Cascading Stories

Why I Carry Duct Tape in My Car

2011-04-08T12:04:00.000-07:00

It was the quintessential good day / bad day.

I was minding my own business Wednesday morning, driving to gigs in Ashland, a very agreeable sort of drive when accompanied by a tasty audiobook. Well, agreeable barring the fact I had to load myself into my car and be gone from bed and home by 5:00 a.m.

And then, an hour into the two hour trip, just before the sun started nudging the dark away, bad news. A ladder appeared on the highway, dodging back and forth across all the lanes in the most flippant sort of way.

Ah! Potentilally good news. For once I was NOT passing, and I was not bumper hugging. I was safely in the right lane, back far enough to see the car ahead of me swerve away from the errant ladder. Back far enough to see that the car probably nicked the ladder, because it leaped up behind that car and over into my lane. I headed for the shoulder just as the ladder landed in front of me.

Bad news. I hit it. I expected to come to screeching halt with ladder stuck under my carriage.

Good news. I didn't hit it head on, and my sweet car kept on trucking.

Bad news. Shortly thereafter I heard clunkings and scratchings and whooshings.

I took the next exit (I had no intention of stopping in the dark on the highway with other cars whizzing by). There I discovered the ladder had breakfasted on one of my lights, and several pieces of my bumper were flopping about, hugging my tire.

What to do, what to do. I had bungie cords in my car, for tying storytelling prop bags onto my rolling cart. I used one to hook from the sturdy part of the bumper around the dangling parts, and it all pulled together quite splendidly away from the tire.

Back on the expressway, it took maybe 30 seconds before I heard all those naughty noises again. Back off the expressway I discovered I was now missing one bungie cord.

What to do, what to do. Ah. I carry duct tape with my sound system! One never knows when one will need duct tape! And my duct tape was the perfect blue to match my sweet car.

Minutes later I was back on the road, and made it to my gigs early.

And all four shows were fun. And my wonderful librarian hostess procured an extra special luncheon.

Back home now, Travellers Insurance has already made a house call; next week my car will have a two day hospital visit. And I have added duct tape onto my grocery list. Blue, of course. Not that I will EVER have to use it on my car again, you understand. Just because I simply must have an array of colors always available, because you never know when you'll need it in order to turn bad news into good news.

And that is today's . . .

"Mischief! Adventures of a Daydreamy Child" review

2011-04-08T10:57:00.000-07:00

Here's a new review of my CD "Mischief!" for those who haven't had a chance to hear if for themselves yet! You might want to check out the web site run by Sean Buvala for storytellers...many other great articles on it http://www.storyteller.net/articles/300

CD Review: Mischief: Adventures of a Daydreamy Child

By: K. Sean Buvala

We’re reviewing Lynn Ruehlmann’s CD: “Mischief: Adventures of a Daydreamy Child.”

From bringing down the house (really) to singing sacred music in the bathroom of the Chinese restaurant, young Lynn kept her parents and older sister busy with her wild imagination and imaginary playmate.

In this CD of personal tales, Lynn takes her listeners on a fun ride through childhood events remembered innocently and playfully. In each piece, she recreates the many players in a subtle shifting of voice, intonation and enunciation.

Lynn incorporates the tunes of folk musicians as she enters into each story. The music is fun to listen to and we are always glad to see collaborative projects between artists. Next time, rather than random folk music, we would suggest that the musicians reinterpret some old hymns into their bluegrass sound, should Lynn decide to share more of her “church kid” adventures.

The CD is professionally recorded and produced. While the title does feature the word “child” in it, we think these stories are best suited for adults and older teens that may be looking for “remember when you might have acted like this” nostalgia. We’re pretty sure you wouldn’t want to inspire any young children to use Lynn’s stories as a road map for their own adventures. Or perhaps you would- if you love mischief as Lynn does.

We received a complimentary copy of the recording for this review. Get your copy from CDBaby or cascadingstories.com.

Author Information:
Name: K. Sean Buvala
Website: http://www.storyteller.net/tellers/sbuvala
The contents expressed in any article on Storyteller.net are solely the opinion of author.

Losing Face

2011-02-11T10:13:00.000-08:00

My face stopped bleeding and I found my credit card in our big recycle bin. It was a quintessential good news/bad news kind of day.

But now you say you want the rest of the story. I suppose you think something significant happened here. Something connecting these two events. I'll let you decide.

It had been a remarkably productive day. That should have made me worry, I suppose. Then I went to use my credit card. It was not in my wallet. Amazingly, I actually remembered where I'd last used it last--at the pharmacy--and I actually had enough wits about me to think perhaps I (gasp) threw the card away with the prescription packaging. But if I did, had the truck come yet to empty the bins? No, it hadn't. I rummaged in trash and recycle. I believed and I achieved! The credit card was found and put back where it belonged. I was saved from myself.

That made it time to take the dog for her walk. I'd already rehearsed for this week's shows and spent thinking time on a new story, so this walk wasn't for double tasking, it was just for recharging (and well, peripherally, for the dog's sake).

We headed out. I dutifully took along the newspaper bag (dog walkers will understand the meaning of this), and I used the bag as needed, and that's when things fell apart. When the dog and I resumed walking, I was still busy folding over the used plastic bag, when there was this bump in the sidewalk that I didn't see, and gravity shifted, and ... and ... and I remember thinking, I wonder what I should try to save? My knees? My arms? My wrists? Saving Face never even entered my mind.

And yet there it was. My face skiing the sidewalk.
The dog stopped and tapped her toenails, waiting for me to get up and move along on her walk.

I'm retro. I carry cotton handkerchiefs. Thank goodness. I used the one in my pocket to mop my face during the rest of the walk.

The dog and I returned home right as my husband came home from work. He set into telling me the significant news from his day.

I gathered that my face bore equally significant news when my husband stopped short in the middle of a sentence, to exclaim, "Whoa. What happened to your face?"

An hour later, I arrived at NEST (Norfolk Emergency Shelter Team) for my overnight shift staffing a site for folks who needed shelter from the snow that was expected to happen that night.
Nobody commented on my appearance all that night. Not the people I was working with. Not the guests needing shelter. I figured that some of them never noticed because they never looked directly at me. Some noticed but didn't find the appearance surprising, and the rest noticed but chose to say nothing so as to spare me embarrassment, or to let me, well, save face.

It wasn't until morning when I was standing in the hall, wriggling one hand to loosen it up (the one that was bigger and stiffer than the other, the one whose fingers apparently didn't appreciate being bent backward in a tumble), that one of the shelter guests finally spoke up. "Looks like your hand's bothering you ... and your face ... what happened to you?"
"Oh, I just fell on the sidewalk."
"Well, Hon, you got to be careful in this snow."
I laughed. "I'm afraid I managed to do this yesterday before the snow."
She stared at me. A long, incredulous pause in which I swear I heard her thinking, now there's one clumsy woman who shouldn't be allowed out on her own.

Today, I look as though I had a botox treatment, only the stuff slid off my lip and up under my nose for the ultimate pouty look. Playing harp helped loosen up my fingers, so all's well there. I know that I could easily have done more damage, and I’m ever so grateful I didn’t.

All that's left of my news is wondering what I should do about Saturday's performance. Is there any hope that I can cover the dark scab with makeup, or should I go with a glaringly neon Band-Aid? In either case the audience will no doubt think I have some significantly weird ideas about unisex mustaches.

I hope they enjoy mine.

On the Road and Haunted

2010-12-20T07:15:00.000-08:00

My tour was all set. The only outstanding arrangement was where I would stay overnight.

"Do you want to stay in our old historic house?" they asked.

"Sure," I said. "I love historic houses. They're so filled with character."
Why did it not occur to me that there can be an 's' at the end of that word: so filled with ... characters?

Blithely I drove to the mountains near Martinsville, Virginia. It was a beautiful drive, and the weather was crisp and energizing. I arrived at dusk, just in time to be shown around the house before the only other human around waved goodbye and drove off into the dark of night.

Have you ever noticed that when you're in the country and there's no one, I mean NO ONE around, that everything creaks and clicks? Constantly?

It didn't take long to become acutely aware I was alone in a big old house, the only house I'd seen up on top of this mountain.

Nothing to worry about. I had plenty to occupy myself for the evening, and I had a whole lovely apartment on the second floor all to myself.   The first floor was furnished for tours with antiques, some of which belonged to the family who had lived there in previous centuries. As I crossed the downstairs hallway and climbed up and down the stairs carrying my bags up to my apartment, it did not escape my notice that past the open doors mannequins lurked in each of the downstairs rooms.  Each one was perfectly dressed in voluminous 19th century gowns. Each one was headless.  All right, all right, I understood this was an intentional fashion statement, but still, they were headless. And they leaped out at me every time I turned a corner.

That evening I kept myself resolutely busy. I made as much noise as I could.
Nothing to worry about.
I was relieved when it was finally late enough I could climb up into the very high bed, and grateful that I was so tired I fell right to sleep.

The next day, everyone I met found a moment during the day to say, "Oh, you stayed in the house last night? Ah, yes. I stayed there. Once."

"Once?"
"Some people say the house is haunted, you know. But I'm sure the presences are benign."

Of course they are. Nothing to worry about.

When everyone but me left the premises for the second night, I thought, I will feel much more comfortable tonight; it's no longer unfamiliar.

Wrong.   Though I had braced myself for the lurking, headless mannequins, no sooner had I passed them, than I became aware of another presence at the top of the stairs. She was short; she was in no way vintage or even period appropriate.   She was only in the house as a holiday decoration. She had curly blond hair and beady eyes, half obscured by the rails of the staircase.   She leered at me every step of the way.

I decided all showering could wait for mornings.
I had taken the music CDs out of my car, and I kept them playing constantly in my laptop.

The third night, as soon as dark fell, I was again queezy and uneasy. I had a little outloud chat with whomever or whatever was pressing the air out of the second floor. "I don't mind if you're there; could you just lighten up a bit? Because you're kind of creeping me out."
I climbed up into the tall bed very early and busied myself reading and writing until I could fall asleep.

Next morning, I found three ladybugs, one in each room.

When I showed up for that day's performances, the woman who was most interested in "presences" asked, "How was your night?" I told her about the ladybugs, thinking she'd approve.

Wrong. "Oh, there are lots of those around all the time," she said.
"Oh sure," I said. "Of course I knew that."

What I actually knew was that I hadn't seen a single ladybug in my rooms the night before or at any other time afterwards. Only that one morning.

"I had a little talk with them last night," I continued.
"That's good," she said. "That's that way to deal with them.  Did I tell you yet about the group that was supposed to stay in the house one week and in the middle of the first night, they called me saying they couldn't and wouldn't stay another minute unless I stayed there, too? As soon as I arrived, I told the spirits to stop bothering those folks, and they didn't come back the whole week."

I only had one more night. I wasn't caving. I would not call for reinforcements.   Instead, I took a photo of the malevolent doll standing guard at the top of the stairs. By this time, I could not see her without thinking of Twilight Zone's Talky Tina. As I passed, I was sure I heard her saying, "My name is Talky Tina, and you better be nice to me."

"Don't you even think of trying anything on my last night," I said. "I haven't messed with you. And I have your photo."

I'm home now. I survived each and every night, and I'm proud of it. I'd even go back if I'm asked.

But just for the record, 'someone' broke my alarm clock while I was there. Not the part that keeps time, just the alarm.   So this is fair notice to whomever it might concern, I was on time for all my shows, anyway.

Hot Air Balloon Fiesta

2010-10-11T15:23:00.000-07:00

Good Golly, I could never have imagined this scene!

There's simply no possible way to describe

being on a field with 900 hot air balloons. A

photographer friend agrees that no photo can

express it. Art does better, she claims.

I'd have to say that even being there in person

feels very nearly impossible, absolutely

unreal.

These guys may be struggling with their twisty balloon, but they're sure fun to watch.

One of the utterly wild things about the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta

is that people are allowed anywhere on the field. You feel as though you could hop in the wicker gondolas if you wanted. But this crowd is so gentle and well-behaved, there are no worries.

This is the inside of the "envelope" that holds the hot air that
makes the balloon ascend into the sky. It's made of
rip stop nylon with fire resistant nomex at the mouth
to protect it from the propane fire that heats the air.

In the foreground is the gondola or basket lying on it's side
while the envelope is filling with air.

Here's my favorite purple balloon, filled with air, still
lying on the ground beside other filled balloons as their
pilots wait to hear the call,
"Go Vertical." Is that not adorable?

So now that she's vertical, she still has to wait for the "Thumbs Up" signal that

assures her pilot that the air space above is clear for "Lift Off!"

And, yep, there's, well, ...serious kitsch....

And now I'm ending at the beginning: the first shot of the morning. The flame is the flicker burn before the Dawn Patrol's ascension. The sky is pitch black; dawn hasn't claimed it yet. The golden fire on black sky is heart-stoppingly gorgeous. Every person in the crowd quivers with anticipation of the balloon's release into the sky. In a moment everyone will leap and cheer, and old timers will poke newcomers and crow, "you haven't seen anything yet!"

And The Balloonist's Prayer seems fitting for each person

setting into this glorious day:

May the winds welcome you with softness.

May the sun bless you with its warm hands.

May you fly so high and so well that God

Joins you in laughter and sets you gently

Back into the loving arms of Mother Earth.

Good Luck; It's a Beginning

2010-09-04T06:09:00.000-07:00

I love the hint of fall in the air on the first night when it’s finally cool enough that I want to snuggle under a blanket. It’s not just that I’m finally freed from being so hot I sidle into the kitchen at every opportunity to stick my head in the freezer. Really it’s not.
The lure of that hint of fall is that when I feel the season shift, it’s a tangible promise of a whole new year beginning. Summer’s over; there’s energy to plan changes, to figure out what’s going to get my focus. Will this year be . . . lucky?

Lucky? Am I thinking beginnings are tied to luck? Maybe. Maybe not.

In theater we never say “Good luck” before a show. It might call out some bad luck. So we say “Break a leg” instead. That’s just too gruesome for dancers, though, so they tell each other “Merde.” All right! So it’s scatological! But it’s in French, so that makes it acceptable in elegant company.

Recently someone said that storytellers say “Bite your tongue.” I thought that was pretty funny, even though I wondered how it was possible that I’d never heard the line before, in spite of being a storyteller. Quick! I googled 'luck'.

Here’s what I found when I did:

I found no references whatsoever to saying “Bite your tongue” in connection with storytelling performances.

But I did find some really great quotes from some seriously smart people concerning luck.

Some favored the idea of luck, notably Jean Cocteau, who said, “I believe in luck. How else can you explain the good fortune of those you dislike?”

And Joseph Conrad, who said, “It is the mark of the inexperienced man not to believe in luck.”

And here’s Ovid, for goodness sake, “Luck affects everything. Let your hook always be cast. In the stream where you least expect it, there will be fish.”

Okay, okay, so Ovid presumed I’m going to be willing to accept some accountability for my own luck. I wonder how literal I need to be. Is it going to be a problem that I’m not a fisherman, so I don’t own a fishing pole with its own little hook?

At least Ovid wasn’t as ominous as Douglas Jerrold saying, “Some people are so fond of ill-luck that they run half-way to meet it.”

Or as admonitory as Thomas Jefferson’s, “I’m a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it.”

Or then there was vivid R. E. Shay, “Depend on the rabbit’s foot if you will, but remember it didn’t work for the rabbit.”

All right, all right. I get it. I promise I won’t rely on luck alone. I promise that I will meet the promise in this new season at least half-way. I’ll bait my hooks (even though I’m going to have to do it metaphorically).

But I have to admit I’m really tantalized by the idea that old shoes used be considered good luck.

So I hope it’s okay that I’m going to join Ben Johnson in his request,

“Hurl after me a shoe. I’ll be merry whatever I’ll do.”

Why I'm Choosing Triple Digits Over Colonial Era Whale Bone Stays

2010-07-25T11:32:00.000-07:00

The triple digits did it.

I've curtailed my covert trips to the kitchen to stick my head in the freezer, and gone to the dark side. It happened yesterday when my morning thermometer check revealed 108 degrees outside and 98 degrees in my bedroom.

Yes, I've caved. I've closed the windows and turned on the A/C unit.

But I'm disappointed. I was just getting into the Tennessee Williams mindset, just truly channelling why everyone in "Streetcar Named Desire" always sat around on the fire escape, fanning themselves, fussing, nattering, bellowing at each other.

And this made my mind wander back even further to America's own Colonial days when womenfolk wore stays, for goodness sakes. Whale bone stays wrapped and sewn into layers of fabric. Wore them under layers and layers of other pieces of clothing, even to work in the garden midsummer. I am so relieved that I'm not performing my American Revolution show, "Steadfast and Spirited" because that would mean having to wear a costume for a whole hour at a time. I don't even want to contemplate wearing such a massive amount of fabric on a daily basis!

I'm happy in the sundresses I'm wearing to perform this summer's library shows!

Even the personalities of the cat and the dog changed yesterday. They stopped fleeing from my hot hugs and started snuggling again. They better not get too used to this coolness. The A/C goes off again . . . tomorrow. Or the next day.

Meanwhile, oh frabjous day! The Klondike bars in my freezer are once again frozen enough to eat!

Courthouse Telling

2010-07-15T13:02:00.000-07:00

Think Perry Mason, only without the miscreants.

Today's library gig (my summer show this year is called "Shimmer-Swimmers") was in an ancient, unrenovated courthouse in North Carolina. There was no sign outside to indicate this enormous dusty building in the little bitty town could possibly house a library, so it took asking someone using the post office across the street to find out where I should go, and how I might get inside.

I was, however, met by someone who put me in an elevator with buttons marked "jail" and "courtroom."

Yes, the show was in a courtroom just like the ones in black and white movies. Which meant that the audience was going to sit on wooden benches behind a dense wooden fence meant to separate the populace from the officials. My show this summer involves a shadow theater. How to enable folks to see?

I decided on a little table for my theater-suitcase which would then go atop one of those huge wooden barrister tables. A sturdy wooden chair would be my step up. Oh yes! My puppets would be seen! But, of course, I would have to stand on the table as well.

Bless the heart of the librarian, who took one look at my plan and suggested I add another table behind the first one, so that if I should inadvertently step backwards, I wouldn't--in front of all the innocent, unsuspecting children--catapult, screaming, to the ground mid-show.

As it was, I had to get up and down several times during the show since not all my stories use the puppet theater, and when I'm telling stories, I like to be as close to the audience as possible. But hey, as I said, my puppets were seen!

My only regret--it didn't occur to me to take photos with my cell phone till I'd already driven all the way home to Virginia. I can but swear on my honor to the truth of this story.

Lily Yeh and Philadelphia

2010-06-28T09:14:00.000-07:00

We had a perfect holiday; a four day jaunt that felt like a glorious, stimulating week away.
Playing with friends always tops my list of delights. This time we shared Philadelphia with Megan Hicks and Jack Abgott. What a different Philadelphia this was than what I saw when my daughter and I went with her choir and we played tourist and saw the Liberty Bell!

Talk about contrasts! This trip we poured over esoteric, antique, etched and engraved copper plates that were created to illustrate Charles Dickens' stories at the Rosenbach Museum. And on the same day we walked among exhuberantly colored mosaics and paintings decorating walls and cement structures on Germantown Avenue near downtown Philadelphia. Designed by Lily Yeh and painted and constructed by members of the neighborhood, this is art that clearly builds community spirit and a sense of ownership for participants and residents, and is moving and exciting for anyone who comes to visit.

I heard Lily Yeh speak at a Virginia Commission for the Arts conference, probably ten years ago, and it took till now to go see her Village of Arts and Humanities . . . well worth the wait!