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Jay performs at the
National Storytelling Festival.
Photo by Tom Raymond |
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Last October was the 30th National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough,
Tennessee. Thousands came to hear the storytellers. As always
Main Street was decked with pumpkins, cornstalks and flowers.
On Thursday afternoon the great striped tents stood empty and
silent. Starting Friday morning in this beautiful town in the
Appalachian Hills, language will be beautifully shaped, songs
sung, laughter heard and tears shed. Everybody will be deeply
touched. Thursday it was haunting to stand in an empty tent and
listen to the silence.
One of the high points for me was telling "Father Joe" on Saturday
morning. Over a thousand people jammed the College Street tent.
My friend, Doug Lipman, who coached this story out of me was there.
So was my wife, Linda, and the Kennedys, our hosts in Jonesborough
who have become dear friends. In the kitchen that morning I had
said to Virginia Kennedy, "I brought some instant oatmeal to save
you the trouble. "Virginia gave me an unusually stern look and
said,"Instant oatmeal! Not in this house." Virginia made me real
oatmeal.
Just before I told the hour long story two things happened. Ed
Stivender walked by the tent. Ed, a storyteller of great grace,
tipped his hat and wished me well. Ed was off to enthrall his
own tent. His graciousness was symbolic of the extraordinary community
storytellers are.
The second incident was this: A woman outside the tent summoned
me over. Her husband was in a wheelchair. He'd had a stroke and
spoke with difficulty. I thanked him for coming and later found
out he was a singer and was determined to sing again. It was especially
moving to me because my story, "Father Joe," tells of my uncle
having a stroke which left him a near cripple. Teaching was the
thing Father Joe did best in life but the stroke made it impossible
so he had to grapple with that huge sadness. His stroke was the
result of pressures that built up on shipboard during World War
II. Father Joe won the Congressional Medal of Honor. If I could,
I would give him a medal for the way he lived the last seventeen
years of his life.
I stood ready to tell. Gay Ducey gave me a warm and poetic introduction
and the audience and I entered the world of "Father Joe."
Another fine moment came on Saturday night. By then, many of
the listeners were worn out. The weather was turning chilly. I
arrived and found the tent was only half full. "Where is everybody?"
I was grumpy. Syd Lieberman, marvelous storyteller from Chicago,
was in the tent talking to some children. The tent didn't fill
and it was time to start. Dovie Thomason, storyteller, natural
leader and emcee, introduced Syd. Syd took the stage with such
spirit the tent came alive. Invisible sparks come from every part
of his body. Syd reminded me of Brother Blue's saying that if
a tent is half full, the rest of the seats are filled with angels.
Blue always plays to a full house.
Syd filled the tent with light. He invited the children he'd
been talking to onto the stage. As Syd told, the youngsters acted
the story out. Wild fun. Next Syd launched into a new story about
his daughter, Sarah, who was there. Then Syd put on a baseball
cap and recited "Casey at the Bat." When he finished, the angels
were shimmering in their chairs and the rest of us applauding.
The tent was a cookin'. Onawumi Jean Moss told next. She told
with such beauty there were gasps. Dovie Thomason followed with
a tale of stunning images. By the time we'd finished, the tent
was floating. Them angels got carried away.
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Jay with Saul and Hankje
Rodriguez |
I spent most of December in Houston, Texas rehearsing and then
being part of the Houston Revels. The Revels is a pageant celebrating
solstice with the songs, dances, stories and rituals of a culture.
This year in Houston it was the Celtic Revels. Steve Green, president
of the Houston Revels, lent me his Mercedes and my wife, Linda,
warned me not to get used to it. Sorry about the flat tire, Steve.
It's unusual for me to work with a cast, or at least a visible
cast. When I travel to a city to perform, the plane is filled
with my characters. They're invisible and don't have to buy tickets.
They don't even have to go through the x-ray machine. But here
in Houston, the people were made of flesh and blood. There were
eighty-two of us including a large children's chorus who kept
us in good spirits.
It was fascinating to work with Beth Sanford, the director. I
realized once again how important consonants are. After I told
"Connor and the Leprechaun" Beth said the word "drawings" couldn't
be heard. Ah, consonants, the bones of speech, Blair McClosky
used to tell me at singing lessons.
Which reminds me, the three people who taught me most about language
were my mother, father and Mrs. Lawrence of my Pill Hill stories.
" I'm goin' out." I'd say when I was seven or eight. Mother would
reply in a voice that rang through the house, "Go___ing! You're
go___ing out!" Words were as real as grapefruit or doorknobs to
mother. Every word had its own shape, smell, touch and size.
But back to the Houston Revels and director Beth Sanford. Here
are a few of Beth's maxims.
- "If you want applause, bow slowly."
- "Nothing is worth anything if it can't be understood."
- "Don't have your back to the audience."
- "Don't do anything that makes it longer." (Beth should
work with preachers).
- "It's hard to laugh on stage."
I stayed with Saul and Hankje Rodriguez, members of the cast.
They live in a modern house in Houston and bring to life a spirit
that would have made Jacob Marley dance. It was fun being part
of their household. And I discovered something biologists should
know about. Saul and Hankje and the Revels cast would do two shows
and then party. After that it was morning and time to exercise
and work. They don't sleep. There's a Nobel Prize waiting for
the one who discovers their secret.
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I've always wanted to do a concert with Jack Langstaff, one of
the great lights of this country. We'll do the concert at the
Unitarian Church in Brookline at 2:00 pm, Sunday, November 2nd.
The concert will be full of music, stories and surprise. Put it
on your calendar.
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Doug Lipman and I have worked with our Creativity Group for ten
years. At our last meeting in Vermont, everyone dressed up as
a cliche for supper. Poet Carol Burnes, doned a wig and came "pretty
as a picture." Gerry Leader was the "Marlboro Man," and I stole
my friend Barbara Wall's idea of "not crying over spilled milk."
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| Pretty as a Picture |
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In January I spent a week as part of the Distinguished Visitors
Series at the University of Michigan School of Art and Design
in Ann Arbor. One of the highlights was spending a morning in
Jim Cogswell's studio. Jim is a professor at the university and
an artist. He brought me to the university. (His wife, Sarah said,
" Bring Jay O'Callahan." Thank you Sarah.)
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| Jim Cogswell with his
marvelous work |
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Imagine going into a garage that is now an artist's studio. You
smell the paint and turpentine mixed with sunlight and heat. Jim's
paintings are hanging up or leaning against the wall. Jim is drawn
to color, shape and ideas. As he talks about his paintings you
can almost see a mysterious dance going on inside him. He opens
a can of yellow paint and the color is so bright you whoop. His
paintings are worlds full of color, tension and mystery. Silent
jazz, silent symphonies.
"There are times," Jim said, "when I don't know where the painting
will go. I thought that one on the wall was finished but it's
not."
"When I'm working on story," I said, "I often feel like I'm wandering
in the dark and the image is like a candle that leads me where
I need to go. I've learned to trust the image."
Jim and I spent a lovely morning talking about his paintings.
Then we went off to swim at the university pool.
Carl Zinn, a retired professor at the university and an old friend,
was ever at my side all week. The two of us were like Huck Finn
and Jim floating down the Mississippi River. One moment we'd be
exploring the performance spaces, the next talking about video
taping the workshops I'd be giving. We ran into problems and solved
them together. I spent the last night at the Zinn's hearing stories
of Ann Zinn's daring father and eating Ann's apple pie. What crust!
I spent two evenings with Charles Kennedy at a delightful Turkish
restaurant in Ann Arbor. The restaurant, Ayse's Courtyard Cafe,
is near the North campus and is my kind of place. Simple. Lovely.
A few tables adorned with flowers. The owner and cook, Ayse Uras,
is full of sunshine. She doesn't give you her name and lots of
folderall. She just makes you feel welcome. It may be the only
restaurant to receive 10 out of 10 by the Ann Arbor News. Charles
eats there nearly every day.
I first met Charles when he was probably twelve or fourteen in
Jonesborough, Tennessee. I'd be telling stories at the National
Storytelling Festival and staying with Charles' parents, Bill
and Virginia. Charles has since gotten his Ph.D. at the University
of Michigan and plays the organ masterfully. I came home with
CDs of his and after meditating in the evening, I listen to Charles
playing Bach or Herbert Howells. If you go to Ann Arbor go to
Ayse's Courtyard Cafe and say hello to Charles and Ayse.
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Dear Joe,
Thanks. I remember visiting your class and thinking you and your
students were on a raft exploring the islands of Coles, Kozol
and even O'Callahan. Your class would have delighted in Socrates
and Plato.
How astonishing you were when you had your leg amputated. You
helped other patients. You made a phone call getting one woman
a job, and were busy cheering others with your stories. You were
full of tales of hospital food, nurses, and the embarrassment
of it all. "All modesty gone." You reminded me of my uncle, Father
Joe, who was almost crippled by a stroke caused by the war, but
he never complained. Nor did you.
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Dean Joe Maguire at
the Great Supper with Jay & Linda |
How I'll miss your voice. I'd call and say "It's Jay," and the
phone would be filled with your warmth and laughter. You made
people feel special.
How you gathered people with your royal generosity. I remember
the grand supper we had the month before you died. I told "Politics."
Everyone looked splendid. It was a gathering of students, graduates,
old friends and new friends. Everyone there to honor you. We were
all happy to be part of the evening. You made us feel elegant
and dashing. Everyone loved you.
You were gatherer, helper, friend, teacher, lover of language,
lover of stories, songs, drama, wit and thought.
I'm sad to think I can't pick up the phone and call you. How
I miss your voice already. Your support, your kindness, your joy.
But then again, how lucky we all were to have had you.
Thank you,
Jay
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I sent an e-mail newsletter about meditation and silence a month
ago. I got wonderful replies. Willy Claflin is one of the funniest
and sharpest storytellers. Here is his reply.
I always used to race through stories. Part of it was deliberate,
delighting in the rapidly unfolding kaleidoscope of images, and
part was inadvertent—adrenaline; nervous energy. Anyway,
I would always rocket along. Then I went to Texas and taught a
workshop. A woman wrote a story which began with this sentence:
"Snake wanted to learn to play canasta. Only she didn't say, "snakewantedtolearntoplaycanasta!"
She said, "Snake . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . wanted to learn . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .to play . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . canasta." It must have
taken her 20 seconds.
I had time to see the snake see the deck of cards and realize
what sort of problems Snake might have say, dealing or holding
the cards. Aha! thought I. And this led me to dwell on the spaces
between words, and eventually to connect that empty space with
the silence of meditation. I came to understand that inviting
silence into stories created the opportunity for teller and audience
to rest, live and breathe inside the story. Not just to rocket
along towards the end, but to sit together quietly in the middle
of the story. To inhabit that world together.
I still often forget to do this, in the excitement of performing.
But when I remember, it is very powerful to me, and reminds me
of what one teacher said, "When you sit zazen, do not sit alone.
Sit with all beings."
—Willy Claflin
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Brother Blue has inspired thousands throughout the world. He's
the William Blake of storytelling. Blue and his wife, Ruth Hill,
host storytelling evenings on Tuesday nights at the Sherrill Library
of the Episcopal Divinity School at 7PM. Brother Blue's email:
r_hill@radcliffe.edu
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| Brother Blue |
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| Syd Lieberman |
*Between February 6th and June 1st, the Van Andel Center Museum
in Grand Rapids, Michigan, will present an exhibition of the Dead
Sea Scrolls. Syd Lieberman has been commissioned to write five
stories for the museum about how the scrolls emerged from the
ancient world into ours. Syd will also be teaching storytelling
to the Docents who will be telling short excerpts of Syd's work
to exhibit visitors. Syd's email address: slieberman@etpost.net
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Sop Doll & Other
Tales of
Mystery and Mayhem |
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*Milbre Burch's new CD, "Sop Doll and Other Tales of Mystery
and Mayham," is superb. Milbre's stories flow with the beauty
of a flute solo. Her stories are beautifully crafted and her delivery
is exquisite. Milbre's email: Kindcrone@aol.com
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| Rafe Martin's Novel |
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*Rafe Martin's novel, The World Before This One, is full of stories,
wonder and wisdom. No surprise it got great reviews. Rafe's email:
RafeM@aol.com
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| A Well Kept Secret,
by Laura Pershin Raynor |
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*Laura Pershin Raynor's CD, "A Well Kept Secret," is superb.
After listening to Laura's first story about Laura's grandmother's
journey from Russia to Chicago, you feel part of her family. Laura's
voice creates a silence inside the listener that is breathtaking.
Laura's email: LPR53@aol.com
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