Relatives in Illinois

Marilyn Taleypo Kinsella in Illinois.
http://www.marilynkinsella.org Click here to see photos of Marilyn's grand-daughter, Drew Adele

On Butterfly Wings � a tribute to Jackie Torrence who lighted on my shoulder one hot August morning. By Marilyn Kinsella It was the summer of 1981, and I had just arrived at Jonesborough, TN to attend a workshop sponsored by NAPPS on creative storytelling by someone named Jackie Torrence. I came from my home in Illinois with no idea who this person was that called herself �The Story Lady.� All I knew was that I wanted to be a storyteller. For three days time stood still as Jackie spun her magic around our little group. She modeled, cajoled, scolded, and beamed � always knowing how to give�just enough. That Saturday night there was to be a public concert with Jackie. The town would show up at the old Salt House to hear her. But, she wanted to share the stage with her newbies. Anyone who wanted to tell was welcome. Most declined, but my hand shot straight up. This was what I came to do � to be a storyteller. I chose to tell a version of �Wiley and the Hairy Man� that relied heavily on rhyme and meter. I was so nervous that I asked a fellow workshop attendee to follow along with me in the book � just in case I got lost. After all of Jackie�s coaching and coaxing, I still didn�t trust myself. I had to stop three times and ask my new friend, Norris Spencer, where I was. I thought I was a disaster. I�d never ever, ever be a storyteller. The next morning we gathered to �critique� our attempts at telling. Before Jackie could say a word I blurted out��All I needed to was tell the story until I got back on track!� Jackie just shook her head, �Mmm, mmm, mmm, didn�t I try to tell you that this weekend? You just had to learn it for yourself. Now the next time you get up to tell a story, you will know what to do.� (It was Jackie�s subtle way of telling me that I hadn�t failed at all, I had learned.) That is the way she taught us all weekend� giving us just enough so we would have to struggle and work it out on our own. She saw in me (and everyone else) the potential to be a storyteller. She told each of us what our strengths and weaknesses were. Later, on Sunday, when most had left, Jackie and Norris and I got some chicken salad sandwiches and bottles of Grape Nehi (or was it Orange Whistle?) to eat on the steps of the Old Courthouse. Suddenly, there was a rip in time and space. Things started to happen that I swear would never have happened if Jackie had not been there. Our senses heightened and stories began to appear along the main street and around every corner. �Listen. Pay attention,� Jackie said. �Stories are everywhere.� I had entered into her magical world where stories began. Since I arrived by a Big Red bus and there was no bus station, I asked Jackie to stay with me until I could flag down the bus as it came swooping down the hill on 11E. When it arrived, I gave her a hug, and the bus doors opened. The bus was empty except for a little old lady sitting directly behind the bus driver. Normally, I would have taken a seat some ways away, but this little old lady was wearing a blue baseball cap and I remembered what Jackie had taught me � pay attention! This woman had a story. So, I asked her if I could sit next to her. She turned and looked at the rest of the empty bus and said, �Sure, go ahead.� After I settled in, she looked at me with curious eyes, �And just what were you doing in Jonesborough, TN?� Well, that opened the floodgates for me. I started talking non-stop for the next hour. I told her about Jackie Torrence. I told her the stories she told, that the others told, that I told. Her eyes got big and wide, and I even caught the bus driver giving me strange looks in the rearview mirror. When my stories finally wore down, she told me her story. She was a professor at MIT and was on her way to do a workshop in Chattanooga. The only reason she was on a bus was because the air controllers were on strike and she didn�t trust any greenhorn to bring a plane in safely. She said that when she was young she was sent to Japan after the bomb hit to help some students at an artists� colony. Everything was in disarray or contaminated. So they used an ancient art form of taking cloth apart and making pictures using one thread at a time. It not only produced beautiful pictures but it was great therapy for these artists. Then she looked at me and said, �Marilyn, you have discovered your artist�s palette this weekend with a lovely color on it called storytelling. You will want to work with this color until it is just the right shade and consistency, but soon you will discover other colors on your palette and when you combine those colors, your true artist self will shine through. Whoa�did this little lady in a blue baseball cap really say that. We talked on until we parted ways in Knoxville. As she walked away I thought, �I�ve just met my angel and she was wearing a blue baseball cap.� I would have never sat next to the woman if it hadn�t been for Jackie. She not only opened up the world of storytelling, she opened up the world to me. I could tell you many such times when the world stood still or the fabric of time ripped open. It was because I heeded the words of my teacher, my mentor, my friend, Jackie Torrence, �Listen�Pay attention.� As the doors opened on the Big Red bus, I stepped back into my time, but something was different. Something had changed forever. I was a storyteller.

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Chrissie and our new Grand daughter are doing well. Chrissie is in her 5th month, she became pregnant in October 1993. and with all your prayers, she will be the mother of a new daughter in July. Her diabetes needs to be in check, but with the monitor, things are a lot easier. We ask that you keep both of them in your prayers.
Brian has a new job at Applebees in Collinsville. He went in as an assistant manager and is learning lots of new skills!
Amy is still at Christopher Banks, a clothing store at the mall. She's in a play at the end of April by my old mentor, Dr. Jack Stokes (of the famed "Hairy Man"). It's called "Mama Media." Chrissie has been understandably taking it easy this spring.
Larry and I are really booking up this summer. Our program Stories 'n Stones Along the Expedition Trail is booked over 30 times! So between the birth of our new grandchild and these programs we should stay pretty busy. Larry's website:

http://flintknapper.com/.

I finally put a fire under one of my "back-burner" projects! I came out with a CD entitled Fair View From Old Fairview. It's a collection of stories that wrote about growing up in Smalltown, USA. Whether you are from Fairview Heights or any small town, you will enjoy these stories. The CD includes The Great Crabapple War of '56, The Call of the Mourning Dove, The Last Punch, and Reflections of Christmas Past and Present. It would make a great gift for yourself or for a special someone at Christmas. The price is $15.00 plus $3.00 postage.
I'm going to be at the Fairview Heights Public Library on Wednesday, December 11, from 9:00 to 10:30 to share some of these stories and to nibble on some breakfast bits. I will tell stories from the CD and have them for sale ($15). I will also autograph your copy! Even if you decide not to buy the CD at that time, please come and share this event with me and some of the people of Fairview Heights.
The event is called "Breakfast Bites with Marilyn Kinsella." It will be held at the Fairview Heights Public Library at 10017 Bunkum Road (north of the City Hall). They ask that you call and tell them you are coming so they order enough to eat.

A Bottled-up Memory�Free at Last
By Marilyn Kinsella
There they stood - two glass milk bottles on the edge of the porch. They stood there like they did every Monday and Friday � waiting, waiting for the milkman. He would come clamoring up the back stepping stones with a carton of fresh, whole milk at his side. Twice a week, like clockwork, he came. He always wore the same gray/green uniform with �Niedermeyer�s Dairy� stitched on the pocket.
One Monday he doffed his matching cap as he spied my mother putting the wash on the line.
�G�day, Mrs. Niemann, beautiful day, isn�t it?�
�Beautiful, indeed!� shouted my mother as she looked worriedly at the sky gathering dark wool.
�I just hope this load gets dry before the rain comes!�
�Nothin� like the smell of fresh rain on your clothes. Somebody ought to bottle that smell, they should. They�d make a million bucks.�
�Oh, you do go on with your ideas. A million dollars, indeed! Stuff and nonsense. Why, last week you were thinking of putting the milk in that new plastic stuff I read about. Don�t go putting your milk money on that scheme.�
�Don�t worry about that. With five kids to feed I don�t have a wooden nickel to spare these days. Say, Mrs. Niemann, are you in the mood for some sour cream or butter, today?�
My mom finished pinning the last bit of clothes and wiped her hands on her apron. As she picked up the empty wicker basket she sighed,
�No thank you. Not today.�
She didn�t want to tell him that she didn�t have money for any extras this week.
On Friday, the milk bottles were sitting back on the porch � like they always did�like they always would. Or, so we thought. Their contents consumed by our growing family.
It was that Friday that my brother, Chris, decided it was time to perform his brotherly duty by chasing me around the house. My brother, Chris � a handsome teenager, if there ever was � tall, dark, hazel-brown eyes. A little dab of Brill Cream lit up his dark brown hair. He bought a set of weights to buff up those bulging muscles. He was every girl�s dreamboat.
Being seven years older, he didn�t pay much attention to me. So when he began to chase me that day, I was flattered that he would even give me the time of day. I accepted his challenge and squealed with ear piercing yips and yaps over furniture, under tables, in and out of rooms. Just when he had me cornered, he slowed down with his arms outstretched like Frankenstein�s monster. He slowly began to drag one foot behind him, and to contort his face into a snarling tangle of drool and twitches. He slowed down enough to allow me to duck under him and continue the chase.
�Stop that! Mark my words�somebody�s gonna get hurt. Take that noise outside,� yelled my mom with her free hand cupped over the receiver. She had the telephone crooked under her ear and, with her other hand, she ironed the mounds of clothes next to her. Cynically, she told her friend Peggy,
�Maybe I should tell the milkman to invent clothes that never need pressing � hah!�
The screen door flew open as I jumped off the back porch and ran to the other side of the picnic table. It always provided the perfect barrier. But, I was out of breath. I plopped down on the bench seat. My brother�s pace had slowed down. Was the chase over? I thought. My brother never stopped until I got a good tickling.
�Are you okay? Does it hurt? Oh, my God, you�re bleeding!�
Frankenstein�s monster began to swoon as blood gushed from my ankle. I hadn�t even felt it � the power of childhood adrenalin! As I swept out the back door and jumped down, I had knocked down the milk bottles. They came crashing down onto the concrete�shards of glass like exploding shrapnel torpedoed in all directions. One errant missile found its target.
Suddenly, my brother transformed before my eyes. As the red blood flowed out my ankle onto the green grass, his massive strength flowed out of him like an Achilles� heel. Now, it was my turn. (heh-heh-heh) No, it didn�t hurt. But, I wouldn�t tell him that. This was my moment. I had my brother�s attention and I was going to "milk" it for all it was worth! With the back of my hand on my forehead, I acted like I was going to faint. Without another thought, my brother swooped me up in his arms and carried me into the house. My handsome brother�my hero!
To tell you the truth, it really did not hurt � not one bit. What did hurt was the iodine my mother used. That hurt like a boo-hooey! I can still smell that pungent, day-glow orange liquid as it attached itself to every nerve ending on my ankle. My brother stood helplessly by and suffered through each excruciating yowl. Finally, my mother wrapped up the whole situation with a whole roll of white bandages and the admonition...
"I told you somebody was going to get hurt!�
My mother, prophet and sage!
Later she performed her mommy duty, and, arching one eyebrow, she handed my brother the dustpan. Without a word he went out and swept up the pieces of our chase. I still bear the scar on the inside of my right leg. A shard of memory lurks just under the surface as I rub my finger across the silken skin.
Over the years I�ve discovered that many of our dreams of stuff and nonsense actually did become reality. But, who would have ever thought the advances that would take us two steps forward, would only have us take one giant-step back. Yes, gone are the glass milk bottles, but also gone are the milkmen who faithfully delivered not only the milk, but also a little cheer that brightened an otherwise dull, "gray" day.

Bob and Sara,
Hi All, Every once in awhile a magical evening occurs and you just have to share.
Several months ago I was contacted by Chris Vahillo. He wanted me to tell a story on board the ship, The Spirit of Dubuque, which takes off from Dubuque, Iowa.
The story is called The Piasa (pie-a-saw) Bird, a local legend about a mythical winged creature that Pere Marquette wrote about and pictured in his diaries as he travelled down the Mississippi in the late 1600's.
Personally, I have never had an affection for the story. And you and I know the first rule of storytelling is to tell a story only if you love it. Well, I break my own rules from time to time and this is one time that I made the right decision. First of all there is much, much controversy about the story. It is not an authentic North American Indian legend. It seems in the 1800's someone authored the now "legend," which came to be accepted as the story about the beast. For instance, in Marquette's very detailed description, he neither describes any wings nor draws any wings, and wings are central to the story. The mystery deepens...some say that Father Marquette never did see anything because others who travelled the Mississippi river during that time, never saw it.
Others say that's because it only was visible on moist days. Some claim to have seen the "original" and it did have wings. Some go as far to say that they actually found the cave, the nest of the Piasa, that was littered with human remains.
Well, the controversary goes on and on. If you'd like to read more, do a google search on the Piasa. You will find not only the original "legend," but also a rather long and interesting study by one man...
That said, what should I do? The story never spoke to me and yet...that was what Chris Vahillo wanted. The reason being that the whole day was devoted to an artist whose work has been affected by the Mississippi River Valley. This story, no matter what it's origins, is the quintessential MRV story. So, I reworked it. I re-researched it and found a lot of misnomers about the Native Americans living at the time. Lo and behold...it started to come together for me. I stated telling it and I began to like it. Then I told it to Susan Stone-- from Storytell, at the New Salem Festiva--and she gave me some great suggestions on strenghtening it. It was just what the story needed to take it to the next level...that of a "keeper." Mary Garrett got to hear it a couple of times in St. Charles and with each telling I could feel it grow.
So, this past weekend was the cruise. We stayed at the historic DeSota Hotel in Galena, IL. To say it was a magical night is not giving the evening justice. It was supersplendiforous! The Sprit of Dubuque was filled. The sound was great. The meal was adequate. My husband Larry and I enjoyed it all. Of course, I was nervous! I mean not only were there state dignitaries aboard, the head of the whole freakin' IL Arts Council was there. YIKES! My mouth got dry just sitting there waiting for my turn. I don't care what you say about drinking water 30 min. before the show...it doesn't work! I brought my water bottle up on stage with me (Sometimes, just knowing it's there is enough to whet my whistle). Not tonight. I got almost to the end. I took my time every time the mouth went dry and let it moisten up. But then I made a mistake right at the crucial, most important scene where there was no time to slow down. It was the action scene. Nobody knew that I goofed except me, but I had to think my way out without damaging the flow. I had everyone in "the trance." It was great...but my consonants were getting hung up on my teeth. Somehow, I got through it. I don't think it was too noticeable to anyone but myself, and Larry. He knew I was stuggling. Then, I quickly grabbed for the water and slugged and swished. There was enough time for a light-hearted piece so I tied my three stupid human tricks into the talent that was being shared there that evening. That was a great success.
The whole evening was filled with music, song, poetry and storyelling. Shelly Moore Guy, form Rock Island told a Langston Hughes poem and one of her original poems. Her voice was like butter. John Knoepfle (80 plus years old) told one of his Dim Tales stories from his many books. He had us rolling in the aisles. Chris did an outstanding job of weaving the whole thing together. There were blue grassbands and folksingers - fiddles, steel rim guitars, and an old-time bass. The finale was worth our travelling the 6 1/2 hrs. A 91-year-old jazz legend, Franz Jackson, and an 81-year-old keyboad player and a bass player absolutely wowed us. We were transported by Franz as he riffed into well-known tunes. He knew how to play the audience to the hilt. When he played What a Wonderful World I wanted to jump up and hug every person on board. Larry and I couldn't stop talking about him all the way home.
Just to be a part of this great evening was an honor that I will treasure forever. If anyone is interested in my version of the Piasa, it would be interesting to compare it to the one found on-line:

Piasa

When Jacques Marquette traveled down the Mississippi he discovered a pictograph on the bluffs close to present-day Alton. He wrote a description of it in his journal. Since that time, there have many stories told about the picture, this is one of them.
They say at first it sounded like far-off thunder, then that noise, it got louder and louder until it filled the sky, until, finally, a great shadow fell across the land. Every man woman and child went into hiding. For they knew, if they were to go out, they�d never be seen again. There in the safety of the dark shadows, they only dared to whisper its name�Shh! It�s the Piasa.
Oh, the Piasa � devourer of man! A terrible winged creature! But, what was it? A four-legged? a bird? or, perhaps, a snake? For indeed, it had a body of a mountain lion, but with four long, sharp talons instead of paws, and it�s body wasn�t covered with fur but with red and black; yellow and green, armored scales�like that of a snake. Its face�its face was almost human. It had red, piercing eyes and a mouthful of sharp teeth. And, oh those teeth�let me tell you about those teeth! They said if one fell out another, longer one took its place. It had a long beard that fell from its chin and antler horns that sprouted from its head. A tail so long it wrapped itself around the Piasa once, twice�three times!. Two huge wings that sounded like thunder as that beast flew across the sky.
Every morning and every evening the people of the Illinwek ran and hid, for you see, the Piasa loved nothing better than to feast on human flesh and blood.
Now living at that time was the chief of the Tamaroa tribe. He was known to be good and just (it is true), but he was also known to be fierce and brave. He, more than anyone, knew that his people suffered. They came to him and said, �Chief, we cannot plant our squash or corn. We fear that the Piasa will come.� Or, �Chief, you cannot expect us to go on a hunt, when we are the hunted.� The Chief knew something had to be done.
So, he gathered the skilled hunters from his tribe. They bought their bows and arrows. They bought their atalatls and spears. When the Piasa came close they shot their arrows and threw their spears. (phht-tis, ppht-tis) But the arrows, the arrows would break like dry grass and the spears just bounced off its shield of armor. It seemed as if nothing could kill the creature.
Finally, the chief gathered his people and said to them, �It is time. You know what I must do�I must go on a vision quest. Perhaps the Great Spirits will look down kindly upon us and tell me in a vision what we should do�. The Tamoroa people looked to the ground for they knew that this was a sacred time.
The Chief traveled until he found a place at the foot of the bluffs. There in the campfire he bathed with the sweet smoke of the sage; he chanted and said prayers to the Great Spirits. For four days and four nights he fasted and prayed. On the last night he was given a vision:
I see six flocks of birds flying across the sky. One bird from each flies down and lands at my feet. As I watch, they transform from birds into arrowheads. - the points dripping with blood. I look again at the sky. I see a swirling mass of red and black; yellow and green. Then, I see it�a hole where I can see the blue sky.
Suddenly, the chief awoke from his vision, and he knew, he knew what he had to do.
He called a council of all the tribes of the Illininek. Chiefs came from the Peoria, the Cahokia, the Kaskaskia, the Mitchigamea, the Moingwena and the Miami. They met in the Tamaroa lodge. As they sat in a circle, the Tamaroa chief spoke, �For many years we fight. But today, today we must band together and fight our common enemy, the Piasa. It is so, for I have seen it in my vision.�
"Oh, a vision" �now, he had their attention. It was a sacred thing to receive a vision.
�This is what you must do. Go back to your tribe and send me your strongest, your bravest, your most skilled hunter.�
Within a fortnight, six hunters came to the Tamaroa village. The chief told them about his vision, and they followed the chief to the top of the bluff.
�This is what we must do. I will tie one end of this rope around this tree and the other around my feet. You must hide yourselves behind every tree, every bush, every rock. Do not show yourselves. When it is time, I will call out and you must be ready.�
The men took their positions and they waited�and waited�.and, and then they heard it�the distant sound of thunder. And then that noise it got so loud it filled the sky and a great shadow came across the land. The men dared to whisper� Shh! It�s the Piasa!
The beast looked down and saw easy prey. With a terrible screech it swooped down with its talons extended and grabbed the chief. The chief could hardly breathe. The creature started to flap it wings, but you remember, right? You remember the chief was tethered to the tree� and the man did not lift. Its wings rose higher and higher; wider and wider. And that�s when the chief saw it. Just like in his vision. He saw the soft spot under its wing. �Now,� he gasped,
�Now! Shoot your arrows.�
The men came out of their hiding places their bows and atlatls readied for battle. Time and again their poisoned arrows and darts (pht, pht, pht, pht, pht!) found their mark in the soft flesh under the beast�s wing.
In agony, the Piasa dropped the chief and then, it too fell to the earth. Writhing in pain and in the throes of death, it threw itself over the side of the bluff and down to the muddy waters of the Mississippi. The men ran to the edge and looked as the Great River carried away the Piasa�s body�forever.
Soon after, the chief of the Tamaroa had a likeness of the Piasa painted on that very cliff. Not only as reminder of the bravery of the seven men, but as a reminder for generations to come to remember that what one man, what one tribe could not do�they, the Illiniwek, could do together.

the Mississippi River Valley Storytelling Concert was a huge success! You know how when you're in charge you can't fully be swept away...well, that was me. I felt everything was going really, really well, but I didn't know if it was "euphoric." I was always thinking about what was next and or what I should have already done. I was never in the present - try as I might! Then I overheard the people as they came filing out of the auditorium and they gushing (to each other) about what a wonderful event it was. Yee-Hah!
I have to say one of my better ideas was to have a flute player. James Skjerdeth welcomed people as they entered and played during our 20 min. breaks. That meant there was no dead time. It just flowed from one teller to the other. Grandmother Coyote (Dolores Santha) a Seneca/Comanche elder graced us with a blessing. She wore this beautiful torquoise beaded dress. She looked so radiant. Then Dianne Moran told a short story about the whipporwhil (sp?) and being on different trails. It was the metaphor I was searching for! For each introduction I talked about the different trails that led to the MRV - the tribes, Marquette, French explorers, Lewis and Clark, and present day. As part of the olio, I told "The Piasa." and then Dan echenberger told as Etienne DeVinard, a French Adventure for 50 min. His weaving of history and story was masterful. Dolores at one point looked at me and said...Oh, he's good, very good. I haven't heard about the tribes that he is talking about for years. (flute music)
After a break, we listened to Sacagawea (Dianne Moran) as she told about the Expedition, HerStory. I had a state representive in the audience who came up afterwards with tears in her eyes! She just loved her. And, she was supe-complimentary about the day. It never hurts to have the politico's in your corner! (flute music)
Next Grandmother Coyote. Oh, what a joy!!! She was so down to earth, funny, poignant, and a fine speaker. She talked about her walking in two worlds. A fiction writer couldn't imagine her story. She had us rolling in the aisles and wiping tears away. I feel so blessed to have heard her at this event. (more flute music)
I rounded out the event by telling stories from the four directions. I told Why Possum Has a Bare Tale (Creek - South), Why We Have Knuckles (West), Whistling Tsonaquas (Northwest) and How the Animals Were Formed (Seneca - Northeast). It was great, since no one else really told folktales. And all the stories were graciously received.
The Kahok dancers then took the stage and did their interpretive dance. It was stunning with the main lights out and dramatic lighting throwing their shadows dancing against the back wall.
All in all, I'd say we had close to 300 for the entire day. It was hard to judge because some people came and went and other stayed the entire time. It was a full and satisfying day. It's so wonderful when what you see in your mind's eye becomes a reality. I don't even want to tell you what's in that eye for next year!!!!
Thanks for all your good thoughts. For those not there in person...you were there in spirit.

Dear All, I just returned from the Fox Valley Folklife Festival in Northern Illinois. Our own Sue Black let me hang my head at her home. We had lots of time to tell stories, play catch-up, consult and kibbitz. She was my angel for the weekend. She was always there hovering over my right shoulder (angels only hover on the right...never the left) to take care of my every whim.
I came early to attend Beth Horner's workshop. Whenever I've gone to the FV workshop, I find a new story. Beth was able to put the pieces together for a story I want to tell about my eighth grade nun, Sr. Mary Anthony. We also did some creative exercises in the afternoon to try to give us a new outlook on a WIP (that's a Work in Progress for any newbie). That evening we shared pizza and drank (well, I drank) about a bottle of white Zin. We sat around and told "out of school" tales and just about laughed ourselves silly. I found out a whole new side of our prim and proper - Sue and Leanne!
Saturday was a beautiful day and the weatherman promised an even better Sunday and Monday. But, we woke up to the rain on Sun Morning. Not to fear - out of here by noon (weather person). We all gathered at the story tent and blessed the much needed rain. We became real cozy - got to know our neighbors as we sat side by side huddled together. Coats, blankets, poncho's, umbrellas - we all shared as we shared in the listening of the tales.
Leanne Johnson intoduced us to her new harp and I introduced everyone to my little gorilla, Samantha. I got to hear our very own Greg Liefel. As I was listening to his rather eerie tale about a...highway billboard sign, Beth Horner looked over at me and said,
"He's good. Real good."
And later "that is one well-crafted story."
I felt so proud. Like he was my son.
"Yes, that's my boy!"
Susan Black just started telling stories a few years ago, but she is becoming one of my favorite tellers. She's not afraid to tackle new material and to write her own stories. I didn't do that for five years after I started! She emceed the first event "Amazing Grace." She did an amazing job of gracefully weaving the stories together. I told "The Gift of the Hummingbird" and felt my mama's "presents" all weekend.
At noon, I was running through the raindrops to hear the Irish piper piping and the drummer drumming. Everywhere there was music! Beth Horner told a beautiful story about her mother. She is a remarkable, accomplished person who overcame major obstacles to fullfil her dreams. Dan Keding did a masterful set full of story, song and music. My set was a potpourri of my favorite tales. So I told Sleeping Ugly, Whistling Tsonaquas, Once a Good Man andHow the Animals Were Formed."
I sloshed thru the rain to get a bite to eat around 1:30 and again for the potluck. For the first time, I got to hear the Story Weavers. It was the first time I heard Lucinda Flodin and husband Dennis. Now, I know why they were asked to go to Jonesborough. I can't wait to hear them again. Later, during the Thought Provoking tales I told Middle Woman. That night as we layered every blanket and huddled even closer, we heard ghost stories - real ghost stories! How many times have you gone to hear ghost stories and were disappointed? Not tonight. As the rain provided an even beat we listened and shivered - a bit from the cold and a bit from the tales! I got to tell The Piasa. It's still new for me, but it was one of my best tellings of it. My first line is
"They say that the first thing you could hear was the distant sound of thunder ..." all I could do was laugh, because at that moment the train come thundering past! I was also accompanied by blasts of fireworks from the hill to my back. When I came to the wildest part of the story the blasts were fast and furious. Don't cha just love it when the universe provides the sound effects?
Then, I fell in love. I've never met Mitch Weiss before, but I'll never forget him. He told a true tale about a haunted, lynching tree and coupled it with a Paul Lawrence Dunbar poem. My heart went pitter-pat like the rain (pitter-pat, pitter-pat) He does what he calls "storetry" a combination of story and poems. He wraps his voice around each and every word. I was literally transported to another place. I haven't bought books or tapes for a long time - but I bought his!
That cup of hot cocoa was greatly appreciated that night back at Sue's, as we listened to the weather person tell us that the rain would stop this evening and expect a nice day for Labor Day. NOT! I got to share the stage with Mitch on Sunday morning. (pitter-pat) He did a poem and I told Makin' Music. He told a poem, and I told Hold On! I think I died and went to heaven! When we got to the main stage we noticed that everyone was in the tent while the stage was hundreds of feet away with nothing but rain between the stage and the audience. But it was Linda Gorham to the rescue. If the people couldn't move to the stage, she moved the stage to the people! She rigged up a mic so we could tell in the tent. That's just the kind of folks they are at Fox Valley.
Later, at the Storyteller's tent, we had a surprise visit from Michael McCarty. During the Tummy Tales there was some extra time and he had us holding our sides and our noses at his version of The Theft of Smell...I can't tell it all - but just know that it had something to do with a goat and lots of beans.
Later, I told The Blue Faience Hippopotimus. My childhood girlfriend, Dana, who used to live down the street from me came to hear me. I felt so blessed that she was able to come. After that I had to get home. We had company at home and I wanted to at least share breakfast with them. So, I didn't stay for the Truly Tasteless Tales, the Liar's Contest or the Scary Stories. As I left, I noticed the rain had stopped. And as I travelled west a line of blue cut across the sky. Yes, I blessed the rain - lots of gifts in that rain. One of them being the promise of blue skies...

Well, my storytelling jobs have taken a sudden (pig) nose dive. I don't have any school jobs lined up for the coming year. YIKES! Mama told me there'd be times like this.
So, I have resorted or should I say resnorted to doing the pig races at our local orchard at Eckerts in Millstadt. I checked out the pigs and they are well cared for. I dress up like a farm gal and lay on my Southern Illinois accent. (I had to smile at Jack's Mama's post). After I choose our pigleaders, they release the pigs for a little romp around the pen. We've named the pigs - Arnold Schwarten-hogger (he's running real hard all the way from CA), a cute little pig called Nicole Pigman, Pig Rock and Magnum P-I-G, etc. The kids get pig snouts if their pig wins.The last race is actually pig-mie goats. That never fails to get a laugh.
So, the next time you come to my neck of the woods (Mondays and Thursdays), look me up...I'm at the bottom of a holler by the old apple orchard. Sue-eeee!

-Marilyn Adele Kinsella, Taleypo the Storyteller
Fairview Heights, IL
Storyteller, Writer, Puppeteer, and Workshop Presenter
http://communities.msn.com/TaleypoTales
http://www.dulcimerguy.com/taleypo_morning.htm

See "I can't believe I got paid for this!" on page 92, Woman's Day magazine, May 14, 2002 issue.

"Tell me a story..."
A reporter from Woman's Day wrote an article on "Women who are working in their dream job." She interviewed Marilyn (Niemann) Kinsella last fall. Marilyn sent her a promo picture and now it will be in the May issue of "Woman's Day." You can see it in about Mid-April. This is pretty exciting since Marilyn will be retiring from storytelling at the library in Edwardsville at the end of August and she wants to pursue a full time, free lance career as a storyteller. She said, "I wanted to do this!" and the creative spirit said "YES!"

Message from Kyra Niemann

Bob,
Didn't think to get addressess from everybody..will get those too and their emails...am in the process of compiling it all now..taking me longer than I thought it would...I HAVE A BIG FAMILY!!! Yes, probably everyone would agree that I am the "passer-on" of stories and info about the goings on of our family. There are a lot of aspiring writers in our family...we could, with time, probably get a few good stories for you!!
I'll be in touch,
Kyra

Dale Claussen, Marilyn Kinsella, Bob Gray and Chrissie Kinsella in Fairview Heights.

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