the theatre games I'd taught her with the children she had met. I am one of those teachers that you either love or hate. I love my students and I am still amazed at how they support and love me. When my sister was hit head-on a year and a half ago, I came home from the hospital in Chattanooga for the funeral. So many past students and presents students came to hug me and tell me they loved me and ask if there was anything they could do to help. There were a couple of students that I would have sworn fell into that “hating me” category that came by and held me close and said they remembered how I spoke of my family and they knew my heart was breaking so they wanted to tell me they were praying for me and my whole family. I had text messages every day from students who got my number from some of my past students who help with the musical. Prayer after prayer after prayer. It was almost a year later that a group of student and I were talking and one of them said to me that everywhere he went he told my story. I didn’t understand at first. He explained that he had been amazed that I had asked the same thing of everyone who asked me if they could do anything. I had asked each one to pray for my sister and Ryan. Evidently this had surprised several of my students. They knew I loved my sisters and seeing one of them so close to death was unbearable. They knew I would want them to pray for my family. He said he knew what a Christian was when I asked them to pray for Ryan – the boy who fell asleep at the wheel and hit my sister that November afternoon. If I only get to be one story for one person – that story is enough.
I was reviewing my Schank notes and have spent some time contemplating a theme in the "Understanding Other People's Stories" chapter. The theme seems to be more of a thesis really which I think can be succinctly stated as, "all people are doing when they understand is figuring out what story to tell." I think I've missed something in the first half of the book, because Schank can't mean simply this (it seems too improvised). Let me try to explain what I mean.
According to Schank, we know that we understand a situation in relation to other situations we've already understood, now we can add to this that while we are referencing our indexes of understood experiences we are also preparing an appropriate story. Is this right? My fiancee is a therapist, and when she is working she attempts to understand her client's story while not imposing any story of her own. She is trying to create a space for the client to discover the narrative they are telling. This seems different to me. I can imagine that we may all find ourselves in situations where we are not trying to tell anyone a story, but are rather trying to listen to someone else's (while still trying to understand what we are experiencing). We may listen to someone's story and carefully pose questions or suggestions that help them develop that story.
Could Schank mean that in some cases when we're trying to figure out what story to tell that we are sometimes trying to manipulate others into telling the story we think they should be telling? That doesn't seem to be his intent, but I'm not sure here exactly what is.
We may understand experiences by referencing other experiences we've understood, and while doing so be preparing a story of our own to tell in relation to what we are presently experiencing, but is this a fully developed explanation of the entirety of our knowledge? Is it possible to experience understanding not by referencing our stories, but the stories of others? Perhaps a good friend isn't preparing a story to tell as they listen to ours, but she is rather referencing our stories in an attempt to help us better understand what we are trying to say or identify certain story patterns in our narrative.
Does this make any sense? Is it possible to hear someone tell a story and by referencing only their stories (not your own) help them come to a better understanding of that story? Maybe this is what I'm trying to say. In this situation we're not preparing a story to tell. Or are we?
Well, these were some thoughts I wanted to share with you all. I hope you're all having a great weekend. Take care and I'll see you on Monday......your friend in stories, Josh
Friday, July 27, 2007
"How can I know what I think until I hear myself talk"(114)The example Schank gives with the man talking to no one all day is something I have thought about often with our technological world we live in now. I had visited my daughter in Rapid City, SD one spring. At that time new to me, was the self checkout counters at Walmart, and it made me think about how easy it has become to live in a "big" city and talk to no one. The fact that you could have all those people around you and speak to no one because you drive to work by yourself, work in a cubicle on a computer by yourself, buy your supplies from a store with a self-checkout counter, fill your car with gas using your credit card, drive home by yourself and maybe live by yourself. It almost horrifies me!!! I think that is because so often in the history of our state, you can read the stories of the loneliness of the early settlers. How they went for months, sometimes a year without visiting with another woman, or seeing another person. It played a big part in the difficulty of settling the area. That need for human contact and conversation is so important. Yet there are so many people who do not have that important verbal contact, that chance to share stories. Sometimes by choice, other times not. It is like when Sandy talked about not going to bed without laughing. We need laughter, but it's hard to keep laughing by yourself. Schank said everyone tells stories to themselves but also questions how much of the story will be remembered if we don't tell anyone. So keep talking and telling stories....and visiting with store clerks!!!....or young mothers, or older homebound people, or people new to your community, or....
For the first time with my aunt over the phone, I shared the personal story of confronting my cousin's death. I referenced the two hymns and said the words but I did not sing them. Interestingly, when the story was over, my aunt requested that I sing those songs the next time I told it.
Though it has been almost 14 years since my cousin's death, I have repressed that story. When we had the one-on-one tellings in class, I told Josh that he was really the first person to hear it. I have relived it in my head, but now the story has been heard by others besides Josh.
Schank commented, "People are probably not consciously trying to repress a story. Rather, they are unconsciously trying to remember it so that they can match it to another story like it--should one ever occur" (p. 142). In the case of my cousin Grant, I believe the story surfaced for many reasons, with one reason being that a couple months ago another one of my cousins, Christopher, passed away at the age of 33 from a stroke. Usually one hears of deaths of grandparents or aunts or uncles. The death of cousins before these elders can shake the mind and soul.
After talking with my aunt, I asked if I had her blessing to share Grant's story beyond the family setting. Of course, most of the story is how I cope with death. My aunt agreed that sharing moments from Grant's life would be appropriate and healing for others. Though it will be about two weeks after this Advanced Storytelling Class, she will scan a booklet for me and send through email of other memories that classmates and family members had of Grant. She wished she could get it to me before, though I assured her that stories evolve and that I do not want to rush the development of the story. I would tell the story with what I know now.
Schank said, "The sooner you tell a story, the sooner you can begin to forget it--by never telling it again. If you want to remember the story, on the other hand, keep telling it" (p. 141). I would never want the stories of Grant to fade. In fact, I would love to piece separate stories that emphasize his loving nature for the underdog. A whole program could be dedicated to Grant, who was like the big brother I never had. I am the oldest one in my family. I do have a younger brother and a younger sister, though it seems that most people yearn for a big brother if they do not already have one.
I plan on exchanging stories about Grant with another cousin, Becky. Grant, Becky and I were one to two years apart in age so we had our adventures. When the memories are stored inside for too long, they get fuzzy. Becky and I could do some mutual reminding/storytelling so to make memories clear. I have a feeling that Schank would be pleased to hear this goal.
Until we tell again,
Thursday, July 26, 2007
The task for me is to improve the 'Place, Relate and Reveal' components of my story. Looking forward to another day.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Earlier in the week, Brenda shared the loss of a number of her family members this past year; I related to her words and immediately wanted to share my experience of multiple loss with her even though it wasn't exactly the same as her story.
Tonight, when I got the word about Aunt Margaret's death, I immediately thought of Brenda and her loss. Then I moved on to recall my childhood memories of Aunt Margaret's house.
It was always exciting to pull off Hwy 231 in Ozark, Alabama after having driven through what seemed like hundreds of miles of parched farmland, to a gentle slope that led up to a true Florida house. That it was virtually the only Florida-style house I knew (I'm from North Florida and rarely if ever saw houses like that) and was sitting in Alabama dawned on me as I grew older, but as a child, seeing that aqua stuccoed house with it's heron screen door ornament and the flamingos out front was a treat.
Her house had a special scent of it's own that eludes me now but I knew it well then. Walking through the front door with the big round port hole and into her living room in my mind today, transports me back into the fifties because that's exactly where that room stayed for forty years; I will miss it as I miss her. I wrote about it once, sending a copy of the poem to her and even though she framed the poem and kept it, she began to change the room . . .
At certain moments I can be creative and play impromptu storytelling games whenever I attend the National Youth Storytelling Showcase in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. With permission from parents, I lead games with the finalists until 1:00am or so. On the last night of the event, it has been tradition to be all-night so that we are the first ones to have breakfast.
Most of the time I like to listen and soak things in. Sometimes I soak so long that my memory gets shriveled like a prune.
Schank warned, "If we don't tell the story soon enough after the experience or often enough immediately after the experience or if we don't tell the story at all, the experience cannot be coalesced into a gist since its component pieces begin to mix with new information that continues to come in" (p. 115).
Every so often I tell the experiences to myself in my head or aloud though rarely to others. My kind of rehearsal is what Schank said, "One phenomenon of memory is that people talk to themselves, not necessarily aloud of course, but they do tell themselves stories, collecting disparate events into coherent wholes" (p. 117).
Even with the support from my husband for storytelling, deep down I have fears that if I tell too many stories to him, he will be storied out. Casey has shared stories with me--like when he proposed to me through a story--yet he claims he will only tell official stories once every seven years. (He still does not realize the great number of unofficial stories he tells.)
Due to my tendency to keep stories inside of me, I believe I have fewer indexes to jump to various gists and stories. You may have noticed in class my cloudy look when searching for a word or a story to continue conversations or exercises.
To break this trend, I will now share an experience that Brenda and I shared last Saturday, July 21st, which I call "Brenda, Rachel & the Exchanged Glance in the Woods"--
Brenda felt brave enough to go solely with a water bottle and sunglasses for the hike in the woods around ETSU. As for me, I brought my bag complete with book, paper, colored pencils, jacket, camera, batteries, water bottle, timer, cellphone, whistle--to name a few things. I would hate to be a few miles into the hike and think, "Hey, I want to sketch that bird up there" or "I've got to call Casey" or any number of random thoughts.
We twisted and turned along the trail. One hour. Two hours. Three hours. Every so often I stopped and took pictures of strange logs with unnatural faces or of enormous spiderwebs.
Then we saw it. A long thick vine dangled from a tall tree.
Now--have you ever been told as a child "do not touch"? We knew that someone, somewhere--whether our husbands or our parents--were shaking their fingers and saying "do not touch".
We had seen many vines that climbed up trees during the hike but none of them hung above the trail. To add to the temptation, the end of the vine came to about my waist.
Brenda and I exchanged glances. We knew what each other was thinking. We wore crooked smiles, knowing that this was our chance.
Then, like two good girls in Sunday clothes, we walked past the vine to continue our hike.
After a couple paces, I stopped. Throughout the hike I had dutifully carried my bag across my shoulders with all my safety devices. At this time, I threw down the bag and it thumped on the ground.
Brenda looked back, almost jealous that she had not made the first move. I quickly walked to the vine. I pulled on the it. Nothing happened. I pulled on it again. Nothing happened.
"I think this will hold!" I called to Brenda.
The vine was thicker than my arm and seemed lighter than what a branch the same thickness would weigh. As the end of the vine was to my waist, I jumped so that I could pull the vine between my legs and get a good grip on it. The vine only slipped. I tried again and again. I was never good at the high jump in middle school and I saw there was no improvement as a 27-year-old.
I decided to give one last try. I jumped and caught the vine between my legs. I pushed off with my feet from the tree so that I could swing. Brenda rushed to my bag and took some pictures as I swung for a good length of time.
I smiled for the camera.
"Brenda, how about you give it a try?"
Brenda hesitated for a moment. She knew she was at least a decade older than me, but did that matter? She smiled and I knew she wanted to swing.
She then asked, "You do have your cellphone in case something happens, right?"
"Right--but you'll be fine."
Brenda and I are about the same height and though I guessed that I was lighter than her, I didn't see too much difference in our weight.
Brenda, too, tugged on the vine to see how well it held to the tree. Satisfied, Brenda jumped to get the vine between her legs. She had troubles, too. Finally, Brenda caught onto the vine. She swung a bit and I grabbed the camera as she had done for me.
The world was brought to slow motion. Brenda and I looked up as the vine broke about as long as a three-story apartment complex towards the trail. Brenda's arms raised high above her head and then dropped backwards followed by her head, chest, and legs. The vine fell in the same direction.
I nervously smiled.
"Are you okay, Brenda?"
She smiled and laughed.
"I told you something was going to happen."
When I looked back at the camera, I saw that a picture was taken, but that the camera had also run out of batteries.
So if you want proof of this story, you will have to believe Brenda and I.
Until we tell again,
"…..I was riding a student bus that was taking me across a university campus to the school’s education Department. In front of me on the bus were two undergraduate women-sophomores or juniors, perhaps—who were having a most difficult time trying to figure out what a certain passage in their textbook meant by its references to ‘the wooden horse of Troy’. I could barely believe what I was hearing, but an even greater jolt was in store. The last words I heard them say before they, too got off at the Education Building were, “and who in the world is this guy Troy, anyway?”(3)
He saw 2 tragedies…one was that they were probably bright students who never had heard the story, second was that they were probably going to be classroom teachers and would be guiding the learning of other children.
So go forth and tell ----
In our after telling chat with Roy Book Binder, he mentioned that sometimes a story he is telling takes off in another direction because of something he is reminded of….just like Schank talks about in the remembering chapter and we are experiencing in class.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
A month ago I shared personal stories for an hour in connection with the Lunch Bunch concert series of downtown Salt Lake City. Within the performance, I could not resist to also tell the Russian folktale "Bearhead". Since this tale was told towards the end of the program, I figured the audience had a better idea of my nature and might guess why "Bearhead" struck me. I didn't want to say any statement of "Bearhead reflects my life because. . ." though I did give them a challenge to see if they understood why I told it along with the personal tales. I then left it open for the audience to interpret the folktale as they wished.
The types of stories that we share already reveal who we are inside.
As my repertoire grows, I am anxious to see the development of my own personal mythology that parallels mythology found in other cultures. Schank reminded, "Telling our stories allows us to compile our personal mythology, and the collection of stories we have compiled is to some extent who we are, what we have to say about the world, and tells the world the state of our mental health" (p. 44).
I chuckled when I read "state of our mental health". I seem to come up with crazy or out-of-the-box ideas and so I have nicknamed myself "Random Rachel" in a good natured sort of way. This could easily connect to the nickname that my mom continues to call me of "Silly Goose". Within a name--or a nickname--could be steps on the path that my personal mythology travels upon.
Part of the mythology journey may entail the times when I listen to others tell stories about me. I might dwell upon the stories to such a degree that there could be self-fulfillment of those stories in positive or negative ways. Schank taught, "We also acquire personal myths from our parents, teachers, friends, enemies--in short, from anyone who tells us stories about ourselves" (p. 46).
If too much time is spent listening to "enemies"--or at least from negative sources--then I may turn to a trusted friend and ask for a story that may comfort me. Often the biggest "enemy" is me. When I transform into villain, then Casey, my husband, reminds me that I magnify my faults and that I dwell upon criticism longer than I should. He usually follows these words with some sort of example of why I should be happy with myself. Schank noted, "When you tell a story that implies something is wrong with yourself, you may hope for a story that disputes your point" (p. 52). Fortunately, Casey is always there to "dispute" on my behalf.
Thus, my personal mythology journey continues. I, too, face the question in Hamlet of "To be or not to be". Will I be my own villain within my mythology or will I play the hero's role? Each story I tell could change the answer to that question.
Until we tell again,
I’ve begun to discover my storytelling voice is one that I hope will carry on the traditions given to me by my ancestors and help preserve the beauty and sacredness of the South-Central Appalachian region. The hope woven into any narrative of why this area and its folk traditions should be cherished and preserved is essentially a moral discourse, one shared with me by the people who called this place home. Breaking beans with my grandfather was not only a vocation of subsistence, but was also an exercise in morality. During my development as a storyteller over the past two years I’ve begun to see how storytelling can help share with others not only a way of life, but a way of living. Contemporary society may be experiencing a dearth of moral exemplars and an unraveling of our sense of place and community responsibility, but within the woven narrative of the communal oral tradition we may find keys to reclaiming an integral component of our humanity: our ability to understand and empathize with others as a way of embodying hope in the human potential. Woven into my particular family tapestry are these important moral threads, which I have chosen to emphasize as a significant aspect of my own narrative journey.
In many ways the two stories I’ve been telling are one. One important family tradition that I strive to embody is a desire to serve as a servant-leader. The importance of community service is woven throughout many Appalachian folktales. For me, this is the truest narrative of
Yesterday's exercises left me 'free'd up for some reason. I love poetry - I love to read it, hear it, and think about it, but I never really thought about why. As I heard the sonnets read aloud and listened to my classmates' discussion, I began to think about why I chose Thomas Caulfield Irwin's #5, A roadside on on a Summer Day. We did our class exercises and participated in 'conversation' about our story threads and then it hit me - Irwin is telling my story. Somehow, through words, I am in his story and he is in mine - our eyes see the same things but with different lenses.
Way back on page 36 in Tell me a Story, Schank writes about firsthand stories, saying 'the art of storytelling involves finding good ways to express one's experiences in a way appropriate to the listener.' For me, that is what Irwin accomplished in #5. How to translate that knowledge into my own work is the challenge.
…back to Yashinsky… he tells us that a storyteller is always collecting ideas, words, phrases, stories. Carmen Deedy told us the same thing. She even pulled her orange notebook out of her bag and showed it to us. I will have to resurrect mine. It might even have some memories that will “remind” me of a story I am now able to tell.
I have been immersed in Grandmother stories since coming here at the beginning of June. Maybe I am envious of the people who have Grandmother tales to tell. Both of my Grandmothers died when I was quite young. My children did not get to know their Grandmothers as neither of them are living. Maybe I am worried that I won’t be able to be the type of Grandmother to my grandchildren that gives the wonderful virtues told in the stories I have heard. Either way I do believe in the elder storyteller and the ideas presented by Yashinski. He offers the idea that a story that comes to you “directly via the oral tradition will set deep roots in your life and repertoire.” I don’t want to miss out, so I have adopted my own Grandparents wherever we have lived. They have enriched my life and given me many stories to tell, even if they are not about my background personally, they are about my era. When my stepmother died this spring, we sat as one family watching the video of her life and were able to laugh as we saw them wearing the same clothes we would have worn, our hair the the same, our lifestyles the same, very different personalities but there was the connection of living in the same era.
In class we talked briefly about me-goals and you-goals. According to Schank tellers have 5 intentions with respect to themselves (40):
• achieve catharsis,
• to get attention,
• to win approval,
• to seek advice,
• or to describe themselves.
Anyone who tells us stories about ourselves, is helping us acquire personal myths or you-stories. I am in the sorting process to see where the story I am going to tell fits in to this picture.
When we tell stories for other people we have other goals. Schank lists them as(48):
• To illustrate a point
• To make the listener feel someway or another
• To tell a story that transports the listener
• To transfer some piece of information in our head into the head of the listener
• To summarize significant events.
I often find when I am analyzing my story I might have a deep purpose to telling it, sometimes not able to remove myself yet from the story or experience. Then I know it isn’t ready to tell. Schank tells us that stories are often intended to make somebody feel something and often they make the teller feel something as well.
I enjoyed these two comments in Chapter 2;
1. “ the most you can get expect from an intelligent being is a really good story. To get human beings to be intelligent means getting them to have stories to tell and having them hear and perhaps use the stories of others.”(54)
2. “Good storytellers cause positive responses in their listeners. Thus, good storytellers seem very intelligent.”(54)
We continued our read aloud of Dr. Seuss. Warm-up activtiy with word sounds: passing the sound around the circle ("zzzz" "p" etc.) Articuklation exercises: "Whether" and:
A Tutor who tooted the flute tried to tutor two tooters to toot. Said the two to the tutor "Is it harder to toot or to tutor two tooters to toot?" (Focus on the distinction between the "liquid u" as in "tutor" and the straight "oo" as in "toot")
Cecily sells sea shells by the sea shore where the sun shines on the shop signs. (Get off your "s". Use this to control splashing sibilant sounds.)
We discussed the important of control the breath in certain plosive sounds such as "p" especially when working with a microphoone. Use "Peter Piper" for this purpose!
Brenda continued work on "I Can Read With My Eyes Shut". Note the choice to emphasize the pronoun or the verb: "I" vs. "read". In general, emphasize the action words.
Sandy read "Are You My Mother?" and "Gertrude McFuzz" 2 stories about bird adventures! We discussed the idea of "fresh thought", speaking the words as if you were just thinking of them, as when Gertrude asks her uncle if there is a...pill of some kind to help her.
Saundra read "Cat In The Hat". We discussed the surprise of a fish talking - the historic tension between fish and cat. Saundra extended the "sh" sound in "fish" in the line "up, up, up with a fish" to great and sinister effect. Word sounds enhance connotative meaning, but also have an entertainment value of their own.The short, clipped words such as "cat" and "hat" gave a stacatto quality to the reading, whereas open, ongoing sounds as in "down" let out the emotion of the moment in "put me down!" In general, consonants carry intellectual value (meaning) and vowels open up emotions (feeling).
Josh gave us "The Sleep Book" with a sense oif the fresh thoughts: "The news is just in..." We worked the "Horn Honker" sequence to get the distinction of words. Note the effective use of specific information such as the number of sleepers.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Today was a very interesting example of Schank's statement We were in the Schank Tank and it was full of 'gold' fish swimming together. All of you told personal stories that revived things in my memory. Now it is time to adapt my inherited stories and pass them.
Brain Gym is a program based somewhat on the yoga philosophy. It uses physical movements to enhance learning and performance. (much like some of the ones we do in class) It is said to develop the brains neural pathways the way nature does through movement. It is my understanding that some students may not have developed all of their primary reflexive patterns as a baby. Maybe they weren’t given a chance to crawl, spin, roll, reach for things because they were kept in swings, playpens, walkers, etc. Maybe they experienced trauma in utero, due to stress of the mom or something traumatic happening to mom. If these primary reflexes didn’t develop, that stage of development is not complete and can cause problems later on in life.
In the classroom, I do these activities to calm the students and help them focus. I have seen amazing results for me as well as for the students!!! Usually it is the students saying, “we didn’t do Brain Gym today”, especially if the class seems loud and off task. They notice the difference too.
There are various exercises to do, we usually pick about 5 and it is well worth the 10 minutes it takes. By mid way through the year the students take turn leading the exercises and picking what they want to do. Double doodles ( like the circle/triangle one we did, except we only do 1 shape) and the owl are favorite exercises. Different exercises focus on certain learning skills. You might do one exercise to help in listening and another one to help in writing or one to help calm you. I worked last year with a Brain Gym instructor to incorporate reflexive pattern movements into stories. We had great success and it is what I plan to do my paper on.
Some good sites to give you more information is:
Some words to google for more information:
Dr. Paul Dennison
The instructor I work with is from Oregon ( originally from ND) His e-mail is
firstname.lastname@example.org He has 2 books Brain/Heart Games for Families and Empowering Children Through Stories and Movement. I know he would answer any questions you had. Just tell him you met me at ETSU. He knows I am here working on this Masters degree.
There are many classes available around the country. Asheville, NC has 4 Brain gym instructors. TN has 2 and ND has 2 trained instructors also.
Like everything in life there are people who do not believe in the program. I have seen the difference it can make. I will admit sometimes, I do the Brain Gym activities because it will calm me and help me focus after a crazy morning full of unpredictable issues. You know, just a typical day at school!
If you have any more specific questions, ask me and I will see if I can answer them.
The longer we live on earth, the more experiences we gain that feed into the types of scripts we are familiar with such as the normal activities at school, home, work, or church. Our memories of such places and others can allow us to converse and communicate easier with our fellow man.
Though Shakespeare said that "all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players", each of us have different roles. Schank revealed, "The more scripts you know, the more situations will exist in which you feel comfortable and capable of playing your role effectively. But the more scripts you know, the more situations you will fail to wonder about, be confused by, and have to figure out on your own. Script-based understanding is a double-edge sword" (p. 8)
A script could even relate to the Harry Potter phenomenon at the bookstores. When there is the midnight party to celebrate the release of a Harry Potter book, I already know to expect thousands of people to be lined inside and outside of Barnes and Noble. I would not strangely look upon the people who have dressed up as their favorite characters in the book such as Harry Potter with his scar on his forehead, Hermione Granger with her stack of books, or Ron Weasley with his broken wand or pet rat Scabbers. I would see many people carrying broomsticks and know that I was not witnessing a major janitorial reunion. I was really among people who shared a fascination about the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and all the other magical wonders within the book pages.
If I was unfamiliar with the Harry Potter series, I would not know how to talk to the "crazy" people at the bookstore. The fans' minds would be filled with stories and episodes from the books. They would have these stories indexed to such a degree that an everyday word like "car" or "train" could trigger images from the second Harry Potter book with the flying car scene.
Though I have read six of the seven Harry Potter books, my husband, Casey, would be able to converse more intelligently about the series. On July 20th, he attended the midnight release of the seventh and final book of the Harry Potter series. He finished the book in one day. Since the 20th, Casey has read one chapter of the book a day over the telephone to me so that we might have deeper conversations in regards to the literature. Gary Saul Morson from the foreword commented, "Popular fiction or well-known narratives in mass culture, such as television programs or movies, also provoke intense conversations. . . .Such popular works allow us to speak to those like ourselves about questions interesting to us. . . .The conversations are going on now, and if one waits, one may see the film but will miss the dialogues about it" (p. xvii).
Television shows have seemed to wait on commenting on the last Harry Potter book so that more of the viewing population could feel apart of this unique storytelling event.
Within conversations, Harry Potter readers will remind what has already happened in the previous six books. As Schank stressed, "Reminding is the basis of much of our conversation and our thought" (p. 19).
Some storytellers have connected with their listeners by adapting the popular literature into their repertoire. A storyteller dressed as Hagrid, the half-giant and gamekeeper at the Hogwarts School, to share stories of magic in Louisville, Kentucky. Many library summer reading programs had storytimes to connect with themes due to the positive reactions to Harry Potter.
Even as I wrote these comments, I have used several words from the Harry Potter books that I can simply say and not explain since "culturally common stories are usually referred to rather than told" (p. 38).
So if at any moment we feel unintelligent, the easiest way to feel connected may be to discover the culturally common stories. Perhaps this explains why some movies, shows, or books are "must sees" or "must reads". We are striving to feel intelligent.
Until we tell again,