Good Luck; It's a Beginning

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

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

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

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!