2024 Azalea Storytelling Festival

Between the two final performances on Sunday the four headliners posed for pictures. L-R: Regi Carpenter, Bil Lepp, Paul Strickland, and Donald Davis.

Sheila and I spent the weekend in Lagrange for the Azalea Storytelling Festival. It is always a great show. We stayed at the Comfort Inn of Lafayette Parkway. Panther Drive is closed by construction around the railroad overpass, so Siri directed us on a circuitous southern route from the hotel to Callaway Auditorium, though we eventually realized is was at least easier and probably quicker to drive straight through from the hotel to Park and then to Dallas -- two turns.

Josh Goforth, one of our favorite musician/tellers came down with civid on Wednesday and the festival folks had to scurry to find a last minute replacement to join Regi Carpenter, Bil Lepp, and Donald Davis as the fourth teller. Guess who they came up with?! Our buddy the 2019 Big Fibber himself, Paul Strickland. This was the first time we had heard Paul as a headliner and he acquitted himself well. 

A plaque commemorating the three Azalea SF founders. I never knew Pat or Evelyn, but Pat's husband is our friend Sidney Gay. And Joyce Morgan we have come to admire not only as one of the prime organizers of the festival but also of the annual Donald Davis summer storytelling workshop in Lagrange. Sheila gave me that workshop as my 70th birthday present in 2017.

I have attended ten or more of the ASFs so far I imagine, and Sheila has accompanied me several times. It is a great festival. During my times at the festival they have always featured four nationally respected storytellers. Donald Davis seems to almost always be there. Bil Lepp makes it about every other year or so. Regi was the original newbie for the festival this year, but Josh's illness meant there were two newbies this year. I rate this one among my favorites. 

On Saturdays there is always a soup lunch at Belvue, the beautiful antebellum home of Georgia's Senator Ben Hill. We almost always participate. Here are a few pictures from that gorgeous historic building.

At the ASF the Callaway auditorium is a wonderful place to hear stories. First, you always hear them. The sound system is great. The upholstered seats are comfortable. The emcee (always in recent years our friend Carol Cain -- except when she is a headliner herself) is entertaining BUT keeps it short and makes sure the spotlight on the tellers and not herself. 

I took notes so I could write up some lists of stories told and favorite lines each day. Unfortunately by the time we got back to the hotel each evening the bed beckoned the old bones. I hope I get back this to jot something about the stories and the tellers. But this'll have to do for now.
 

Last of the Old Time Storytellers

Ray Hicks (with his wife Rosa) is a legend among the folks in traditional storytelling. I ran across this 1999 documentary video on YouTube today and enjoyed what I saw of it. I'll save it here for a leisurely viewing later.

All Day at Armuchee Elementary

Armuchee Elementary had a special day of teacher meetings on Friday and asked me to do four 40 minute performances -- one for each of their four grades. Gym performances for large groups are definitely not my favorites, but the ARS kids were well-behaved and attentive and the staff were enthusiastic and helpful.

I was especially pleased to have the help of our newest Bonner program intern from Berry College, Lucy Hicks, as my assistant for the day. 

Unsure of what exactly to expect I took a large assortment of mounts, furs, and several live animals and set up a display on three folding tables. In the end I used the same story for the 4th, 5th, and 6th grade classes -- "Yellowtail" and showed off the corn snake to all three groups. For the third graders I used a baby alligator and told my "Trouble" story. 

My only disappointment of the day was that I did not get to see Emily Turrentine, one of my newest nieces-in-law who teaches there or Vivian Davis, my friend and fellow Arrowhead naturalist who also teaches there. they were in meetings while I was presenting.

 

27th Annual Azalea Storytelling Festival

Since librarian and storyteller Pat Gay, LaGrange College education professor Evelyn Jordan, and the assistant superintendent of Troup County schools Joyce Morgan got together (with advice from Donald Davis) in 1997 to organize the Azalea Storytelling Festival, it has grown from very modest beginnings to what may be the premier storytelling festival in Georgia. Sheila and I have enjoyed it many times in the last couple of decades. 

What a great line-up graced the stage this weekend. We had obligations on Friday and Sunday, so we set our clocks early and rose in time yesterday to drive the two hours from Rome to LaGrange and arrive at the Callaway Auditorium at LaGrange College in plenty of time for the morning session at 9:30.

 

Rev. Robert Jones opened up with "Good Morning Blues", inviting us to some call and response. This is his first time to the Azalea, but I'll bet he'll be back. He kept us laughing and reminiscing with him about present day travels and Cracker Barrel restaurants -- the CB wait staff wears stars to indicate their experience levels from "rising star" through four star experts. His story recounted a heart-warming experience with a "rising star" who was less than perfect in her attention to Robert and his wife, but for good reason. His monologue included several excellent musical impressions of musicians including Johnny Cash, George Jones, and others.

Next up was the Dean of American Storytelling who tells at Azalea most years -- Donald Davis. This time around he told about his 1953 "chemistry set". When his Mom would not allow him a chemistry set, he discovered hat their house had multiple chemistry sets. One was his mother's make-up collection. Uh-oh. 

One of the world's great emcees is -- when she isn't a featured teller herself -- Carol Cain. She sent us to a short break before the other two tellers took their turns.

After the break Alabama's spitfire Delores Hydock was first up. Delores grew up in Reading, Pennsylvania learning Roman Catholic catechism under the tutelage of Catholic nuns. But recently she says she has been learning a different "cat"-echism. Hers were the stories of a white cat (Finn), then a black cat (Jack), and finally a pair of striped cats (Ripple and Wink) who adopted her and changed her life. 

Adam Booth is about the age of my eldest daughter and one of the younger tellers on the national storytelling circuit. This is his first year at Azalea. He reminisced about his childhood in Huntington, West Virginia when he loved to watch Knight Rider on TV. 

David Hasselhoff and Knight Rider

Adam's older brother, "a bit of a rebel" bought a car that really did talk: "A door is A jar" or "Fasten. your. seat. belt". The brother decorated the car with "firebird trim" and Adam called it the "Fauxbird". Seven year-old Adam eventually was treated to a rocket launching misadventure in the "Fauxbird".

We had a nice long break for lunch and Sheila I did what we have often done for Saturday lunch at this festival. We drone up to Bellevue the gorgeous restored antebellum mansion of Georgia's Senator Ben Hill and had a delicious soup lunch with the storytellers and lots of Azalea audience members. Always a delicious assortment of soups and cornbreads prepared by volunteers and a special treat is the variety of homemade cookies at each table. We were pleased to discover that one of our table mates was a lady who had eaten with us at the very same table once before, Mrs. Enid Tate. (See the picture below.)

Mrs. Enid Tate is the widow of Methodist pastor Rev. Sidney Tate. Sidney was the son of another well-known Georgia pastor, Rev. John Tate. Enid knew my Mother and Daddy and knows my sister Joan and her husband Jim Turrentine. 

The afternoon session started with Delores. She talked about discoing a Polish festival in Lawrenceville, Georgia of all places which gave her an opportunity to remember her Polish immigrant grandmother and her delicious pierogis...

A photo of pierogis from the internet.

... and their experiences as immigrants through Ellis Island...

Another photo from the internet.

Next up was Rev. Robert Jones and his marvelous guitar again. The guitar is actually built from wood recycled from a demolished Detroit home on "Trumbull Street". He played a song he wrote about it. Then he talked about how he got his first guitar. 

Adam told a couple of spooky stories in this set.

Donald David ended the afternoon session. Donald says you don't join the category of "dead" until no one is telling stories about you any longer. Donald decided to consider some folks from his experience who were in danger of joining that category if he didn't tell about them. Today he told us about the "town drunk" Kyper (sp) Moody -- but "town drunk" was far from the whole story of Kyper.

For our late afternoon break we decided to eat simple and leave time for a walk. So we ate waffles at a nearby Waffle House then drove back to the auditorium and parked there to walk LaGrange's "Thread".

Here we are near the west end of "The Thread".

The path is nicely landscaped with occasional benches and good signage.

The path meanders along Panther Way at the base of a hill  and below another street lined with what seem to have originally been identical craftsman cottages. Of course, humans are prone to individualizing their living spaces to their own preferences so these homes have been altered in many ways over the years. A picturesque neighborhood of lovely small homes.

Looking down from those houses you see more of the LaGrange College campus including the tennis cenyter, Callaway Auditorium, and athletic fields.

 The evening performances were top notch.  

Adam Booth opened with a story in tribute to Jay O'Callahan called "Smoke". It was a story that grew out of the glass factory that dominated the town where Adam grew up. One of the things I admire about Adam's storytelling is his use of sound effects. Whether the story involved percussion instruments or speeding emergency vehicles, or a working chimney sweep, or most anything else, he has worked at creating sound effects that add to without overpowering the stories. I liked the way the different parts of this story interweaved characters and images -- relatives, glass, smoke, the chimney sweep.

Donald Davis's Daddy treated Donald's childhood felonies and misdemeanors differently. Misdemeanors resulted in quick and relatively harmless paddling. But felonies elicited stories. Donald would much prefer a beating. One occasion that brought forth a story was the time Donald stole and smoked a cigarette in the family's barn. 

Delores recited a little piece of rhyme:

The circle of life goes round and round, 
Live long enough you'll find it's true
The student will teach; the teacher will learn
You become your mother 
And you mother becomes you.

The parallel phrasing in the tale of her own first day of first grade, and many years later, her mother's first day of retirement activities, illustrated the last two lines of the rhyme.

That brought her to a story I'd heard from Delores before -- but I still enjoyed. She told of driving the eight hundred miles from Birmingham to Reading, Pennsylvania to attend a "significant number" high school reunion.

Robert Jones capped the evening with a tribute to "Lead Belly" (Hudie Ledbetter) from his CD "An Evening With Lead Belly". Wow. The very last number was "Goodnight Irene". I sang it, off and on, for the two hour drive home.

The cover of Jone's Lead Belly album.

Storywalk

 On our river walk today we discovered the new Storywalk! I am so glad to see this. When the grandgirls and their Mom and Dad visited with us in the fall we spent a day at Sloppy Floyd State Park. There on one of the nature walks that have something very similar to this. And down in Bartow County I saw something similar on a walk near an elementary school where I told stories. 

This "storywalk" is set up with 24 stations that begin on the riverwalk near the Library and extends to the Ellen Axson Wilson statue at the Town Green and back. Each station holds one two-page spread of a children's picture book. Each month the book is swapped out for another one. So as you walk the mile or so with a child you read the book. When you reach the 24th station you can pick up a form and swap it for a prize at the children's library. I look forward to sharing a "storywalk" with my grandgirls the next time they are here!

Storywalk  station 12 near the Ellen Axson Wilson statue.

We ran into Nancy & Scott Self and enjoyed catching up with the doings of their children and grandchildren and telling them about ours. 

Sunset from the John Ross Bridge

Full moon rising from the Riverwalk between Turner-Mcall and Fifth Avenue.

One Last Storytelling Evening for 2022

 While Sheila was enjoying the fireworks show right out our back door, I was telling a story to folks all over the country from a spare bedroom.

Sheila took the picture from the levee in our back yard.I  hated to miss the fireworks. Bad timing. from a Terrell point-of-view.

But I sure did enjoy getting to tell a story with these five Georgia Storytelling Network friends for the 7 p.m. hour of the 2022 Story Blowout. Clockwise from bottom Left: Robin Kitson, Esther Culver, Anne Wheeler (emcee), Gwendolyn Napier, Melanie Kauff, and yours truly.

Here's a practice video of my story tonight.

Christmas Visiting at The Spires

One of the joys of the last two years for me has been my storytelling at the Spires at Berry College. The Spires is a retirement center that serves seniors from those who are completely independent to those who need high levels of care. I do storytelling with three groups there. 

Once a month I lead a storytelling time for those who are most independent. I usually tell a story, often bringing an animal to show off,  and open the floor to anyone else who would like to tell at story. I was blessed to twice have John Schulz join me; I sure do miss him. And I could for many months count on a story from Leonard White who was a resident there and a wonderful storyteller himself. How I miss Leonard too. But we have several others who will occasionally share a bit of a story from their own experiences. We meet next this Thursday (December 15) at 2 pm. The staff at the Spires welcome any and all from the community who would like to come and join in the storytelling as a listener or a teller. So y'all come. The emphasis this week, of course, will be stories of the holiday season.

Almost every Tuesday I tell stories to two groups at the Magnolia Place building at the Spires. Those in the first group are folks with memory issues. Those in the second group have physical issues. What a blessing these folks have been to me the last two years.

Today rather than telling stories per se I recited (with printed copies in my hand just in case) several of my favorite Christmas poems. All three are available online so they are -- I think-- out of copyright. I'll share the here. All three are poems many of my former students will remember -- I think I recited each around this time of year most years that I taught. 

The first is a beautiful but heartbreaking fantasy by one of America's great poets, Edna St. Vincent Millay.

The Ballad of
the Harp Weaver

BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

“Son,” said my mother,

  When I was knee-high,

“You’ve need of clothes to cover you,

  And not a rag have I.

 

“There’s nothing in the house

  To make a boy breeches,

Nor shears to cut a cloth with

  Nor thread to take stitches.

 

“There’s nothing in the house

  But a loaf-end of rye,

And a harp with a woman’s head

  Nobody will buy,”

  And she began to cry.

 

That was in the early fall.

  When came the late fall,

“Son,” she said, “the sight of you

Makes your mother’s blood crawl,–

 

“Little skinny shoulder-blades

  Sticking through your clothes!

And where you’ll get a jacket from

  God above knows.

 

“It’s lucky for me, lad,

  Your daddy’s in the ground,

And can’t see the way I let

  His son go around!”

  And she made a queer sound.

 

That was in the late fall.

  When the winter came,

I’d not a pair of breeches

  Nor a shirt to my name.

I couldn’t go to school,

  Or out of doors to play.

And all the other little boys

  Passed our way.

 

“Son,” said my mother,

  ”Come, climb into my lap,

And I’ll chafe your little bones

  While you take a nap.”

 

And, oh, but we were silly

  For half an hour or more,

Me with my long legs

  Dragging on the floor,

 

A-rock-rock-rocking

  To a mother-goose rhyme!

Oh, but we were happy

  For half an hour’s time!

 

But there was I, a great boy,

  And what would folks say

To hear my mother singing me

  To sleep all day,

  In such a daft way?

 

Men say the winter

  Was bad that year;

Fuel was scarce,

  And food was dear.

 

A wind with a wolf’s head

  Howled about our door,

And we burned up the chairs

  And sat upon the floor.

 

All that was left us

  Was a chair we couldn’t break,

And the harp with a woman’s head

  Nobody would take,

  For song or pity’s sake.

The night before Christmas

  I cried with the cold,

I cried myself to sleep

  Like a two-year-old.

 

And in the deep night

  I felt my mother rise,

And stare down upon me

  With love in her eyes.

 

I saw my mother sitting

  On the one good chair,

A light falling on her

  From I couldn’t tell where,

 

Looking nineteen,

  And not a day older,

And the harp with a woman’s head

  Leaned against her shoulder.

 

Her thin fingers, moving

  In the thin, tall strings,

Were weav-weav-weaving

  Wonderful things.

 

Many bright threads,

  From where I couldn’t see,

Were running through the harp-strings Rapidly,

 

And gold threads whistling

  Through my mother’s hand.

I saw the web grow,

  And the pattern expand.

 

She wove a child’s jacket,

  And when it was done

She laid it on the floor

  And wove another one.

 

She wove a red cloak

  So regal to see,

“She’s made it for a king’s son,”

  I said, “and not for me.”

  But I knew it was for me.

 

She wove a pair of breeches

  Quicker than that!

She wove a pair of boots

  And a little cocked hat.

 

She wove a pair of mittens,

  She wove a little blouse,

She wove all night

  In the still, cold house.

 

She sang as she worked,

  And the harp-strings spoke;

Her voice never faltered,

  And the thread never broke.

  And when I awoke,–

 

There sat my mother

  With the harp against her shoulder

Looking nineteen

  And not a day older,

 

A smile about her lips,

  And a light about her head,

And her hands in the harp-strings

  Frozen dead.

 

And piled up beside her

  And toppling to the skies,

Were the clothes of a king’s son,

  Just my size.

The second is by Ogden Nash. Nash's poetry often depends on silly, humorous, and tortured rhymes.

The Boy Who Laughed At Santa Claus

by Ogden Nash

In Baltimore there lived a boy.

He wasn’t anybody’s joy.

Although his name was Jabez Dawes,

His character was full of flaws. 

In school he never led his classes,

He hid old ladies’ reading glasses,

His mouth was open when he chewed,

And elbows to the table glued.

He stole the milk of hungry kittens,

And walked through doors marked
‘NO ADMITTANCE’.

He said he acted thus because

There wasn’t any Santa Claus.

Another trick that tickled Jabez

Was crying ‘Boo’ at little babies.

He brushed his teeth, they said in town,

Sideways instead of up and down.

Yet people pardoned every sin,

And viewed his antics with a grin,

Till they were told by Jabez Dawes,

‘There isn’t any Santa Claus!’

Deploring how he did behave,

His parents swiftly sought their grave.

They hurried through the portals pearly,

And Jabez left the funeral early.

Like whooping cough, from child to child,

He sped to spread the rumor wild:

‘Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes

There isn’t any Santa Claus!’

Slunk like a weasel of a marten

Through nursery and kindergarten,

Whispering low to every tot,

‘There isn’t any, no there’s not!’

The children wept all Christmas eve

And Jabez chortled up his sleeve.

No infant dared hang up his stocking

For fear of Jabez’ ribald mocking. 

He sprawled on his untidy bed,

Fresh malice dancing in his head,

When presently with scalp-a-tingling,

Jabez heard a distant jingling;

He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof

Crisply alighting on the roof.

What good to rise and bar the door?

A shower of soot was on the floor.

What was beheld by Jabez Dawes?

The fireplace full of Santa Claus!

Then Jabez fell upon his knees

With cries of ‘Don’t,’ and ‘Pretty Please.’

He howled, ‘I don’t know where you read it,

But anyhow, I never said it!’

‘Jabez’ replied the angry saint,

‘It isn’t I, it’s you that ain’t.

Although there is a Santa Claus,

There isn’t any Jabez Dawes!’

Said Jabez then with impudent vim,

‘Oh, yes there is, and I am him!

Your magic don’t scare me, it doesn’t’

And suddenly he found he wasn’t!

From grimy feet to grimy locks,

Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box,

An ugly toy with springs unsprung,

Forever sticking out his tongue.

The neighbors heard his mournful squeal;

They searched for him, but not with zeal.

No trace was found of Jabez Dawes,

Which led to thunderous applause,

And people drank a loving cup

And went and hung their stockings up.

All you who sneer at Santa Claus,

Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes,

The saucy boy who mocked the saint.

Donner and Blitzen licked off his paint.

Finally I recited the classic by Clement Moore, first published almost 200 years ago.

A Visit from St. Nicholas

By Clement Clarke Moore

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds;

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,

With a little old driver so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

I recited the same poems with the second group, but we also sang a couple of songs together -- and I heard some nice harmony added along the way -- Silent Night and Jingle Bells. And I sang a more modern personal favorite:

Some Children See Him 

by Alfred Burt and Whila Hutson

Some children see Him lily white 

The infant Jesus born this night 

Some children see Him lily white 

With tresses soft and fair 

Some children see Him bronzed and brown 

The Lord of heav'n to earth come down 

Some children see Him bronzed and brown 

With dark and heavy hair 

Some children see Him almond-eyed 

This Saviour whom we kneel beside 

Some children see Him almond-eyed

With skin of yellow hue! 

Some children see Him dark as they 

Sweet Mary's Son to whom we pray 

Some children see Him dark as they 

And, ah! they love Him so! 

The children in each different place 

Will see the Baby Jesus' face 

Like theirs but bright with heav'nly grace 

And filled with holy light! 

O lay aside each earthly thing 

And with thy heart as offering 

Come worship now the infant King 

'Tis love that's born tonight! 

. . . 'tis love that's born tonight!

Then the storytelling devolved into that favorite level of the art, in my opinion: visiting! Several folks reminisced about their childhood Christmases.

I came home cheered and refreshed.