Must Love Be A Bent Butterknife?

My mother was a creative problem solver. In her pragmatic approach to life, she plowed ahead, assessed the situation, dealt with it, and moved on. Still, her ‘problem-solution-what’s next’ approach often resulted in negative outcomes. For example, instead of using a screwdriver, mom would pick up a butter knife to tighten a drawer pull or cabinet knob, corkscrewing the tip in the process. She saw a completed job. I saw a bent knife.

I loved my mom, but my early frustration at her improvised problem solving led to my lifetime commitment to finding the right tool for the job. You wouldn’t use a sledgehammer to hang a picture any more than you’d use a tack hammer to pound a fencepost. 

I realized the other day that though I love my mom, I also love football and a good laugh. I love the warmth of the summer sun, and my wife too. And the carnal application of love has resulted in our two daughters. It is easy to agree that in each case love’s intended purpose is not the same.Though the vagaries of love have kept my marriage alive,offering some magical emotional glue, the same word cannot be expected to perform so many different emotional tasks. 

Men are accused of not expressing their feelings but I have come to believe that we’ve been handed a butter knife and asked to build a house. And if the word ‘love’ is a butter knife, it cannot perform like its Swiss Army Knife cousin. To the average guy, ‘love’ is a 20 volt lithium battery-powered Porter Cable cordless drill/driver that will easily insert a 4 inch screw into an oak 4X4. Sure, that’s great!  But not if you’re trying to tighten the hinge on the arm of your sunglasses.

We need fewer emotionally bent butter knives. So, in an effort to implement my mother’s problem solving approach, I retreated to my ‘emotional word-shop’ recently to craft love based portmanteaus. As a result, I'm happy to lovingly present these word mashups to delineate and define more-exact suitable applications for love. Here, from my newly crafted emotional toolbox are a few new word samples to ease the heavy emotional lifting that ‘love’ performs daily. Feel free to add to the list since I firmly believe that, “You simply can’t have enough tools.” 

Zalust: is the emotion felt by the average guy while eating his favorite pizza. The best day ever? Dayagape. Whereas, when you look up and fall instantly in love, that is droolamo, and boonlove is the feeling you have towards your best buddy.  The most powerful soulmate love must be: mando-mucho-gusto.   Then there’s sportamor  meaning the unbreakable bond between a guy and his favorite team. Sislove and amobro can be used to describe how you feel about your siblings with papagape and momamor  reserved for your parents. 

I’d love to say more, but I’ve got to take all the bent butter knives down to the basement and pound them straight using my Stanley two and a half pound polyurethane headed dead blow hammer.           Mike Perry     mike@mikeperry.biz  

Folded Footnotes: Refections on Story Origins

Does It Matter?

We were in New Brunswick. Or was it Nova Scotia? 

There was a donut shop at the gas station

Was it a Tim Horton’s or a Red Robin? 

Does it matter?

I stopped and Sue got out to take a break. She was already walking away from the car as I opened my door when a wild weird wind took the door from my hand, without warning. It reached into the pocket where I kept all the receipts from our trip, grabbing them and laughing a gusty laugh, it blew them in an instant: without warning, nine of them. Or was it ten? 

Did it matter?

In a silent split second they were swept out of my reach and across the parking lot as I watched frozen for the moment before attempting to grab at two or three of them remaining at my feet. They teased me, holding still as I bent over, before the next gust launched them on their way.. 

Seeing my problem, Sue began to scurry, but they swirled past her, frantically flying to the far end of the lot  where a man and his son soon joined the chase.  “It’s ok!” I yelled, “It doesn’t matter!” But they continued their cause, attempting to capture my papers. I hurried in their direction and a moment later stood with Sue next to the little boy and his dad as they handed me the receipts they had managed to recover. Was he 4 or 7? 

Does it matter? 

Sue and I shared our gratitude. Then we noticed that the little guy was gently cupping his hand, carefully coddling a precious something. It took a moment of staring before we could identify his tiny treasure. It was the limp body of a tiny bird. “We’re going to take it home and bury it,” his dad said.  The little man opened his hand and we saw the lifeless hummingbird, sleeping passively, lying still, without breath, in his hand

.I reached into my pocket and felt for a coin and retrieving a Canadian dollar, golden, shiny and new, I handed it to the little man and thanked him for his help. His eyes lit up as he stared at this unexpected gift as though the coin were indeed made of gold. His young face glowed with surprise, with wonder, and  with gratitude.

Later, as we continued our journey, I smiled at this, our newly minted memory. Did it matter when or where it happened?  Was this boy traveling with his dad in the semi trailer we saw parked?  Did it matter? Where had they come from? Where were they going? We’ll never know. But there, in a random parking lot, a memory was made. A memory containing life’s many lessons, life and death, success and achievement, gratitude and family and reward. Life lessons, distilled into a moment, a memory, a memory seed that may grow into an early event perhaps given import in a boy’s young life.  He’ll never know our names, and may forget as I have, whether it was New Brunswick or Nova Scotia. Does it matter?

I like to think that he’ll remember the time when he found a little bird. When he and his dad helped some people. When he was given a golden coin. The details? They’ll be lost in memory’s fog, the names never gotten, but the emotions? They will distill into story, and really, isn’t that all that matters?

Mike@MikePerry.biz

Dreams CAN Come True by Jo Ann Dadisman

As a youngster growing up in the 50s and 60s, the word dream was part of my

vocabulary. I admired dreamy boys, sang “Dream Lover”, watched I Dream of

Jeannie, and ate Dream Whip on my strawberry shortcake. Life was good. Sixty

years later dream was resurrected in a new way.

A long time friend asked me one day, knowing I had been telling stories for a half

century, if there was anything I had longed to do that I had not done in my life.

After some thought, I said I had not seen the opportunity to pass on storytelling

as a skill and art to the young people of our state. I knew we had the talent and

we had the youth; I just had never had the opportunity. That friend made the

connections and handed me funding for 2 years of storytelling camp, and that is

how Come Spin a Tale came to be at Glenville State University.

July 2022 ushered in a week long camp for 6 students who were immersed in

campus life and sat at the feet of such tellers as Bil Lepp, Adam Booth, Jaimie

Froemel, Karen Vuranch, Kevin Cordi, Mike Perry, and Bill Hairston, all members

of the WV Storytelling Guild. In addition, more than 5 other tellers were there to

offer support and provide guidance following the workshops and concerts. David

O’Dell, banjo picker extraordinaire and Chemistry Professor at GSU, not only co-

directed but also entertained one night with his bloody ballads music, as he and

Pete Kosky sang and played the night away! We left that week with stories ringing

in our ears and looking forward to the next year.

July 2023 saw our camp grow. Our little group of first year campers all returned

and were joined by 3 more. These 9 worked with many of the first-year

presenters but also learned from Fran Kirk, Jodi French-Burr, Judi Tarowsky and

Teri Lott. We learned about ghost tales, basics of telling, place-based telling and

props and puppets, in addition to writing and sharing a tale for storytelling in the

oral tradition. The last concert featured students telling tales that ranged from

original historical tales, ghost tales, fractured fairy tales and much more.

This time we have youth tellers committed to joining the guild’s adult members in

telling stories at public venues throughout the state where storytelling is

recognized as one of West Virginia’s treasures.

What does the future hold for youth telling? Can another year of camp come from

the strong beginning? This second year we reached our youth in 6 states; they

came from an interest in show choir, music, writing and speaking. They were

willing to give up a week of their summer to grow their strengths, recognize their

challenges and keep storytelling alive. Funding is all that holds them back from

Camp 2024.

Folded Footnotes: A Fictional Essay on Tall Tale Telling

It has come to my attention that many of the loquacious raconteurs who choose to share stories, group their tales into two categories: fiction and nonfiction. From the start I have always found this to be confusing, not the delineation of the two categories so much as the words: ‘fiction’ and ‘nonfiction’. Really?  Who thought these were good descriptions of veracity and falsehood? This was the best Noah Webster could offer?

When saying the word nonfiction a few times, “Nonfiction, nonfiction, nonfiction,” I’m immediately struck by the prefix ‘non.’ which of course is negative, meaning not. Not-fiction is supposed to equate to the truth, what is real. But, I seem to hear ‘nonfiction’ and ‘not really’ as synonyms. Even if they’re not, isn’t there some doubt implicit, unstated, underlying the truth when stated in a negative way? Nonfiction? That’s the truth? 

Am I the only one to suggest that nonfiction, ‘not fiction,’ is really saying, ’It’s not a lie.’ And if so, pointing out what isn’t a lie, is not the same as saying, “this is the truth.” It merely points out that it is not a lie. But what IS it? If a child says, “I’m not lying!” Great, I think. But is he or she telling me the truth? Really?

The negative prefix ‘non’ seems to cast doubt on everything that follows doesn’t it? And by casting the slightest doubt, how can I trust that nonfiction is in fact the whole truth? Is searching for the truth the same as looking for the not-not-known? Nonfiction. Isn’t there a more positive word to invoke the truth than this?If it IS the truth, why don’t they just come out and say it instead of not-fiction, non fiction.

If a negative is used anywhere it should be with falsehood, Non-nonfiction is not true, so is ‘fiction’, but then so is the word false. Why not just say ‘falsehood and truth?

The whole ‘non’ thing sets the wrong precedent. If you said, “I rode my noncar over here today.  I’d reply, “Did you ride your bike? Your motorcycle? Scooter? Velocipede?” You can see where a guessing game would ensue, or at least a misunderstanding since I’m only hinting at what a noncar is not, never clearly telling us what it is. So what is it? Why not just say uber, taxi, bus, or train?. 

It’s true that fiction is false. That is to say that fiction is not true. Now that is specific: ‘not true.’ So while a fictional tale is not true, a nonfiction story, that is to say ‘ a true tale’  can be defined as being ‘not false or not-not-true.’ It’s like playing duck duck goose with veracity. The truth becomes a child’s guessing game.  Not-not- not- not…true!  

Since storytellers seem to be fond of using fiction and nonfiction to describe their stories, and to better understand my dilemma I present here a fictional account of an interview with a  real storyteller, or better stated:

A Real Account Of A Fictional Interview With A Tall Tale Teller

I shook the little fellow’s hand, and looking down at him without being condescending, I asked politely, “What kind of stories do you prefer to tell?” I expected him to say, not true, that is, fiction or the not not-true kind, nonfiction. Either way once and for all I sought answers, definitions, hoping for the truth to be told. (or not)  

Instead? He replied, “I’m a tall tale teller.”

This gave me pause. “You can’t be a tall tale teller,” I said,“since I have at least a four inch height advantage.”

“No,” he said, “not a tall tale-teller, a tall-tale teller.”

“Oh,” I said, confused by the distinction he tried to make. “A tall tale teller?” 

“Tall tale tellers can come in any size” he said, “just as short stories are often quite long.”

He was obviously unaware of the confusion he was now causing as he now managed somehow  to include the vertical and horizontal in trying to stretch both himself and his stories.

Now it became obvious that I was having a problem separating not true from not-not true in his explanation of who he was, who he was not and what he did and did not do. So, I made a final attempt to clarify.

 “In all honesty,” I said, “are you trying to tell me that a short person can be a tall tale teller and short stories often aren’t short at all?” 

“Now you got it!” he said. 

Flummoxed by his response, I added,  “I don’t know if you’re telling the truth or not, but it sounds like you’re asking me to believe that you are a short tall tale teller who prefers both not true and not not true tellings of long short stories.”

“Not-not true?” He said. He paused, then, in an effort to address my confusion, continued, “Look,” he said, “double negatives equal a positive in nearly every language on Earth, but you’ll never find a double positive to equal a negative.”

“Ya right!” I said.

He walked away.

And that’s the truth.

MikePerry.biz 8-2023

Folded Footnotes: Bring Back the Ampersand!

“Where do stories come from?” They asked.

“And?” You said, 

“What?”

“And! That’s where stories come from.”

There is a pause before you continue, addressing their confusion. 

“Stories come from wanting more. ‘And?’  That means asking questions. Exposing what once was hidden, like the 27th letter of the alphabet.” 

“The 27th letter of the alphabet?”

Now you have them right where you want them. 

Pause. “Yes…’&’...the 27th letter.”

Now they are curious. Now they are an audience.

A beautifully stated question, a simple ‘What?’ begs for an explanation, or, in our parlance, a story, &? Why use one sentence when many will do? A story must ensue!

The ‘&,’ the ampersand, was once considered to be the 27th letter of the alphabet.

Found on early American samplers following the letter ‘Z,’ over time the ampersand failed to successfully join the other 26. What a loss! But alas, the lonely ‘&’ isn’t really alphabetical or numeric.

The beautifully simple ‘plus sign’ in math demands that we ‘add this to that,’ So I suppose that mathematicians never considered adopting the ampersand. And the alphabet? It requires that phonemes make sounds to contribute to expressing the words we think and say as we transfer thought to print. 

But the ampersand? The symbol ‘&’?  It evolved as an elision of the letters ‘e’ and ‘t’, ‘et’  from  the Latin for and. Because it represented a word, the symbol ‘&’ was forced to stand alone. It was added to the end of the alphabet, following the letter  ‘Z.’ Interestingly, this explains the etymology of the word ‘ampersand.’ It is simply a ligature of the spoken words, “and-per-se-and.’ After reciting the final letters of the alphabet, “X, Y, Z, " the student would add,”and-per-se-’&’,” Meaning “and, by itself, (the word) &.” 

Perhaps it is the improv lover in me that finds tremendous loss in no longer including ‘&’ at the end of the alphabet. Or perhaps I feel a loss of childhood. Children love to interrupt by asking, “And? “ And? And children have always related their own stories simply by stringing together events. “And then… and then… and then…” 

And then ‘&’ was eliminated from contributing to the alphabet. Since then I suspect that adult storytellers have had to work harder. With ‘&’ no longer part of the alphabet, the ampersand’s loss was at the expense of curiosity. I fear that the ‘mature’ alphabet of 26 letters has lost its childhood. And with ‘&’ removed, adults have fallen out of practice. ‘And?’ As a result? Perhaps they  stopped asking for more.’And then? And then?’ Perhaps this is why we must ‘tell’ them stories. Audiences simply have forgotten to ask, ‘And?’

And what per se can be done? I say, bring back the ampersand! And? Add it to the alphabet song! And? Print it in the phonics books! ‘&’ assuming its rightful place as the last letter, it will retain its power as contributing the last word!  More should be required, ’&’  More thought.  ‘&’  More curiosity. ‘&’  More listening?  ‘&? ’  Isn’t that what storytelling is all about?

MPerry                                                                                               Mike@MIkePerry.biz

Folded Footnotes: Where Stories Meet

There are thoughts that evoke meaning and come in riddled form. I suppose the word is poetry? I wrote this after working with 6 other tellers. We shared and supported each other in our storytelling, and the next day, their tales melted into verse, a taste of our tales, sampled and shared here as a poem I call, ‘Where stories Meet”.

Where Stories Meet:

Mushrooms grow from excrement

Popping from volcanic rock 

From the goop of the cow pasture.

Magic spores carry life from darkness to light,

Like owl and crow, whether silently soaring, or screaming loudly 

Their song cannot be silenced.

So too stories come. 

Watching from yesterday’s trees

Landing on rocky lives, seeding souls.

In darkness and light,

They sing from all quarters

From human voice, from song and poem.

From the closested pipes of music hall theater

From the gentle strings of folk guitars 

Story soothes the fearful frog. 

Smiling. A ridiculous clown

Linking emotion to timelessness 

To people and place.

From the world past. 

To the world present

and hopeful future?

The power of story slaps the heart. 

A ‘whap‘ of a palm frond. 

A forgetful father.

For just a moment awakened, and aware

Story removes the plastic cover of our Cadillac existence. 

Driving us to a new place and delivering us renewed.

mike@mikeperry.biz

Folded Footnotes: Humor Is A Frog

I love to laugh. Some say that I have a great sense of humor. But what does that mean? Is humor a ‘sense’ like vision or hearing? Is it a trait like having dark eyes or being tall? Are we born with it, or can it be developed like a muscle? My sense has always been that laughter is beneficial, but how did I get this way? It got me thinking.

 My mother, who descended from hardworking German stock, found little time for humor. She might even have labelled it nonsense, but my father, Irish and quick to smile made her laugh, almost unwillingly. His sense of humor countered and complimented her ‘I have no time for nonsense’ persona. From my father I learned to use humor to diffuse stress. He could release mom’s tension with a smile, a wink, a comment, or a joke. From my mother, I learned that a sense of humor is a perception filter, defining, and assigning meaning to the moment. My mother’s sense was to find joy in work. My father’s sense found joy in laughter. Their filtered perceptions defined my responses to life’s daily trials and events. In their shadows I learned that humor’s sense works as  ‘a funny filter’ bending and shaping observations like a funhouse mirror. Humor is permission to laugh at life.

 Jennifer Aaker, a Stanford University professor claims that the effects of laughter can exceed the benefits of exercise, meditation and sex combined. Endorphins are secreted and tension is released when we laugh. In her book, ‘Harnessing Humor as a Secret Weapon,’ she goes on to say that the average four year old laughs 300 times a day, but  the average forty year old takes more than two months to equal that number. So, my inner four year old wanted to know, why do adults deprive themselves of joyful opportunities daily?

 Joyful opportunities can be masked by uncomfortable realities. Recently, after complaining of pain for two days my wife suggested that a visit to the doctor might be wise. After a brief examination, my doctor suggested that a visit to the emergency room might be wise. In the waiting room I learned that a lesson in patience might be wise, but after five hours, a blood test, and a CAT scan, the doctor walked in. She delivered my diagnoses, and then noticing a large box in the corner of the room with a giant tube protruding and exiting the wall, she commented to the nurse. “I never noticed that before. Why is that here?”

 My turn to be wise, I thought. “Perhaps hamsters need medical care too!” I said.

I thought my comment would elicit a smile. The doctor thought it was peculiar. The nurse thought it was funny. My wife? She thought it unwise.

 My sense was to relieve the tension, even if it was my own. But the doctor’s sense was that I wouldn’t be making jokes if I were in pain. Regardless, my instinct was to use humor, to open with a joke, to treat the doctor as an audience. But she treated me as a patient. I inserted humor. She removed my appendix.

 I never lost a child’s need to laugh. But what exactly is humor? E.B. White is supposed to have said, “Defining humor is like dissecting a frog. You can do it, but you kill it in the process.” The perfect metaphor, I thought, humor is a frog.

 It appeals to my storytelling sensibility to think that humor hops about, teasing curiosity, and demanding attention. Like the storied princess, distracted by responsibilities, my doctor ignored the healing power of laughter. Too often adults cannot be bothered to acknowledge life’s frogs. They are found in strangest places and it awakens my inner four year old to acknowledge their need to be noticed.

 Aldi, a local grocery store chain, requires a deposit of a quarter to use a shopping cart which is refunded when the cart is returned. This ensures that Aldi need not have an employee retrieve carts from the parking lot. I grabbed a cart recently and noticed that the previous person had not locked it to the others. Great, I thought, someone was thoughtful enough to leave this for me. Free! I grabbed the cart and put the quarter back in my pocket.

 While shopping I began laughing to myself at Aldi’s Pavlovian joke. People leave their carts willy nilly at other stores and drive away, feeling no responsibility to return them. Aldi, by implementing a ‘quarter-back’ deposit has trained customers to return their carts. Now, thinking that they are being nice to the next customer, people return the cart without retrieving the quarter. Aldi is the beneficiary. The joke is on us.

 Don’t ask, “What is humor?”  Don’t kill the frog. Acknowledge it. Sit by an imagined pond and listen. Open the senses of your four year old self and you will find life’s uninvited frogs, swimming, crawling, and hopping here and there throughout your day without purpose or invitation, warty and belching. Embrace the frog’s daily demand to be kissed and you will discover that laughter is a prince. Mike@mikeperry.biz

Folded Footnotes: Stepping Into the Past

It was thought provoking, walking down those old stone steps, pushing back the brush, finding a path to the past. I asked “Where will these lead me? What’s the story here?”. There  must have been a hundred of them, a century old I was sure. ‘One per year’, I thought as I counted them. Descending. Walking. Back. Down. Into the past. 

Most of the men who chose this path would have been immigrants, my grandfather’s age. My grandfather; a machinist, whose job in the teens and 20’s was to build the machines that drove the industrial age. By the time he retired, an accident had taken one eye, and glaucoma the other. Still I can picture him taking all the necessary steps to feed a wife and 12 children without ever knowing if his grandchildren might one day stand at the top. 

My father, a middle child, worked a factory job too. Leaving home each day for thirty five years with a lunch bucket in hand, he eventually worked in ‘a white room’. Soldering in antiseptic conditions under a microscope, his  job helped put a man on the moon. By then transistors had replaced radio tubes and factories like Bell Aerospace began replacing foundries, but the more things change, the more they remain the same. He never lived to see retirement.

I thought of them as down I went, sidestepping missing stairs. A disappearing past? The remaining steps had long ago been worn smooth by wear, trodden, twice daily, year in, year out. Counting along the way: 50, then 60. Cars began making this trek obsolete I thought. GI’s like my father, returning home, were working to build a house, a life, a family. Stepping back into their past, the mills and mines and factories and farms were producing the products and produce, the tractors and the machines,the tin cans and appliances, railroads and cars. They were fabricating the skeleton of a prosperous nation born of coal and soot and iron and smoke. They were building bridges to the suburbs.

They each stepped up. Did it matter if they carved coal from the earth or shoveled it into a blast furnace? They stepped up. Did it matter if the job was making the iron rails, or nailing ‘em to the earth for the trains to connect the cities and rivers, agriculture and people? Twelve hours in a mill or a mine or a factory or a farm ground a man down. Like my father, many didn’t live to see their grandchildren. A life of seventy years was lucky and sixty was common. I lost count descending, discovering the steps taken each day in towns across our nation, to raise a family, to get the job done.

They hunted and fished and drank and went to church. They joined The Italian Club.The Slavic Club, The Irish Club, The Polish Club. They were Jewish and Catholic and Communist and black and white, mostly European all willing to do whatever it took. The lucky few retired before the next generation stepped in and took their turn. They played their music and told their stories, wrote their letters and read their newspapers. They lived embracing love and life and tragedy and success.

I like to think it was all done for the betterment of the next generation. My generation. I like to think those immigrants dreamt of a different future, a better future. I like to think that they lived hard, played hard and laughed a lot. My grandfather did. My father too.

Here and there roots and rocks continued to erase their historied path. Yet down I descended, like many men had done daily. Down we went. Down. Together. Down. Past rusted iron railings once guiding hundreds of them. I continued. Smiling as I subtracted one year with each step. At eighty I thought, ‘World War II’. Three shifts a day through a blackened sky. Men traversed up and down. For those who had enlisted, or were drafted, women stepped in.

They soldiered on because there was no choice. Reaching the bottom, silent and overgrown, remnants of a factory appeared somewhat lost and nearly forgotten. One hundred years ago a vibrant factory stood housing workers whose sweat and blood built this country. Separated by culture, and heritage, eating lunch from a bucket, they were joined by a dream. The American promise? Ten hours, twelve hours each day, six days a week. 

Then? Up those steps, one hundred or more, home to dinner. Home to a family. Home to a newspaper and a beer. Home to tobacco and the radio. They worked for survival. For family. For pride. For community. Their moxey, their grit paved a path one step at a time, year in and year out, leading to here, to now, to us.

The mills and mines and factories and farms offered little tangible reward beyond a bleak reality. Many a man died on the job, swallowed up in a mine, incinerated at a mill, caught in equipment on farm, at a plant. The final trip home?

Today we build statues. Today we tell stories. We sing songs of Mike Fink, and John Henry, Joe Magerac and Paul Bunyan: fabled attempts to portray the heroic efforts of the workers who built our country. But in our air conditioned comfort we drive by with little thought of the steps, the nearly forgotten steps that needed to be taken daily. Once cast in stone, now overgrown; the steps taken that connect us to our storied past. MikePerry@MikePerry.Biz

Folded Footnotes: The Many Hues Of A New Relationship

She said, “We’ll have to live together a long time. What’s your hurry?” She said, “Maybe we should wait until we’re sure.” But it didn’t matter, I was in love. I had decided.

But soon I wondered, is this a marriage that’s going to last? There’s no going back. You have to live with your decision. Like any relationship, doubt is the enemy. You wonder, months from now, will you still be in love or admit that you made a mistake? You commit to the resposibility of a new relationship, yet how sure can you be? Paint is like that.

Once you befriend a color, brand doesn’t matter. You’ll forget where you bought it, and words like premium, deluxe, and designer tease you into falling in love. But withstanding the bumps and bruises of a long term relationship requires durability, yet ‘eggshell’ denotes fragility. Will it withstand life’s everyday bumps and bruises? Doubt. The truth is, over time color becomes a trait that you can learn to accept, like a friend’s height, or a hair style. But that initial meeting, that choice, it can be intimidating. 

You’ll forget, the lighting at the big box store, was it natural, or artificial? Doubt. What mood were you in when you bought it? Doubt. You thought you were just buying paint, but the can says One Gallon Sherwin Williams Burnt Umber Eggshell Latex Premium Designer Edition One Coat Primer Plus. Paint. Fifteen adjectives? It reads like the scientific name of an endangered species. Every word tells a story, but you fell in love with the color. Color is personality. Now you wonder, are you quiet or loud? Powerful or mousy? Exciting and inviting? Lazy or comfortable? 

Once I committed, I thought, it doesn’t matter to me. Doubt? I’ll do my duty. I’ll paint the paint. Raindrops were splashing the window. The radio was on. The tarp was down. The room was taped off. The routine familiar. Open the can, stir the soup. Spin art from the fair? A tornado hitting a rainbow?  Doubt. Vomit? Doubt. Then consistency. Victory? Wait. Is this orange? Doubt!  Still, a painter paints the paint. Fill the tray.  Cut it in, roll it on. Move the ladder and repeat. 

Doubt waxed and waned as multiple moods drying here and there suggested this and that. While I worked, shades and shadows whispered a variety of colorful hues. The next day, assessing the work, a robin spoke. Setting my coffee down I smiled, smelling the fresh paint. And as I opened the door letting in the morning sun, the room sang to me loud and clear. “Welcome,” it said, erasing all doubt.  mike@mikeperry.biz

Folded Footnotes: Oh Great! I'm Wrong Again.

I had been reading a book that contained a few cultural folktales. They were not my style. I had passed over them more than once since they did not appeal to me. I was not drawn to a story about a girl who morphs into a swan, or an Inuit tale containing strange names and an evil villain, but my grandkids asked me to read to them. 

It was bedtime and Alex and Maggie had school the next day. I hatched a plan. Knowing that they would try to keep me reading to ward off the sandman’s arrival, I was sure that they would not enjoy dated folktales from long ago, stories from foreign cultures. Perfect, I thought, they’ll be bored, I knew these folktales would not engage the imaginations of my 5 year old granddaughter and her 7 year old brother. 

I like to tell them my favorite stories. Stories that flow. The ones I love and the kids do too, tales that draw a line from my heart to theirs. I know exactly the impact they will have. These are the golden few. I am convinced that I possess ‘superior taste,’ a gift that allows me to recognize a great story. I like to think that a great story is instantly recognizable. Again and again I find how wrong I am..

Great stories, like unknown friends, surround you sitting silently. As a teller I must remain vigilant,  open to saying hello. “Hello friend. It’s nice to meet you. Who are you?” It is challenging to search for them, reminding myself that they can hide anywhere. Keeping a sharp edge requires searching for the next tale waiting to be told, reading, writing, and polishing nonstop. I thought I’d give these a try.

As Alex and Maggie sat, I read the old tried and true folktales, waiting for boredom to take hold. Instead, I found them transfixed in awe, totally engaged, commenting without thinking. Their imaginations exploded. I would never choose these stories, yet their minds and hearts were touched. I was gobsmacked. The kids wanted to hear another and another. I realized that these tales were still being told because they contain some hidden magic. 

Of course, that’s not the whole truth. As the teller I apply the craft of bringing life to the characters, voices, timing, volume, pacing and pauses punctuating necessary for engaging an audience. The stories worked their magic through me, with me, for them. My grandchildren were glued. They were transfixed. They corrected me when I jokingly misspoke. They listened so hard that they couldn’t sit still. They echoed the repetition. I was shocked.

Choosing a ‘good’ story, I am wrong as often as I am right. I continue to be reminded that it is not my job as a teller to prejudge the ‘success’ of a tale. Sure I offer tales that I prefer, that I love, that make me happy, but my job as a teller is to serve the audience and their taste may differ from mine. 

My job is to constantly assemble an ever-changing menu, to offer something for everyone, fresh stories served up steaming hot and appealing to the senses. In bringing my best to the plate I gain satisfaction from serving the audience and taking pleasure in their experience of devouring a well prepared tale. The cook prepares the meal. He doesn't have to eat it. He doesn’t  even have to like it. Save the judgment for your effort. And let the meat and potatoes of a well told story stand alone. 

Now?  I have two or three more stories added to my collection of tellable tales. Perhaps I will be blessed enough, brave enough, smart or lucky enough to continue to place my taste subservient to my audiences’. Perhaps I will also be lucky enough to continue to have audiences who challenge me to listen to them  when I take a chance and tell a story, paying forward the magic of tales told long ago. mike@mikeperry.biz

Folded Footnotes: Observations From a Birdfeeder...

The label says ‘bird food,’ but as the bag sat upright in the corner of the garage, it became a mouse silo. Those furry little fellows waited a day or two before surreptitiously entering from the back, behind, in the corner. Despite their best efforts to keep their secret entrance hidden, they began to leave evidence. Poop and seeds appeared here and there before we noticed. My wife picked up the bag to discover a flowing stream of seeds waterfalling freely. An expletive, escaping my thoughts left my mouth. What to do? 

Nature always wins. We purchase a large plastic bin. We buy more bird food and seal it inside, but we know better. Sure, the birds eat it - but so do all their furry neighbors. Assuming that the seed, what was left, makes it to the feeder, and the feeder makes it to the shepherd's hook in the yard, it becomes little more than a circus playground for the neighborhood. Squirrels, little yard monkeys, begin by eating what falls to the ground, until one of them decides to shinny up the pole. Soon their acrobatic antics involve hanging up-side-down and throwing out what they don’t like, selecting the best bits for themselves.

Then, using some sort of the silent woodland grapevine every animal is alerted. Hungry critters of all sizes begin to stop by. Deer, grateful to have dessert placed at just the right height, nosh on the gourmet seed selection. Nearing the house they take their time, often emptying the feeder twice a day. I implement an exercise regimen and wave my aging appendages hollering at the apathetic ungulates while they look at me as if to ask, ‘What’s his problem?” before slowly sauntering away. Whatever happened to fight or flight?  I wonder.

Recently, before heading to the porch with my sweet tea, I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then, noticing a new resident in our refrigerator call out, “grape jelly?” 

“That’s for the birds!” Says a disembodied voice in the other room. 

“Sure it is! “ I reply with no conviction. 

But after a few days of watching my wife fill the bowl hanging from the hook we find not one, but three Baltimore Orioles, visiting. Replete in their orange and black finery, they now appear daily, clucking their songs and waiting their turns as they eat grape jelly, and peck on an orange slice. Jays, and cardinals arrive in fine feathered hoodies daily, colored and costumed, other birds of various sizes and plumage join the regulars. 

 I set the sandwich down, sitting on the porch. Appearing and disappearing just as quickly. a hummingbird, drawn to a sugary solution, quickly sips from its feeder before sailing away. Sitting on the porch with binoculars nearby, distracted by nature, trying to read my book, I listen as a pileated woodpecker, a beauty of a bug eater, begins hammering away in the distance, digging for lunch in a faraway tree. 

Sitting on the porch, trying to read, I get nothing done. This is for the birds, I think, as a hawk’s shadow silences song, as mice, and deer, and chipmunks and squirrels wait their turns in the treed perimeter. Mike@MikePerry.biz

Folded Footnotes: Putting Allis to Bed

It was a cool September afternoon years ago when I adopted Allis. I had high hopes for a long and lasting relationship, but she needed care. Love at first sight is fine, but I had no way of knowing how much effort would I have to invest? How much time?  Would she be uncooperative? Cranky?  Independent? She had to be healthy by winter. That was my goal. By then, we would have spent enough time together for me to get to know her, inside and out. I remember smiling thinking that I could make this work. Would it be  worth it? 

She had been sleeping under a blanket and surrounded by junk cars. For her age? She was in great shape. Still, she’d need some care. She hadn’t been walked in a very long time. I talked to her owner and soon I found myself driving her home. She just barely fit into the back of my SUV and she weighed a ton. Was I making a mistake?

I remember talking to her, “Don't worry Allis, I said, We’ll work well together, you and I.”

I cleaned her up and played with her. I’d get her going and she’d  growl. Then I might have to leave her alone for a few days until we had time to work together again. It was frustrating, but I knew it would require patience. That was years ago.

The first snow fell and winter arrived. By then we had an understanding. I thought she might work. I thought she could get the job done. It was a cold day and an inch of the white stuff covered the ground when I took her for her first walk. I could tell that she really wanted to run but then she hesitated. She stopped. And she changed her mind. I could not get her to go, so Allis went back inside and sat in the garage watching me shovel. I grew nervous. I was not happy. This was not the plan.

When winter arrived, full blown and the snow covered, I needed her help. I worked with her some more until the day arrived when I told her, “ Allis, it’s time to earn your keep!” She must have felt my earnestness. She listened. Sheepishly she took me for a walk,  200 feet down the driveway. Then, with growing confidence we both turned left and cleared the sidewalk, but the farther we got from home, the more concerned I became. If she decided not to go a step further? I’d never be able to pull or push this beast up my driveway. I couldn’t lift her into my truck if I had to. We walked on. My worries were unfounded. It was the beginning of a long and successful relationship. 

Today? When a neighbor or friend meets Allis for the first time  they might ask, “How old is that snowblower?” 

I smile thinking that we have become antiques together. My hair has thinned and her orange paint has chipped. I know every inch of her 205 pounds. She moves slowly, confidently cleaning the pavement 28 inches at a time, easily throwing the snow as I follow behind her listening to her song.

“This is my girl Allis. Allis Chalmers,” I say. “It’s not polite to ask a lady’s age,“ I tell them, “but she was born in 1979.”

The day arrives each spring  when I must walk her to the shed. There she sleeps like a bear until winter returns. There she sits in the back, taking her rightful spot, hibernating. 

She ‘s family now and before putting Allis to bed, I read to her. It’s our tradition. I read about oil capacity and how to replace the starting rope. About tightening the muffler and repairing the wheel chains. I squirt grease into the Zerks fittings, and pull the plug to give a squirt of this spray or that mystery oil. 

“Here’s your cough medicine Allis,” I say. 

I’ve doctored her for so long now that when she is running I can listen to her complaints. I can smell her breath. I can feel stress in her body, I can hear her ailments and I talk to her as I my screwdriver implements adjustments to help her breathe.

Vibrating parts are tightened, molasses-oil is replaced with honey-colored elixir. Cables and belts are poked and pulled before the rope is yanked one last time. She hums. She sings. She sits outside my shed and screams. This girl’s eight horses can still winnie! I smile listening to her final aria before, spitting and sputtering, she runs out of gas. “I’ll be right here checking on you,” I tell her as I push Allis up the ramp and slide her to the back corner where she finds comfort. Sleep Allis. Sleep.

“Well?“ I say turning to my mower, “I guess you’re next! Time for your spring checkup. Remember me?” And pushing it down the ramp, wrenches at the ready, it enters the operation arena. “Toro? It's time for you to wake up. You’ve had a nice rest, but the grass is getting long and it’s time to get to work.”

Folded Footnotes: Rambling thoughts meant to amuse. From the mind of Mike ...

I have come to accept that in my brain there lives a sticky word web. 

Sometimes, I read a word or hear a sentence, and without warning it enters my head where it sits quietly, slowly festering, niggling away persistently, demanding attention. It will not leave me alone until I’ve examined it, tearing it to pieces and often killing it in the process. 

For example, I was pounding out words, trying to craft a story the other day when I stopped to wonder, ‘Am I becoming a better writer?’ That was all it took. That verb, ‘becoming’  got stuck in my word-web, and like an earwig it persisted in tunneling into my brain. 

BE-coming. Be-COMING. Becoming?  A broken word-record. Suddenly my brain asked, ‘Who decided these two verbs belong together?’ Be-coming? This ailment of mine, this sticky brain word web will not let go of its victim until it is satisfied.

 I set to work with my mental scalpel. Becoming = be+coming.  It’s a simple compound word, usually used as a verb to express some truth, ‘I am becoming older’ for example. Hard to accept for sure. Even as an adjective, becoming can be difficult to embrace, 'Do I look less becoming as a result?' Certainly an explanation is in order.

‘Be’ defines pure existence. 

Buddhists claim it as the ultimate answer. Simply, ‘be.’   

Shakespeare used it as a question, ‘To be..or not to be...’

Coming? The second verb is the present participle form of ‘to come.’ This gerund, this ‘ing’ form means ‘soon,’ as in, 'Coming mother!’ Any child will tell you that there is no hurry here. In their world and mine as well, it will happen, I'm coming, but not quite yet.

So? I side with Shakespeare, ‘Becoming or not becoming? That is a question. Can it ‘be,’ that is to say ‘exist now’, and still be ‘coming,’ as in ‘not quite yet?’ Can we ‘exist soon’? Are we in the process of, ‘almost now?’  Can these two states, now and later, coexist? We are asked to accept that it is both? How is that possible? 

Perhaps the Beatles got it right,’let it be.’ After considerable (and you may say confusing) thought, I chose to accept common usage and embrace ‘becoming’ as a viable state. Unsticking the verb from my word web however, I am still stuck with the question, ‘Am I becoming a better writer?’ I don’t know the answer to that, but I'm certainly becoming more concise in vetting my words.  

I can’t expect you to understand this mental malady of mine which causes me to question, to dissect, to attempt an explanation for everyday words. Heck I don’t understand it either. I am however becoming more tolerant of its usefulness, and hope you are saying the same.                                                                   

Be well, and do tell………………………………………………………..Mike@MikePerry.biz    

Folded Footnotes: Observations of a Storyteller

Pedaling my where’s….

Yesterday my bike took me for a ride. Ok maybe I had a little to do with it, but off we went. I had to test the new brake pads. I had to find out if the wheels needed to be trued. I had to get her out of the basement, out on the road, to run her through the gears.  Ok maybe I blamed the bike. Maybe I needed to get out.

The question surfaced early on, ‘where?’ Where am I going? On this trip? Throughout the year? Where will all those wants and desires take me this year? My body began pedaling. My mind was pedaling too. Pedaling ideas? It was a ten mile path, following a brook, through the woods, passing by trillium in spectacular bloom. I stopped. 

Here is where. Here is where I sat last year. Here is where I smoked a cigar. Where I watched the ducks play. Where I ate an orange and pondered nothing in particular. Here is where I wondered, where are these moments each day? Do they hide or am I too distracted?

I pedalled back to where I began. I returned to the car. I drove to the house, to the garage. I returned my bike into shadow. Grateful. Where had I been? Everything was different, but nothing has changed. Where does one journey end and another begin?  MikePerry.biz

When The Assignment Editor Meets the Copy Boy:

Yellow journalism was once associated with sensational stories. But today? In my house? It  describes the trail I leave on my porch, in my office, at my reading chair, and on the coffee table. Of course, I use the term ‘journalism’ to mean ‘journaling,’ and sensational stories? Those are this storyteller's objective as I randomly write in my yellow legal pads. The house is littered with these half-started tablets, strewn about and containing copious ‘important notes.’ My inner assignment editor-in-chief, is constantly jotting profound thoughts that arrive unannounced. Then? The copy-boy in me must reconstruct whatever it was that came out of his brain when he scribbled this or that brilliant observation.

Two requisites apply to each note written on every yellow page. One is the message, perhaps some enigmatic phrase or rhyming sentences: a quote from this book or that magazine which may be followed by a website or more likely, three or four pages filled with the spits and spurts of a  ‘fantastic story.’  At that moment? My inner assignment editor has collected ideas for his next great story, due out immediately if not sooner. “This is genius!” he says. “Here is bottomless potential for an untapped story idea. Get on this! Make this happen!” he orders.

A week later, finding these bits and bites, the copy-boy in me arrives, and perusing the yellow pads, he attempts to  translate little more than scratch notes into some sort of cohesive story arc. What does that editor think is the possible value in this?  Why does he do this to me?  Flush it out? Bring it to life? Is there a big idea here that I can even understand?

 Compounding the confusion of his hidden meaning is his method.  My assignment editor has never taken the time to apply the craft of writing or printing, but resorts to a unique combination of script-print; an indecipherable personal font: a script unique to him alone. Is that a ‘cl’ or a ‘d’? Then, once translated, using a single word, or, fragment he assumes that the future reader (me) will comprehend his moment of sartorial enlightenment which motivated him to write this down in his one-of-a-kind glyphic penmanship. A paragraph or three would be helpful, but the copy-boy in me is left with far less than that.  

My duplicity is bridged by the minor fact that the two of us, assignment editor and copy-boy, idea man and ‘fix it’ writer, are somehow one in the same person. Over time, we have reached an accord, the copy-boy in me makes clear, “If you expect me to understand scribbles, make them nearly legible! If it’s important, I should be able to both read it and make sense of it!” he says, throwing out page after page.  

However, the assignment editor in me is usually too busy to be bothered by logic or structure.

He continues to dump ideas onto yellow paper daily, attempting to write as fast as his thoughts appear, self-assured that the next one will result in the best story yet.

These battles end abruptly when the big boss arrives. “Why are these yellow journals all over my house?” my wife asks.

The editor-in-chief is tempted to scream “Are you kidding?” These are gold!”

But the copy-boy, ever the worker bee, collects them, placing them in the pile, with the others, wondering this time if the assignment editor might be right. Together, their yellow journalism may well produce a sensational story. Then, looking at the top page he turns on the computer. 

  MikePerry.biz    Where would the world be without stories?

There’s no telling!                                                            

Fruit Flies like a banana... and so it goes.

I look at this blog and say January of 2021? Wait! That was last year!!  What happened to Y2K?

Groucho Marx said, "Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana!” My friend from college posts this as a salutation at the end of his emails.This is why we are still friends after 40 years.  Forty years!?  And so it goes. 

When asked to explain what I’ve been doing? I have no explanation. Life does indeed speed up as we slow down until a wide part surrounded by gray hair sits atop of this old head of mine. The lag, the gap, the time warp speed of life’s progression leaves me agog and has me blurt out my only explanation, “‘I’ve been busy!”  Then, like a 9 year old kid, the one hidden inside me, I wait for you to reprimand me for my crazy-lazy explanation.

“What have you been doing Mike?” 

Honesty is always an option I’ve been told and the best excuse I can think of? 

“I was riding my bike to Washington DC.” 

“I painted my house and had to double the effort. The ladder got heavier. It did… really.”

“Well, I also have to paint two houses.”

The truth is that my daughter’s house keeps me busy enough to complain that since retiring, I don’t know where my time goes. (See what I did there? Another attempt at excusing my disappearance.)

I am here now, and it is Spring. That means, put away the snowblower and watch it snow. Try to cut the grass and find out there is no gas. Have a barbeque and use the last of the charcoal. In other words, smile at the many unexpected wonders that pepper each day. There’s a new roof over my head and soon gutters will be installed replacing the old ones. New gutters that will actually remove the flood of water that’s sure to come in the month ahead. Of course first I must paint the fascia board…

Easter has arrived. The frig is full, and company’s coming. Real people will populate our house and, this being Spring, new hope arrives with each story they bring. I am more committed to bringing renewed discipline to my blogging efforts as the stories continue to occur each day faster than you can ask for a pencil to write them down. And, with a painted house and shingled roof, there are fewer excuses. Still, I sit on the porch in the breeze and realize, that ain’t a fan…. it’s the calendar, and that breeze I’m feelin is caused by the years flying by. Enjoy each minute, and keep the ladder out… there’s more to be done.

Onward and upward. 

Mike

Travel South in 2021 ...

Once upon a time…. with these words stories launch the listener into another time, another place. Through stories we are able to move the audience in so many ways. And so, as COVID prevents our movement, we all remain ‘locked down and cooped up’ in our homes. Even tellers need to travel, so here then is an opportunity to visit our Southern-most neighbors.. The South Florida Storytelling news letter is chock full of events that are sure to warm your chilled January hearts and minds, offering a opportunities to look and listen to others…. Thank you Emily Harris for sending this my way…) MikePerry.biz

2020 What a Charlie Brown year!!

Christmas? “Oh, Good Grief!”            

How could 2020 have been a leap year? It was impossible to jump past the collected calamities of the past 12 months. Like Charlie Brown running to kick the football, by the third month we all found ourselves lying flat on our backs. They even cancelled the Olympics!  “AAUGH!!  2020 was a Charlie Brown year. Oh,good grief!  

“Charlie Brown? He’s a clown!” If anyone would know it’s Mike, but this year the joke was on him. In January he was trained by the Census Bureau to conduct surveys... sponsored by the CDC...in emergency rooms... and doctors offices......beginning in March!  “Good grief!” Mike said, “Why’s everybody always pickin on me?”

But, he succeeded. (In quitting!) He lost his ‘census’ and continued to work on a forlorn foreclosure. 

“It spoke to my inner Charlie,”said Mike.

The sad little house was purchased on Thanksgiving of ‘19, but it took ‘2020 vision’ to bring it to life. By summer, daughter Jenny moved into the new abode and Mike found independence on July 4th. Still, retirement can be exhausting. Every morning, dark and early, he must ZOOM to China! Wearing pajama bottoms and an orange VIPKid t-shirt Mike teaches English to his Chinese students,though some suggest they sent us a plague. (?) Oh, good grief! 

By August, Sue was shouting, “After all these years it is hard to find goodness in this grief.”  The Dr. is in: Mike put in his 5 cents, “Let me give you some advice. Quit!” (Actually retirement was part of the plan)  Freed from the classroom, and channeling her inner Lucy,

Sue stated, “All I really need is love, but a little chocolate now and then doesn’t hurt!” 

 “And look at me, I’m smiling all the time!” she added.

“That’s great,” said Mike, “but you still have to wear a mask!”  

2020? Good grief!

“I only dread one day at a time.” Charlie Brown was fond of saying, and as frustration, and division escalated and permeated the year, Mike thought, oh,good grief!  Home Depot was out of perennials and bread flour has been hard to find. But an inner voice shouted, “Don’t you get it Charlie Brown? Any blockhead will tell you that when people value their time together, gardens and homemade bread, triumph over bombast and anger.”  

This year we have been safe and healthy, Sue skypes and I type. We were able to visit Kate and Sean in Chicago and the grandkids, Alex, and Maggie are homebound and home schooled, smart and growing, happy and healthy.

With the Holidays here, Sue recently said, “This is the saddest little Christmas tree ever!” But if you recall Schultz’s characters, what made Charlie Brown’s grief  ‘good’ was friends and family; Schroeder playing Beethoven, Snoopy dancing, kids singing, as Vince Guaraldi’s ‘Christmastime is Here’ played. Peanuts seems to sum it all up, even after 55 years. Good grief!  

And somehow, Linus’s reading of the Christmas story seems more relevant too:

"...For behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the City of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.” Luke 2 8-14

May your Christmas be filled with merry moments and your New Year bring well deserved happiness.

Despite the ‘good grief’ experienced throughout 2020 

Wishing you “The Merry-est’ from “The Perry-est’ 

Mike Perry and family

Mikeperry.biz

Mark your calendars...

StoryShare Storytelling Guild - Online!

Tuesday, December 8

6:30 p.m. - 8:00 p.m. (Eastern Time)

StoryShare Storytelling Guild is a group which meets the second Tuesday evening of each month. The purpose of the guild is to promote storytelling. If you want to learn about storytelling or tell a story or just hear stories, come and join us. Teens and adults -- all are welcome

Visit: StoryShare Pittsburgh on Facebook for more info…