The rising fragrance of…popcorn popping in a real popper, instead of a microwave was more than a little exciting. To follow directions of measuring kernels and oil, both from Orville Redenbacher, left me with feelings of anticipation.
It would be special. The kernels popped in a large, visible, and louder way, until I was concerned the popped corn would go way over the top. As the pops slowed down their rhythm, and the popper used more force each time.
It brought back memories of the old-fashioned popper's lower case plugged into a socket, making burning red coils in the bottom, and a higher pan placed directly over it. It was also a reminder of pouring the oil first, and a measure of kernels, then, quickly placing a glass top over it to watch, as the small kernels expanded and expanded, until the top was reached. You could witness the miracle of kernel
transformation.
Instead of the Kingdom of Heaven being like a leaven of bread whose yeast causes it to expand, what if Jesus had known about popcorn that the Native Americans had introduced to the pilgrims? He would have said, “the Kingdom of Heaven is like popcorn in a popcorn popper. It starts small and grows and expands and expands until popcorn is all over the kitchen for everyone to partake.”
And partake we did. Mom had her roast dinner in the oven during the Sunday service where Dad was the main dude of the show, after the dogs had howled, listening to the church bell; one of the dogs was ours.
So Mom was off the hook, after Sunday. Roast beef with a bay leaf I never could understand, nor did I care for it. But the carrots and potatoes were palatable.
What we got as we listened to the tall radio, that presented “Dragnet” and “Our Miss Brooks”, were bowls of popcorn for the evening. Very clever of Mom,to provide an easy way to end the day, and entertaining too!
So the bonafide popcorn popper finally produced the nostalgic Sunday evening meal, complete with radio plays, foreshadowing, “A Prairie Home Companion”.
So when I reached for the first morsel in my wooden bowl, to savor the non-microwaved taste, it tasted like…popcorn.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Nature Animals
Out of breath, pushing through the woods in front of the snarling wolf, I skidded to a stop in front of the cliff, and I noticed that the timber wolf was but a puppet, sitting on the shelf of the state park’s Nature Center. I was immediately drawn to it, but it looked so real and so extraordinarily beautiful, I kept coming back to it, trying it on my hand.
Yet for what story could it possibly be used? It was so large
for a puppet, that even sitting on my porch deck rail, it would be frightening.
A young couple came in, and she exclaimed, “Oh!” as she was drawn to it herself. The clerk behind the desk said they had to keep stocking that one.
My husband tried to distract me with finger puppets; there’s good use for them from time to time. I still love to glide by butterflies for “The Butterfly that Stamped”, and my finger jungle animals for “How the Elephant Got His Trunk”, both Kipling stories.
I had glossed over the porcupine last summer, since I reasoned I had a stuffed porcupine for which I’d looked all over town. But also, it wasn’t a puppet, and I had a Native American story for it already, “The Meeting of the Animals.”
I looked at the finger puppets extensively, as my husband sighed and shifted on his feet; “Have you found one yet?”
A little girl showed me her finger puppets. I could place her age at about 3rd or 4th grade, as I’d just gotten done teaching three grade levels of drama.
I played around with the middle bin of various realistic birds I could not name.
But I kept coming back to the wolf, just as I’d reasoned myself out of the porcupine last summer, checked the price tag, $10 more at least, and the animal was so big!
I fumbled around in the bin for smaller stuffed animals, not puppets, miniature wolves, but not puppets, just as magnificent, but not puppets.
I asked the clerk if they had a slightly smaller wolf than the one on the shelf.
I went back to the gargantuan wolf. Such a beautiful animal, and it looked so real!
No, it would be the porcupine this year. It would fit the Native American story regarding both large and small animals. The porcupine would represent the small ones facing a bear I’d already purchased.
We ended up getting ghost story books, falling leaf earrings, various artifacts, and of course, the puppet. It came to a higher price by far than the originally intended $20 just for the puppet. Oh well. It’s once a year.
Later, at the birth of their first child, my 1st grand daughter, we already had the camera out for baby pictures. So, I showed my son in law, pictures of the porcupine and birds nest, sitting on my porch deck. I told him how the birds worked when you manipulated your fingers in the nest. Though not a puppet lover himself, he was impressed by the natural look of these puppets.
He suggested, “Peter and the Wolf”, a story that depressed me as a child. Still, I just might want to review it, and I might just get to like that story.
So, now, nearly 5 years later,I spotted this little feller,
and bought him
right out.
Won't have to use, "Peter
and the Wolf", either.
There's a chapter in, Little
House on the Prairie,
dealing with A Night of
the Wolves.
That should work.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Kipper/Tiger Balance
My husband and I watch "Kipper, the Dog" with our grandchildren and have learned a lot from Kipper's positive, relaxed attitude.
He has a Scotty dog friend, Tiger, his antithesis, a Type-A personality, who always has the latest gadgets. When Tiger goes "on holiday", he carries excess stuff, and even his picture postcards show his attempts to "have fun" kick back.
When I was "on holiday', in my home town in Wisconsin, it occurred to me that having fun and presenting a gig meant establishing a balance between the two dogs.
I was proud that I'd reduced Tiger a bit on the second trip. The minute I received word they'd like me to return, I asked the Chamber Coordinator if she wanted:
* the same
* something similar, or
* a whole different program.
The second time, I booked my motel right away, backtracked to the proper bus that lined up with the ferry schedule, then booked the ferry. I had learned a hard lesson the year before.
* If you wait, even a week, you have to get a more expensive motel, farther away from the festival.
* In Spring, the ferry has only two travel times,
* So you have to book the charter bus.
After I did all that, I emailed my affirmative, then, fell into a heap. After this, Kipper took over for awhile.
But then, it was time to get up and research more Scandinavian stories, which
I incorporated into the program.
I got new luggage this time, and the puppet/prop case in it had wheels.
That seemed a bit Tiger-like, but the year before, I'd battled traffic and parked cars to deliver a hard little rectangular case to headquarters beforehand.
Grabbing a Folktale book, and Storytelling Magazine, I put the magazines in the new carrying case. On the ferry, I met a lady with a Kindle and discussed its assets and advantages for traveling rather than carrying the above.
However, if I hadn't "happened" to stuff an NSN magazine in my carryon, and it "happened" to be the right one, I wouldn't have had the guidelines available from the Story Biz Handbook, by Diane de Las Casas, to re-read, especially "pacing and flow", for further preparation, care of the throat, (a problem that came from
a dusty motel heater, but was quickly cleared up: I chose no heater the next night.) accepting mistakes, improving, refining, documenting, and most of all, making the audience happy.
The second time around, I knew to park my brother's car at his house before the parade began. The year before, I tried to park the huge monstrosity in a literal sea of cars. No one had treated me as special, saying, "Ah, you're a performer! We'll provide you with a parking space."
Then, I wheeled my little puppet/prop bag the rest of the way. Like Tiger, if I noticed a classmate I knew, I couldn't stop to chat, but a classmate with her daughter and grandchildren appeared at the performance.
The custodians had made sure the microphones were set, and I got through the grotesque "Butterball' story, about a hag with her head tucked underneath her arm,
I'd recently told for a mother-daughter banquet that at an E.L.C.A. Church. To avoid West Michigan "Troll-a-phobia" before presenting, I naively asked if there were Scandinavians among them. The lady minister responded, "Better to ask who's not".
After the Wisconsin presentation of this story, I quickly lightened up the preceding story with and improv I call, "The Troll in the Well".
This year, I added a full costume for a very tiny boy, a white curly wig and a monster costume. At first the little boy was shy and hesitant, but I could tell he enjoyed "grrr...ing" in the well, and chasing the two little girls away.
Everybody knew how Iceland had made the news, with volcanic sky interference, (the BIG NEWS just a SHORT time ago) so I told a tale of an Icelandic hidden person, a Finnish tale of a lobster tailor, which was a new "untested" one, but I had laughed out loud while reading it, so I chose that, and added a lobster mask/puppet. The others included: "Tatterhood" from Norway, "Ten Fairy Servants" from Sweden, and finally, the "House Mouse and the Country Mouse" which I'd learned was a folktale from Norway. I added two mouse-eared and one cat-eared little actor
participants in mini-costumes, with noses and tails.
After a little shopping at the Nordic Nook where I asked questions of a bonafide Swede and bought Swedish artifacts, I met up with my employer, who was wearing her Norwegian Bunad. We stood on a triangular median in the middle of traffic, as we discussed business. Unlike last year, she and I had already arranged that the cd player be left at the school in safe keeping, since my puppet bag no longer had room in it.
The connections on the way home were pretty tight, but I'd arranged with my original cabdriver that he pick me up and get me to the dock. In the nick of time, I stood at the desk as the ticket lady begged the computer to print out my boarding pass. We made apprehensive faces at each other, but I finally joined the end of the line and was off to Michigan!
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Fairy Fun*
Crushing the can, Houdini looked forward in anger at Conan Doyle.
“Arthur,” he grimaced, “is there no end to your gullibility. If you put this in the Strand, people will think you a fool…Fairies…Now, I’ve heard everything!”
“These are harmless little girls,” Doyle responded, “innocent as doves…cousins, who didn’t know each other well at all, before this.”
“Clever little rascals, I'll wager,” replied Houdini, skeptically.
“I’ll be happy to introduce you to Frances and Elsie. Elsie’s brother, Joseph, passed away,” said Doyle, “and her mother was disconsolate.”
“So,” Houdini deliberated, “the mother turned to Spiritualism like you, Spiritualism without evidence. I’ve been searching for my mother’s spirit for years and have met up with nothing but magician frauds.”
“It gives one hope,” Doyle said, and comfort that someone like my late son can communicate.”
“So now, fairies give you hope as well?”
“The unseen world gives one hope.”
“It does not give one hope when every trickster takes advantage of your grief!”
The door creaked open. Two girls, Elsie, 10, and Frances, 16, stood in the doorway just before the threshold. Harry Houdini looked up. His countenance changed at the sight of them. Surely, these two enchantresses were the most charming darlings he’d seen yet. Theirs was not the picture of the table thumping con artists who insisted on darkened rooms with whom he’d dealt, from one disappointing seance after another.
“So,” he responded, “You two have seen fairies?”
“We’ve taken pictures of them, Sir,” Elsie offered.
Houdini put his head in his hands, trying to stifle a laugh.
“Now, Harry,” Doyle interjected, “surely you don’t think these young ladies have any malice.”
“Arthur,” said Houdini, “excuse yourself.”
Doyle graciously left the room.
“Now, girls,” said Houdini, “truly, you’ve captured the imaginations of the English people.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Frances.
“For what purpose?” inquired Houdini.
“No purpose at all,” said Elsie, “We’ve been enjoying the fairies at Cottingley Beck (Stream), and we want to share the fun of it.”
“I see,” said Houdini, “You want to entertain folks…sort of like me.”
“Yes,” said Elsie, “it’s ever so much fun!”
“And I’ve even taken a picture of Elsie with a gnome,” said Frances.
Houdini raised his eyebrow, “A gnome, you say?”
“They live to be 400 years old, so they’re very wise,” said Elsie excitedly.
“Yes, you can find their homes in the moss at the foot of trees.” Frances joined in.
“Well,” said Houdini, shaking his head and smiling, “far be it from me to spoil the fun.”
*(a spontaneous writing based on Wikipedia & Movie, “Fairy Tale, a True Story”.)
“Arthur,” he grimaced, “is there no end to your gullibility. If you put this in the Strand, people will think you a fool…Fairies…Now, I’ve heard everything!”
“These are harmless little girls,” Doyle responded, “innocent as doves…cousins, who didn’t know each other well at all, before this.”
“Clever little rascals, I'll wager,” replied Houdini, skeptically.
“I’ll be happy to introduce you to Frances and Elsie. Elsie’s brother, Joseph, passed away,” said Doyle, “and her mother was disconsolate.”
“So,” Houdini deliberated, “the mother turned to Spiritualism like you, Spiritualism without evidence. I’ve been searching for my mother’s spirit for years and have met up with nothing but magician frauds.”
“It gives one hope,” Doyle said, and comfort that someone like my late son can communicate.”
“So now, fairies give you hope as well?”
“The unseen world gives one hope.”
“It does not give one hope when every trickster takes advantage of your grief!”
The door creaked open. Two girls, Elsie, 10, and Frances, 16, stood in the doorway just before the threshold. Harry Houdini looked up. His countenance changed at the sight of them. Surely, these two enchantresses were the most charming darlings he’d seen yet. Theirs was not the picture of the table thumping con artists who insisted on darkened rooms with whom he’d dealt, from one disappointing seance after another.
“So,” he responded, “You two have seen fairies?”
“We’ve taken pictures of them, Sir,” Elsie offered.
Houdini put his head in his hands, trying to stifle a laugh.
“Now, Harry,” Doyle interjected, “surely you don’t think these young ladies have any malice.”
“Arthur,” said Houdini, “excuse yourself.”
Doyle graciously left the room.
“Now, girls,” said Houdini, “truly, you’ve captured the imaginations of the English people.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Frances.
“For what purpose?” inquired Houdini.
“No purpose at all,” said Elsie, “We’ve been enjoying the fairies at Cottingley Beck (Stream), and we want to share the fun of it.”
“I see,” said Houdini, “You want to entertain folks…sort of like me.”
“Yes,” said Elsie, “it’s ever so much fun!”
“And I’ve even taken a picture of Elsie with a gnome,” said Frances.
Houdini raised his eyebrow, “A gnome, you say?”
“They live to be 400 years old, so they’re very wise,” said Elsie excitedly.
“Yes, you can find their homes in the moss at the foot of trees.” Frances joined in.
“Well,” said Houdini, shaking his head and smiling, “far be it from me to spoil the fun.”
*(a spontaneous writing based on Wikipedia & Movie, “Fairy Tale, a True Story”.)
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Dream Train
On the night train to Madison from Chicago, Heather Lee hopped on just to get away from the small town and school. It was not expensive at all and a welcome escape.
There was State Street, a Bohemian pre-college kid’s paradise. There were dangly earrings, Persian rugs, dashikis, astrological posters, and at that point in time, record albums for the high price of $3.50. This was still a lot for a teenager to fork out. The cool thing was to park herself in a “listening room” to preview it and to hear the best of folk.
Closer to the railroad track, she could pick up thinks like chocolate covered ants and sneezing powder, with which to purposely inflict her sinuses. She did not realize that at some later date, that would be the last sensation she’d want.
The train brought other things throughout her waning high school experience.
There would be a first guitar, ordered from Montgomery Ward for $16.00, still a lot for a teenager working part time and hoping to go to college. The strings were steel and would cause finger calluses like the later and better Spanish guitar would not. But this instrument was precious, because it was the first.
Then, the train brought a canvas on which to do oil paintings. “I’ve got my board!” she screamed with delight, confusing her male friend as to what that meant.
Later, during college years, the train would bring her college friends returning home from Europe, who'd journeyed about on a motorcycle. One friend had accumulated over 25 pounds, because of sporadic eating between starvation times and provision times.
Later, instead of making trips from her small town to Madison, she took the route from Chicago to her hometown.
There, she was trying for theater experience. Both the theater experience and the train ride seemed longer, rougher than expected for a small town/country girl. Even the small college experience she'd agreed to was located in a similar setting under the same church and ethnic umbrella.
She could understand what one of her college friends, who’d traveled Europe, meant by “culture shock”.
This time, her hometown was a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of city life. It was not a place to escape from, but a haven to return to.
The dream had to be revised. Happiness was not someplace else.
So now, the train stops in Chicago. The hometown depot is now a Chamber of Commerce, especially active during the annual festival. She has to take the ferry to bus, or train to bus connection, depending on whether she has to take the short or long route.
It’s harder to get to the place she’d tried to leave, but that place would always be in her heart.
There was State Street, a Bohemian pre-college kid’s paradise. There were dangly earrings, Persian rugs, dashikis, astrological posters, and at that point in time, record albums for the high price of $3.50. This was still a lot for a teenager to fork out. The cool thing was to park herself in a “listening room” to preview it and to hear the best of folk.
Closer to the railroad track, she could pick up thinks like chocolate covered ants and sneezing powder, with which to purposely inflict her sinuses. She did not realize that at some later date, that would be the last sensation she’d want.
The train brought other things throughout her waning high school experience.
There would be a first guitar, ordered from Montgomery Ward for $16.00, still a lot for a teenager working part time and hoping to go to college. The strings were steel and would cause finger calluses like the later and better Spanish guitar would not. But this instrument was precious, because it was the first.
Then, the train brought a canvas on which to do oil paintings. “I’ve got my board!” she screamed with delight, confusing her male friend as to what that meant.
Later, during college years, the train would bring her college friends returning home from Europe, who'd journeyed about on a motorcycle. One friend had accumulated over 25 pounds, because of sporadic eating between starvation times and provision times.
Later, instead of making trips from her small town to Madison, she took the route from Chicago to her hometown.
There, she was trying for theater experience. Both the theater experience and the train ride seemed longer, rougher than expected for a small town/country girl. Even the small college experience she'd agreed to was located in a similar setting under the same church and ethnic umbrella.
She could understand what one of her college friends, who’d traveled Europe, meant by “culture shock”.
This time, her hometown was a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of city life. It was not a place to escape from, but a haven to return to.
The dream had to be revised. Happiness was not someplace else.
So now, the train stops in Chicago. The hometown depot is now a Chamber of Commerce, especially active during the annual festival. She has to take the ferry to bus, or train to bus connection, depending on whether she has to take the short or long route.
It’s harder to get to the place she’d tried to leave, but that place would always be in her heart.
Friday, July 17, 2009
A Light on Her Majesty
As the top, circular steps to the top of the lighthouse became visible in the blinking moonlight, Chelsea headed hesitatingly toward the stairway.
She had heard reports that the place was haunted. Yet, as a reporter for the new Great Lakes Newsletter, her curiosity regarding the lighthouses and ships on the Great Lakes pushed her forward.
It was nearing 11 p.m., and she heard the small ferry. It beeped its tiny horn at length and far away, and announced its entry into the channel.
But, as she began to climb up the steps and reach the top, she heard a deeper, louder blast which did not fit this time period.
She gazed out the top window of the lighthouse. Off in the distance, on the on-and-off visible horizon, was a Great Lakes Ship she’d thought was non-operational, moored in the west end of the harbor.
But there the ship was; there she wasn’t; there she was…not, and there she was again, surrounded by night fog. The ship proceeded forward in majesty: the Queen of the Great Lakes, able to handle high waves, crossed slowly and deliberately toward the shoreline, cut slowly but surely through the choppy waves.
Lights shone through the windows; big band music came from the bar and dance hall, laughter from the dancing pairs. People peered out from the decks; children climbed up the stairs to higher levels to observe the channel and their entry into the channel, lit by small pilot boats and curiosity cabin cruisers that were there to greet and to follow. Families, after resting, spilled out of the berths with their baggage. The women all wore dresses, hair neatly coiffed and sprayed, shoes heeled, while the men wore hats and suits. All encased themselves in coats and jackets to keep out the chilly air of Lake Michigan.
Chelsea gazed from the lighthouse. The noise died down once again.
The ship faded in the fog. Once again, Chelsea heard the deep, loud blast, only this time, from the moored ship behind her. The ship was a shell of its former self, but she announced, “hello” to the little ferry boat entering the port for the first time, from the great ship’s original home in Milwaukee.
The old ship, who’d made many trips from the same Wisconsin Port, handed over the Lake to the smaller, faster ferry boat with its tiny horn, as it made its higher, softer, lengthy be-e-e-p.
As you surrender Your Majesty, Oh Queen, Chelsea thought, we will never forget your many voyages and the memories of those whom you carried across the Lake and Channel to the port in Michigan.
In our hearts, at least, and with gratitude, long lives the Queen.
She had heard reports that the place was haunted. Yet, as a reporter for the new Great Lakes Newsletter, her curiosity regarding the lighthouses and ships on the Great Lakes pushed her forward.
It was nearing 11 p.m., and she heard the small ferry. It beeped its tiny horn at length and far away, and announced its entry into the channel.
But, as she began to climb up the steps and reach the top, she heard a deeper, louder blast which did not fit this time period.
She gazed out the top window of the lighthouse. Off in the distance, on the on-and-off visible horizon, was a Great Lakes Ship she’d thought was non-operational, moored in the west end of the harbor.
But there the ship was; there she wasn’t; there she was…not, and there she was again, surrounded by night fog. The ship proceeded forward in majesty: the Queen of the Great Lakes, able to handle high waves, crossed slowly and deliberately toward the shoreline, cut slowly but surely through the choppy waves.
Lights shone through the windows; big band music came from the bar and dance hall, laughter from the dancing pairs. People peered out from the decks; children climbed up the stairs to higher levels to observe the channel and their entry into the channel, lit by small pilot boats and curiosity cabin cruisers that were there to greet and to follow. Families, after resting, spilled out of the berths with their baggage. The women all wore dresses, hair neatly coiffed and sprayed, shoes heeled, while the men wore hats and suits. All encased themselves in coats and jackets to keep out the chilly air of Lake Michigan.
Chelsea gazed from the lighthouse. The noise died down once again.
The ship faded in the fog. Once again, Chelsea heard the deep, loud blast, only this time, from the moored ship behind her. The ship was a shell of its former self, but she announced, “hello” to the little ferry boat entering the port for the first time, from the great ship’s original home in Milwaukee.
The old ship, who’d made many trips from the same Wisconsin Port, handed over the Lake to the smaller, faster ferry boat with its tiny horn, as it made its higher, softer, lengthy be-e-e-p.
As you surrender Your Majesty, Oh Queen, Chelsea thought, we will never forget your many voyages and the memories of those whom you carried across the Lake and Channel to the port in Michigan.
In our hearts, at least, and with gratitude, long lives the Queen.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Revered Research
I'd heard the author of A Taste of Honey was only 18 years old. Well, I was 14, so there was still a chance for authorship. How is it she could make it as an author, and I wasn't there yet?
My parents had been talked into what had been considered the very best encyclopaedia, The Encyclopaedia Brittanica.
They wanted nothing but the best when it came to educational materials.
The great thing about getting this set was the company was willing to send information about a specialized subject if you requested it.
I wanted to write an historical fiction like Gone With The Wind that I'd read with a flashlight late into the night. I was not thinking about what that could do to my eyesight later, since I was obviously really into it.
So, I wrote in for and about a period of American History that had fascinated me, Salem. The information came in an 8 X 11 inch pamphlet, and I got to work with 2 fictional characters (admittedly, with a strong resemblance to Scarlett and Rhett) planted in the Eastern Seaboard during the early colonial period.
I typed on the manual typewriter at home. The advanced electric typewriter was a school business class thing. I used correct type and white out for corrections. Sometimes, I used onion skin paper, which made erasures easier.
In the age of internet information, these researches seem long awaited, and procedures seem primitive. But I remember making do and even being excited at getting the information. It was information I'll always remember, because I'd incorporated it into my YA novella, and it was knowledge I could never again take for granted.
My parents had been talked into what had been considered the very best encyclopaedia, The Encyclopaedia Brittanica.
They wanted nothing but the best when it came to educational materials.
The great thing about getting this set was the company was willing to send information about a specialized subject if you requested it.
I wanted to write an historical fiction like Gone With The Wind that I'd read with a flashlight late into the night. I was not thinking about what that could do to my eyesight later, since I was obviously really into it.
So, I wrote in for and about a period of American History that had fascinated me, Salem. The information came in an 8 X 11 inch pamphlet, and I got to work with 2 fictional characters (admittedly, with a strong resemblance to Scarlett and Rhett) planted in the Eastern Seaboard during the early colonial period.
I typed on the manual typewriter at home. The advanced electric typewriter was a school business class thing. I used correct type and white out for corrections. Sometimes, I used onion skin paper, which made erasures easier.
In the age of internet information, these researches seem long awaited, and procedures seem primitive. But I remember making do and even being excited at getting the information. It was information I'll always remember, because I'd incorporated it into my YA novella, and it was knowledge I could never again take for granted.
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