Kathryn Tucker Windham's Tale-Tellin' Festival

This is a link to the Tale-Tellin' Festival site, coming up in October 2008:
http://taletellin.selmaalabama.com/index.html

Happy 90th Birthday, Miss Kathryn!

On June 2nd, the finest storyteller in Alabama, maybe in the world, turns 90. Kathryn Tucker Windham has been a part of my reading life since, well, since I learned to read. Her ghost story books about Alabama were the most highly sought-after tomes in the Green Valley Elementary School library. She knows more about the folklore of our fair state than probably anybody still walking around, and if you ever get the chance to hear her live, GO. She will celebrate her birthday in downtown Selma, AL this Sunday at 2:oo with the world's largest comb orchestra (hopefully). Yes, I said comb, like you comb your hair with. I will not be able to go, but I'll be there in spirit. Combs and wax paper will be provided free for all who would like to play. There's going to be a director and everything!

Find out more about this remarkable lady at:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kathryn_Tucker_Windham
but don't stop there - READ READ READ!

Here you go, Ginger!

Blogging friend Ginger wanted to see the egg baskets I spoke of in the last post. We got them at a yard sale over the weekend. They're BIG - maybe 18"tall, and we're trying to decide what to do with them. A planter is a good idea! Anyone else have any suggestions? And don't you love the metal plates with the names on?

The Long Weekend

Memorial Day weekend is special. Not just for what it was created to represent, which is of great importance, but for its "release" factor for me. Classes are done til September, and the promise of summer hangs in the air, sweet and ripe as a tree full of Chilton County peaches. Now, I am not a summertime person, really; I don't look good in a swimsuit and the humidity makes my hair frizz. Ever seen Professor Trelawney in the Harry Potter films? Come July, that's me. But still, it is a time of some freedom, and trips to the Farmer's Market, and a road trip here and there. Oh, and corn on the cob. That is reason enough alone for summer to come.

So we had a three-day weekend and spent much of it doing much-needed yard work. I finally got some herbs, tomatoes and peppers planted (yes I know it's late!) and put some ornamantal horsetail grasses out in the front yard which look very nice. Marcella accidentally called them "horsefeathers" once, so they shall be horsefeathers to me forever.

Working outside always makes me introspective. It's like walking beside the sea - somehow the mind is allowed to unwind and move in directions it does not ordinarily have to go. Sunday, I found myself thinking about getting older. I'll be 48 this year, and I don't feel much different than I did 20 years ago. Well, except for some aches and pains, and I can't stay up as late as I used to. If you really stop and think about it, it'll take your breath away - the passage of time, the fear of time running out before you get to do the things that are dear to your heart. I'm not afraid of death, but I am afraid of being old, or sick, and unable to do things for myself. I'm afraid of never getting to see more of the world, afraid of not ever having time to do all the crafts and things rolling around in my head and filling my notebooks and file folders. Days like that, time feels short. We humans live a pitifully short time, but we go on like it'll last forever. I get a feeling of great urgency when I think this way, and it pulls me out of my comfortable rut. That's not necessarily a bad thing. All I know is, I'm going to Scotland within the next 2 years. That's a goal.

OK, enough philosophizin'......I'm getting weary of myself!

We went to some yard sales on Saturday, and bought a really sweet child's chest-of-drawers made from old wooden crates that we think was meant for doll clothes. We're going to use it as an end table for the loveseat in the kitchen. We also got two old wire baskets that are just beautiful, from local egg farms. They have the the farmers' names on metal plates on the fronts. Still trying to figure where to put them in the kitchen.

We're also planning VACATION TIME......I can't wait. We're going up to North Carolina for the Highland Games at Grandfather Mountain in July. We've rented a lovely stone cottage at the foot of Beech Mountain near Banner Elk. I love the Blue Ridge. Going to the top of Mt. Mitchell is a pilgrimage. If I had to choose another place to live, it would be the North Carolina mountains. We're meeting some friends at the Games, and going looking for local crafts and flea markets. That'll be a blog post all its own.


Happy summer, everybody.

Down in the Bones

Music has always been important in my family. Daddy Tom, he of the ever-blooming roses and the coal mines, was a gifted guitarist and singer. My father's mother was a classical pianist, as well as being the mayor of a small Florida town back in the twenties. I never knew either of them, but I believe that the music, like red hair and crooked middle fingers, has been passed down in the bones of their descendants. We sing, we play; children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. My mother remembered many of the songs that Daddy Tom and his sister sang, and sang them to me and my sisters. "The Brown Girl" is one of the first songs I ever knew. In researching folk music of Ireland, Scotland and England over the years, I've found many variations on it, the most common being "Lord Randall". I think that the opening lines of my mother's version are some of the loveliest I've ever found. As a child, I had a morbid fascination with the bridegroom cutting off the Brown Girl's head, and waited breathlessly for that verse. Now, when I sing it, the last verse never fails to move me to tears. But the thing that has always amazed me the most is that this song passed over from the British Isles and then years and years later, came out of the hills and hollows of rural Alabama more or less intact.

"The Brown Girl"

Solve a riddle, solve a riddle, oh my dear Mother,
To make us all as one;
How can I marry Fair Ellen, my dear,
And bring the Brown girl home?

The Brown girl has both house and land,
Fair Ellen, she has none;
The only advice I can give you, my son,
Is to bring the Brown girl home.

Fair Ellen's hands are as a lily white dove,
Her hair like eiderdown;
The Brown girl's hands are dark and strong,
Her father owns the town.

You must ride fast to the Brown girl's door,
To tarry, 'twould be a sin;
The footman all dressed in his linen so fine
Will walk forth and let you come in.

I'd rather ride to Fair Ellen's door,
A knot will pull down the ring;
There will be none so proud as Fair Ellen herself
As to rise and let me come in.

The wedding it came and the feast it was set,
And the whole town came that night;
The Brown girl sat on the bridegroom's left,
And Fair Ellen at his right.

The Brown girl drew a dear little dagger
And pierced Fair Ellen's heart,
Then slashed the throat of the bridegroom fair,
And started to depart.

The bridegroom rose from where he sat,
His blood was rushing red,
He drew his sharp sword from his side,
And he cut off the Brown girl's head.

O mother, O mother, go make me a coffin,
Go make it wide and deep,
For to bury a sharp sword at my side,
And a dagger at my feet.

His mother she went and she made him a coffin,
She made it long and wide,
And she buried Fair Ellen in his arms,
And the Brown girl by his side.

'Twas a riddle, twas a riddle, his mother she wept,
To make us all as one;
For he did marry Fair Ellen, my friends,
And he brought the Brown girl home.

The Bottle Tree

I am the proud owner of a bottle tree. I have been wanting one for years. Yes, it gets some looks from those who may question its viability as art, but it IS true Southern folk art, is very useful, and has a good story to go along with it.
My bottle tree was a gift from my sister. I was deathly ill with strep throat and unable to go to the Trade Days at Tannehill State Park. A tragedy! Trade Days deserve a post all to themselves - suffice it to say that it's a flea market, antiques show, and farmer's market all in one. I know you feel my grief. She did too, and brought me this bottle tree, made of iron rod and re-bar by a Mr. W. L. Franks from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Mr. Franks is a true artist. The lines of the tree are fluid and graceful, and it is balanced perfectly. The strongest winds have not been able to blow it over. He also is not above giving "Purty Girl Discounts" for a hug. Marcella got the Purty Girl Discount. Selling herself for art, oh my.
I've had a good time finding bottles for it. I need some red ones, and I've got a bottle of Riesling in the fridge waiting to be drunk up so I can have a blue one. Most of my bottles are fairly old, from junk stores, and were pretty nasty when I bought them.

So what IS a bottle tree for?

To catch evil spirits, of course.

The bottle tree was thought to have been brought to the South by slaves from North Africa. They are most popular down through the Black Belt area of Alabama and Southern Mississippi, though now you'll see them all over the place. The effectiveness of the bottle tree is based upon the fact that evil spirits are notoriously nosey beings. They just can't pass up anything out of the ordinary. So, you put your bottle tree beside your door. When the spirits are attempting to find their way into the house, they will be distracted by the shiny, colorful bottles, slip inside them, and get trapped. They are smart enough to get into the bottles, but not smart enough to get out. There they remain all night, and then the first rays of the morning sun will burn them away to nothing.

If only it would work as well on uninvited guests and people selling stuff I don't want.

Daddy Tom's Roses

Sometimes things happen that just fill you with wonder. This little running rose was first planted by my mother's father, known as Daddy Tom, back in the 40's at the old homeplace. When the property was sold in the late 70's, my uncle moved the rosebush up the hill to his house. It flourished on his fence for the next few years until he and my aunt moved to Wren's Nest Cottage in 1985. The rose moved with them, and continued to bloom faithfully every year. We bought the Wren's Nest from them in 1997, and the rose became our responsibility. Last year, we suffered through the worst drought in over 100 years, and the rose suffered as well. In spite of being watered illegally (we were on a strict watering ban) the rose suddenly seemed to just disappear. It was literally there one day, gone the next, except for a few forlorn thorny twigs poking up from the dead grass. I was struck with the same feeling that one must experience when realizing they have let the family fortune slip from their grasp - we're not a wealthy family, so our inheritances consist of things like rose bushes, cats, and pocket watches. I hid my guilt behind the drought situation and hoped nobody would notice the rose was gone...

This spring, we were delivered from the drought with a vengence. We had rain, hail, storms, more rain, snow, hail the size of baseballs - no kidding - and the lakes refilled, and spring roared in like a pride of lions. The greening didn't creep in either - it burgeoned. I cannot recall a spring so intensely green and flowering as this one. The trees seemed to leaf out overnight, and the hackberry branches almost touched the ground from the weight of the new leaves. And then, a few weeks ago, we noticed shoots coming up from Daddy Tom's rosebush. Then buds coming on. The rose was waking up. I realized that it had only been doing what it needed to do to survive the drought. It went underground. This week, it bloomed like it never has before. We are rejoicing.

Feathering the nest...

"It is art that makes life, makes beauty, makes importance, and I know no substitute for the force and beauty of its process."
Henry James

Art IS a lifeforce - I have always known that. It knows no borders, no class, no race, no time. Every culture on earth has its own expressive desires that go above and beyond basic human need, and those desires cause us to make those basic needs finer and more pleasing - beads upon the tunic, herbs into the soup. Whether we paint, cook, sing, dance, sew scraps of fabric together to make something singularly beautiful...we have a compulsion to create, and it is that creativity that brings us joy. Art is power. Anyone who has wept before a painting, been transported by a song, or fondly recalled the memory of a truly fine dinner knows this. We've all felt it at one time or another.
SO...with that in mind, I've decided to indulge myself and create this wee blog, to share some of my own bits of artistic attempts and to also share some of the incredible wealth of folk art and traditional music we're surrounded by here in the Deep South. I'm still trying to decide where to begin...I feel wondrously blessed to be in such a fine predicament.

A bit about the Wren's Nest...
Our little house is called Wren's Nest Cottage, and it is as tiny as its name implies, but roomy enough for two sisters who are best friends. It's an old house, and so requires constant patching up, but we can't imagine living anywhere else. We have jasmine on the back porch, cats on the hearthrug, a ghost who brings us scents of gardenia and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls, and good (a few rather interesting) neighbors. I'd like for everyone to get to know our cottage. She's a very dear old girl.
Peace and blessings,
Cindy