Thanks to all of you, who have stopped in from time to time to read “On the Mother Lode.” I hope you’ll have fun with today’s entry, inspired by a phone call and an iconic bit of American Junk Food…

Chex Party Mix…

I’ve never really been a salty snack fan. Hmm, cookies, cakes, pies…yum! I’m that sugar-sweet kind o’ gal.

But then we got invited to a New Year’s Day Party, one that I’ve been wanting to catch for a couple of years. When my friend called to confirm that we were finally coming this year, I heard my voice chime in, “What can I bring?”

“Bring Chex Mix!” she sang back.

Chex Mix?

She sang on, “We put a big bowl out in front of the TV for the folks watching The Game.”

The Game? Wow, I haven’t watched The Game in a long time. I don’t even know who is playing this year?

In fact, I completely forgot…It’s Rose Bowl Day! People sitting and watching football (or any sport on TV) is not my norm. But I do enjoy an occasional rousing game of Grid-Iron.

She continues, “You can just pick up the pre-made packages.”

Me? Pre-packaged? I’ve also always been a “Make It At Home” kind o’ gal. So, that meant I would prefer to make Chex Party Mix from SCRATCH!

But, here is where it gets complicated because I don’t even really know what Chex Mix is suppose to taste like. I’m one of those…sugar-sweet kind o’ gals. I can’t remember when I’ve eaten Chex Mix, and I’ve never prepared it (nor did my mom).

While I’m weighing options: Do I make something about which I know very little? Or do I zip into the market to succumb to The Evil Generals Mills and its Super-Food Machine of Pre-Packaged Over-Processed Items and buy a couple of bags of the stuff? At this point, an alarm goes off in my head: I’ve been trying to only shop locally and eat what grows within 200 miles of my home for the last three years! But it’s just a couple of bags of Chex Mix, and I’ll save a lot of time!

As soon as I feel myself leaning toward the simpler, but lower integrity route of buying the stuff and completely de-bunking my own value system, my guy chirps, “Oh, no! The packaged stuff tastes horrible! It’s only good when you make your own.”

That settles it! And I’m a pretty good cook. Just last week my Coffee Crone Pals, those women my age with whom I enjoy a weekly Cuppa Joe, “ooh-ed” and “aah-ed” when I gave them each a bag of my famous Thumbprint Cookies..sweet. Chex Mix? How hard can it be?

Later that day I am lost in the maze of my local Safeway. Chex cereal comes first, of course! And conveniently the recipe is right on the box: Cereal, 3 varieties, pretzels, mixed nuts, butter, Worcestershire sauce, garlic and onion powder–”15 minutes, that’s all!”

These are all things that I never buy. But I know the market fairly well, so I start cruising the store: Three boxes of Chex: Wheat, Corn and Rice. Organic mixed nuts, of course! Some extra cashews, pecans and almonds. Organic butter and the REAL Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce. (Where is Worchestershire, and why are they famous for this sauce?) Twisty pretzels, the recipe says so.

But then on the cereal box I read, “Bagel Chips.” I spend the next 60 minutes wandering through the giant store looking for Bagel Chips. My intuition and understanding of the geography of the store should guide me to Bagel Chips. In every aisle I run into someone that I know (I live in a small town). The grocery store is a bit like our Town Square where we “meet and greet.” On the way to Bagel Chips I chat with three teacher friends (all retired, like me), two former students, three former classroom parents, one of my weekly Story Time families, and a friend from a current community volunteer project. But where are those Bagel Chips?

Eleno, my favorite checker, finally points me to the Deli Department. I should have known. Bagel Chips would logically be in there…if you’ve never been in a real delicatessen. After all, the bag says right on it, “New York Style!” So, of course, it goes in the Deli Department. What once was lost is now found, and I have them in my cart!

Finally, I schlepp to my car…$90 later. I had no idea that a triple recipe of Chex Mix could be so expensive.

Once home, my husband asks, “Where are the skinny stick pretzels and the Cheerios?” The Chex cereal box recipe did NOT mention Cheerios! This is when I learn that my hub’s own father was the Master of Chex Mix! All at once Jof is reminiscing about watching his father toss the sauce into the big bowl, then later stringing the Cheerios onto the skinny pretzel sticks. Fond childhood memories.

Back to the store.

Once home again, I am ready to begin. I even go online to look for an alternate recipe, something more gourmet for this wonderful crowd of people. Good food is an offering, a blessing of moments together. When friends gather there is something sacred about the time, love, attention (and yes, sometimes the expense) of preparing that which sustains us and brings us joy!

Food brings people together…Even Chex Mix.

Now I am ready to cook, one of my true passions! As I bustle in the kitchen and get out my roasting pan (as is recommended in the recipe), Jof lets me know that I am definitely not doing it like his dad, and that it probably won’t turn out right using my chosen method. Then he goes into lengthy explanations as to why. “The cereal will soak up the sauce too quickly.”

“But I’m following the recipe!” I contend, and I proceed.

An hour later (what happen to the 15 minutes?) the Chex Mix is roasting in the oven to be stirred every 15 minutes. All is well. My Chex Mix will be the hit of the party, at least for those who are watching The Game.

But as another hour ticks by, we take a closer look. The Chex Mix is soggy, just as Jof predicted. And the Cheerios? They are shriveled and brown. They won’t even fit onto the skinny pretzels. But certainly when it’s all done, it will taste just fine.

Using my understanding of chemistry in the kitchen, I decide to expand the surface area of my Chex Mix in hopes of drying it out a bit more quickly. And Jof is helping. We transfer the mixture to cookie sheets and long cake pans.

Another 45 minutes goes by. We’re baking this stuff at a low temperature, so things are not really burning, just roasting, right? Finally we are done! Baking pans, the roasting pan, measuring cups and spoons, big stirring spoons, a spatula, and a dozen mixing bowls of various sizes litter the kitchen. We let the stuff cool, then I get ready to “bag it up.” But first it’s tasting time!

There is one word to describe my version of this aromatic, savory blend of nuts, cereal, the sauce of Worcestershire, powder of succulent garlic and onions, and God’s Breaded Delights…yuck.

So, now I have a platter of Thumbprint Cookies ready to go. And the Chex Mix? I threw it out in the yard. I hope it doesn’t kill the birds.

And as for my next foray into Party Cooking: I’ll be sticking to my basic principles: Stay local, fresh and above all, avoid anything that has its recipe published on the back of a big cereal box.

I’m B.Z. Smith.  I tell stories.  Here’s one…

For inspiring this piece, I’d like to offer thanks to my beloved friends at Farms of Tuolumne County, who started me on my journey to being a “Locavore.”  And additional thanks to authors Barbara Kingsolver for her book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and Michael Pollan for all of his work on eating local to save our lovely little blue marble…Earth.

B.Z. Smith, storyteller & community arts advocate

(209)532-7697 The Hive

Sonora, CA

Hive-Arts.Org will be online soon!

Sherie Drake is one of the most compelling contemporary portrait artists that I have ever encountered.  Each of her pieces tells a story about the person in the image, a moment in the life of her subject. Her compositional approach reminds me of the well-known portrait and abstract artist David Hockney. Not at all in how the paintings look, but in how she approaches her subjects, giving the viewer a quick, private tryst. She is not afraid to “tell like it is,” raw, gritty and sublimely beautiful.

Along with this truth, Sherie Drake takes years of experience and training to bring paint to the canvas.  Her color composition is tight and clearly defined, yet her brushstrokes give a gesture of rush, hurry…extreme powerful energy.  I’ve visited her studio a few times and seen her works in progress.  So, I know she is not REALLY hurrying, but that exquisite implication of grabbing a snapshot of time exists in her paintings.  David Hockney worked the same way.  Some of his portraits seemed to pop out of a camera, grabbing the souls of his subjects and laying them out for eternity.  Sherie’s work has that same compulsion of forward movement, of allowing us to see deep into the heart.  You know that these people are not frozen and stiff.  We’re just getting a chance to capture one breath in a life.  Then their lives go on, as do ours.  Sherie lets us share that moment in triad:  The subject, the viewers, all held by Sherie’s guiding eye and hand.  In storytelling this idea of the triad comes up a lot as we over-analyze our work:  A threesome–The story, the listener and the teller–create this symbiotic moment in time.  Sherie has done the same.  Her paintings are just that…amazingly told stories.

Drake’s recent work has focused on soldiers currently serving abroad in Iraq and Afghanistan. I was told that her own grandson has been on active duty in the Middle East.  I can only imagine the strange mix of pride and fear that would hold a grandmother, as one her dearest spends even one moment in harm’s way.  And how has Sherie chosen to focus those thoughts and concerns?  By creating a powerful tribute to her grandson and his “buddies in arms.”

No matter how you feel about war or these wars, you must see these portraits.  Her work is honest with great emotional depth. Too often artists try to embellish this kind of tribute work with a lot of extra fluff and flowers. But not Sherie. There you see the exhaustion, the fear, the innocence, even the bravado of young men in combat.  You feel the heat, the dry arid land.  You see these young soldiers as they catch a breath to rest, flashing us a “thumbs up.” You see them on patrol, or dealing with grief and fear of their own.  Again…raw, gritty, real.

If YOU haven’t stopped into the POST GALLERY to see Sherie’s paintings, please get there ASAP. Currently her pieces grace the North Window, the window composed as a Memorial Day tribute features what I will call  Her War Story Works. The pieces will hang for another 4 days. Stop by, take a moment to pause and reflect on the courage of these young people. Oh, yeah…And catch a glimpse of the powerful work of one of Tuolumne County’s most talented artists–Sherie Drake.

I’m B.Z. Smith….I tell stories….Here’s one.

So, a while back I flew north to see my mom…to Seattle. On this trip I decided I’d take the Light Rail into downtown Seattle, then wend my way through busy streets to the Ferry. Now, I am a veteran traveler, so I knew that this would be a cinch…No problem! Veteran Traveler, ha?

After half a million miles of flying I still cannot figure out what to pack! What if need those four extra pair of socks? No matter how hard I try to pare down, I end up looking like a pack mule. A bag flung over my shoulder, one on my right hip, and another dragging from behind.

Once I landed I lugged my way to the SEA-TAC Light Rail Station, and eased in. No problem! When I debarked from the train in downtown Seattle, and started walking to the Ferry, I was amazed! I had my gear adjusted perfectly! After a few blocks I stopped to ask one of Seattle’s street people for directions to the Ferry Terminal. He gladly helped guide me. I thought I’d slip him a few bucks, so I reached for my wall–No wallet! No computer bag where my wallet was resting! No computer! What to do? Run 6 blocks uphill back to the train? Why? It was gone…all gone!

I was stranded in downtown Seattle with no money and plenty of worry. Fortunately I did have my handy dandy cell phone. Who to call first? I chose my niece, who was supposed to pick me up at the Bainbridge Island Ferry Terminal. What a smart cookie, she figured out a way to pay for my Ferry Ticket on her side of the water. “Just get there and get on!” Tears flowing, I hurried to the Terminal, all the while recounting what was in that bag, that wallet. My heart racing, first I called the Credit Card folks, sobbing! Next the bank, wailing! A nice guy at the Ferry Info Desk gave me other phone numbers, like the Light Rail Lost and Found…Fat Chance! At least my niece was able to come through. With my pre-paid Ferry ticket in hand, I boarded the Wenatchee to bound across the seas for B.I.

Then just as I stepped aboard, tears staining my cheeks, my cell phone rang. Area 206? Seattle! A woman’s voice kindly asked, “Is this B.Z. Smith? I found your computer bag on the Light Rail. I hope you don’t mind, but I checked your wallet. There’s a credit card, a bank card, and plenty of cash. I think everything is OK.”

My heart soared as we sailed over the water! And in no time at all a reunion was planned. After a few deep breaths, I called my guy, and told him the whole story.

“Angels on the Ground,” was his reply.

Now elated with joy, I told everyone I met the story of my Angel on the Ground. And each person was amazed, thrilled at my good fortune. “Lucky woman,” they all said.

The next day I borrowed a car and headed back to Seattle to the University of Washington Medical Center where my new Angel worked. And along the way, those angels continued to appear: A man who helped with directions to the University; a woman who helped me find a flower stand to buy a bouquet for my Angel. The flowergirl who made that gorgeous early Spring bouquet, a man who guided me to the hospital parking garage…Every one another Angel on the Ground. I practically flew through the air as I strolled into the huge “You-Dub” Med Center with my lovely bouquet in hand.

But as I entered this huge hospital, it hit me where I was. People in wheelchairs, people pushing I.V. poles, wearing hospital gowns, face masks, surgery caps. Husbands and wives, families sitting together with worried faces. Doctors and nurses huddled together in deep, intense conversation. A chaplain with her arm on a husband’s shoulder, his hands cradling his face. Orderlies gently shuffling patients to and from offices, elevators, hallways. Like a clock ticking too slowly, my body seemed to drag through this foreign land of pain and suffering as my gaze shifted from one tragedy to another.

I crammed my way into the “up” elevator with a little boy, his mother and a nurse. I tried to smile, but I could feel my throat closing, my eyes welling with tears. The mother looked up, and saw my bouquet. She forced a little smile, then caught her breath. For a moment she rested in the peace of a garden…a garden that I held in my hand. There I was surrounded by people who stood on mountains of pain and fear, suffering and worry. And in that instant my drama, my wallet and computer bag tragedy, shrank into a little speck of dust.

A few minutes later I saw her striding down the hall, carrying my little black bag…my Angel.

“I’m a medical researcher,” she told me. “Oh, we get lots of cancer patients here, and brain trauma, and unexplainable diseases. We’re just trying to figure things out.” She loved the flowers! We hugged. I thanked her over and over. Then I turned back to the elevator to go down.

When the elevator doors slid open, twenty people were waiting to go up: Women, men and children, every age and color…but all Frail and pail. But no one was alone. Beside each one stood someone, who loved and cared for them, someone who was there to walk that road…Each person had his or her Angel on the Ground.

As I stepped out of the elevator, my eyes locked with one husband. He stood by his tiny sick wife. His eyes flooded with fear, sorrow. “Bless you,” I whispered. “Thank you,” his lips said silently.

As I walked away, my chest heaved heavily. My eyes filled with tears. I felt that swell of sorrow growing in my core. I sat down for a moment, clutching my silly bag. Yep. It was all there. Disaster dodged! But around me, I saw them…those Angels: Mothers, fathers, children, friends, nurses, doctors, even the receptionist who calls out their names.

In this life we all take our turn to walk a road of sorrow, of fear. And in those times we each yearn for someone to stand by us so we don’t have to go alone. And so it is that each one of us is also given the chance to hold and stand by someone we love, to help someone we love step out onto that road of hope…

In this life, we all get a chance to be an Angel on the Ground.

My name is B.Z. Smith…I tell stories…Here’s one.

That essential question hung heavy in the air on Thursday, 1/28/10, when Chris Martenson, creator of The Crash Course, spoke to nearly 500 people at the Sonora Opera Hall. The whole event was a huge, “Wow!” I got home feeling terrified and excited all at once.  This guy, one of those nerdy, but folksy fellows, literally gave the group his crash course in world economics and banking, energy’s role in economic production and the balance of resource depletion–all packed into about one hour and at least another hour of Q&A. And he was brilliant–even erudite!  And thanks to a group of concerned citizens, headed up by local architect Coop Kessel and “internet media mogol” Bob Gelman, and The Foothill Collaborative for Sustainability (FoCuS), we had a chance to have Martenson bring his message to our sleepy little town, SNORE-Ah, CA (aka Sonora, CA).

Scarey?  Yes!  This guy outlined an entire history of world economics from the Roman Empire through serfdom straight on into the TARP bailout and the modern-day banking system.  Now, I went to college and took economics, but guided by Martenson, I started to really understand stuff that has eluded me forever. And then he drew that clear line that connects access to energy to economic health. In a nutshell?  No energy, no economic growth–Nada, Zip, None.  OK, I get it, you’ve got to have gas to make stuff and to ship stuff.  You’ve got to have gas to get to your job and then to the store to shop.  But wait!  The world’s oil supply is depleting EXPONENTIALLY!

That word, EXPONENTIALLY, rang out several times during Martenson’s gig.  World population has grown EXPONENTIALLY. In 1970 the global population reached 6,000,000,000 (those are billions), having taken more than 10,000 years to reach that big number.  Then in barely thirty years, it grew EXPONENTIALLY again by doubling in a blink of time. Now it’s estimated to grow again EXPONENTIALLY to 9,000,000,000 in less than 20 years!  And according to Martenson, that’s about all This Old Mother Earth can bear.  Water, land for food, livable regions will be tapped out–in one, maybe two generations. From oil supplies and population growth Martenson shared imposing data on our global resource drain.  From evidence that we’ve reached  PEAK OIL extraction to more evidence on the facts that we’ve over-mined all our minerals, especially copper. Hey!  Slow down!  I’ve got five grandkids!  I want them to live on AND inherit a healthy planet for their grandchildren!

BUT GET THIS: I did not get the “vibe” that Martenson is an environmentalist.  When asked about issues like global warming and climate change, he skirted around them noting that they were just too controversial.  Nor is he a fan of the Feds.  Yet, he chastised those folks who would ignore environmental regulations in order to maximize access to resources.

So, what’s it all about?  Well, here is this guy telling us that Government cannot solve our dilemmas.  Telling us that we’re not in the midst of problems, but rather we’re in the midst of predicaments.  His distinction?  Problems, like rock climbers rappelling from a cliff on ropes, have possible solutions.  Predicaments, like someone diving straight off a cliff, only have outcomes (in other words, that diver will either cut the water smoothly or belly-flop: Outcomes).  Our depleting oil supply is a predicament.  It is finite and inevitably shrinking, so what will the outcome be?  How will we address our oil needs and consumption? The entanglement of world banks and the International Monetary Fund?  Problem or Predicament?  That is one complicated issue!  Even with Martenson’s accessible explanations, I’m not educated enough to even begin to understand it.

So, there I am in a giant room filled with Liberals, Conservatives, Earth Firsters, United Forest Families Firsters (BTW, as I go to “press” that website has no info), business owners, school teachers, college grads, high school grads, grandparents, parents, college kids, the wealthy, the poor, straights, gays, Christians, Buddhists, Unitarians, Aetheists.  We represented Sierra Foothill people from every socio-economic strata, political view, lifestyle and spiritual orientation.  We’re all there to learn, but what was the meat of this meeting?

My quick impression?  After stirring us with his amazing synopsis of a world crisis on its edge, Chris Martenson shouted out to an audience of 500 Sierra Foothill folks:  ”Take care of your own community!”  He told us that our essential task is to learn how to make systemic changes that will impact our own neighborhoods and towns. And he humbly, but proudly, shared what he is doing: Planting gardens and orchards, reducing consumption, working with young farmers to create replenish soils through permaculture, investing in solar power for his home.  In sort, using natural resources wisely and taking a long look at how to help his community do the same.

During the Q&A, I (rather nervously) got up and asked, “How can we educate more people, even kids, about this information?  How can we address our American tendency to over-consume? And give us three actions that we can take in our community now.”  His reply was thoughtful:

• Meet with and work with the people who coordinated the evening’s event to expand awareness and understanding of these key issues.
• Really examine what and why we spend.  Protect our money to get out and stay out of personal debt.
• Look at how we can support local agriculture, how we can reduce oil dependency as individuals and families, and how we can build greater support for sustainable living in our local community.

So, I’m home.  the sun is up, heralding a new day.  What am I going to do today?

And you?  What are you going to do today?

I’m B.Z. Smith.  I tell stories.  Here’s one.

“Snip, Snap, Snout”–A traditional way to end a Norwegian folktale.

In 1974, at age 24, I received a gift when I realized my work’s purpose: To bring literature alive for family audiences through storytelling. Since then, my full professional life has kept that focus. Working in and with schools, libraries, colleges and festivals, I have been lucky to earn a living doing what I love most. Actually, double lucky, since most of my work has been right here at home on the Mother Lode in California’s Sierra.

When I hit 60 in November 2009, I woke up to some new stuff.

First of all, I recognized that I am way more than middle-aged. According to the Center for Disease Control the 2007 stated life expectancy for people living in the U.S. was 77.7 years. So, to my age-peers I say, “Sorry.” To those 5-15 years younger than me, I say, “Get ready.” And to those way younger, I say, “Do everything you can to get healthy now, and enjoy life along the road.” What’s your alternative?

And even if you do all the Mumbo-Jumbo in the world to hold Father Time at bay, the fact is that after age 60 the aging process accelerates. In his Ted Talk Dan Buettner spoke about living to 100. Can it really happen for the masses, or is it a unique phenomenon? Do I hope to live to 100? Of course! And if I do, I’d like to live these 40 years wrapping up business, and languishing in the love and companionship of family and friends. I’d like to putter with my own art, enjoy my Nex-Gen Kin, and work in my garden. And, if you know me, you’ll understand that I want to live in France for a nice long stay–long enough to soak in my second language and roll around in it for a while. (Quebec would be all right, too.)

Secondly, I saw myself winding down in my career work with a new direction of service as a mentor. Walking down the mountain, I hope to pass on some of what I’ve learned about storytelling and its capacity to bring light to our human experience. Does this mean no more gigs and no more new stories? Nah! I’m just putting different shoes on now, and packing the suitcase less often.

And I have hope that more new tellers can effect great change. Lately I’m saddened by too much divisive chatter. Left, Right, Tea Bagger, Socialist. YIKES! Can’t we cut it out and remember what we have in common? And not just with each other here in the U.S. but with people all over the world? Look up, folks! As dear old Pogo (a cartoon character from 1948-1975) once said, “We have met the enemy, and he is us.” I say this: Let’s all stop yammering and take in the silence for a while. And when we start talking, let’s start with stories.

So, here is My Official “How Stories Can Help Us” Statement:
“Through our stories we find common humanity and shared vision for a free and peaceful world. Finding voice, listening, looking inward to find that place where we share the quiet blessings of our human experience–tears and laughter. Through spoken word tellers hold this collective experience, even if only for a moment. The Art of Storytelling demands that the teller understand the powers of word and imagery. She must realize that she is simply a vessel, bringing a message from a deep collective memory into the present moment, making that memory glow and shine in real time. Then, POOF! Back it goes to its inner world.”

So, how do you do it? What makes a good storyteller? Well, I’ve always said that if you can tell a good joke, you’re probably a born teller. We’ve all met those folks in life who can spin a yarn and hold everyone in the palm of their hands. And some people come to realize that this puts them in the class of Storyteller, like Colleen Dolan. So, once you notice this about yourself, how do you begin?

It starts with lots of listening: To other tellers, to your family stories, to your neighbors’ stories. Listen for the structure of a well-told tale. In its simplest form, you’ll recognize a solid beginning, well-drawn middle to let the plot unfold, and a clear satisfying ending. Recently someone asked, “Does that mean all stories end happily?” Well, I’m such a Pollyanna that I’d like to say, “Yes!” But my pragmatic realist understands that there are great tragedies in life, and twists of irony. There is unfortunate injustice. But HOW we tell these bitter endings is where the satisfaction, or the release, comes into play. Your audience, no matter how big or small, needs to know when you are done…when you have “let them go.” There’s the satisfaction–for your listeners to be allowed to go on in their own heads and hearts to process the story, to figure it out on their own.

A mother nestled her child to her bosom, and coo-ed in her ear, “When you were in my tummy, you knew all the secrets of the universe. But in the moment when you were born, as you took your first breath, the angels whispered to you, ‘Forget it!’”

At this point, I hope you’re wondering, “Am I a storyteller?” Just in case you are mulling that over, I’ll end with some good books for you to peruse: “Doorways to the Soul: 52 Wisdom Tales from around the World” by Elisa Davy Pearmain and “The Storyteller’s Start-Up Book” by Margaret Read MacDonald. Simple, elegant books to help you explore the surface of telling. One more tip is to check out the National Storytelling Network’s website. For a twist and turn, take a look at The Moth. And perhaps later, in another post, we’ll “dig a little deeper in the well.”

I’m B.Z. Smith…I tell stories…Here’s one.

One little red car putters through slippery wet streets on a cold Winter’s day.  It’s crammed full of people, spanning four generations of a family.  Everyone is bundled up in coats, blankets, hats, mittens.  Driver and adult passenger try to engage in a quick moment of adult conversation–intense dialogue about an important family decision: The Old Lady–Will the NEW family Elder-Care plan work? New Baby coos, slipping into a little baby nap.  Twenty-month old Toddler sings in full volume, “Oh, Kee-kee-kee!”  translated that is “Oh, Christmas Tree!” Eleven year-old Pubescent hollers from the way-back seat, “Mom, can we go get pizza?” And the Old Lady, the Great Grandma, almost 92 years old, sings, too, but a completely different song:  ”To You, Sweetheart, Aloha.” She sings in full volume, too.  All this as the little red auto bops along, chugging to the happy delirium of a Multi-Gen family. Chaos.  Crazy love chaos.  And the family?  It’s mine…

Yep, I’m in Washington State, visiting my mom, trying to determine whether or not she is slipping into oblivion, a mental and cognitive wasteland.  I’m also trying to determine my niece’s level of patience, of her own sanity and the stability of her marriage. You see, my mother has just moved in with my niece, her hub of barely 4 years, the wonderful 11 year-old son and the two (count them, 1-2) babies who have arrived in less than 20 months.

Of course, The Judge of My Interior rises up from his/her Court Bench, gavel in hand. He/She whacks the gavel on the desk, “Order, Order. Now, Bettizane, can you clearly and deliberately explain to the Court why YOU, the daughter of this aged, frail and loopy woman, are NOT the one taking on the daily responsibilities of her care? Hmm?  Why?  Have you no decency? Have you just shoved her aside to go frivolously on with your own, self-absorbed selfish life? Hmm?”

And when The Judge speaks, I am dumb-founded, caught in my own confusion.  After all, the Judge lives inside my own head.  So, anything the Judge utters is obviously welling up from…You get the picture, right?  And the simplest answer is this:  It’s complicated.

Like so many families around the country, we are caught at an unfamiliar intersection in a new “town.” We don’t have a map, and we’re working together to discover a route that will work.  All around the country families are trapped by systems that are meant to help, but fall short.  The fact that my mom can still do The Human Stuff-bathing, toileting, feeding, dressing–keeps her from getting the care she needs.  How’s that for a pickle?  So, we’re now experimenting with an old paradigm where the eldest lives with the youngest…to help out (she still folds laundry, and they have lots!), to pass on lore, to hold babies and to be cocooned in the arms of a family’s daily trials and joys.

Now the little red carriage pulls into the driveway, shuttling us all safely home. Everybody out! Help load in the gear.  Don’t drop the baby, and don’t let the Old Lady fall. Unbundle. Unpack. Turn on some music for little Soli to DANCE! (Just like HER mama did.) Mom sinks into the sofa to hold Baby Darwin and watch dancing. Rane dashes about to do his chores, then get to his own projects: Music, animation, writing, reading–so busy!  Justine and I start puttering about.  So much do to with Christmas just days away.

“Oh, Kee-kee-kee,” Soli’s sweet voice rings into the coming night.  Twinkling lights, sparkling stars against what was a dark green Christmas tree. Poor tree. It’s taken on a bit of light grey and hints of brown.  It went up pretty early, in the first week of December.  Not because my niece is Christmas-Crazy and must decorate early.  Not at all. It’s because her Grandma might be able to hang on to what the symbol of the tree means.  The Spirit of the Season?  Not really.  The Birth of Jesus? Well, now that you mention it.  What then?  Just maybe GMA will know that the tree in the livingroom must mean that we’re in the month of December, that it is Christmas time.  Is it working?

Nope.  She asks, “What month is it?”  We point to the tree, and ask her to guess.  ”Oh, I don’t know.”  We mention that there is a Christmas tree in the room.  ”Oh, is that what that is?  I wondered about that. Didn’t we already have Christmas?”

My niece loves her Grandma.  Their bond is like no other I’ve ever seen, complete devotion from their first meeting.  When my niece was barely two years old, she would beg to go stay with my mom.  When my mom was injured on the job in 1976, an accident that changed her emotional status forever, 5 year-old Justine said to her mom, “I have to go to Grandma.  She needs me to take care of her!”  And so she did.  No burden, no extra load for a woman recovering from a factory accident (her hand got caught in a bookbinding machine. Stitched up, like a book. Ouch!).  Instead The Kid, as my dad always called her, came and waited on her grandmother.  She doted on her, sang songs and danced for her.  Justine, not yet in Kindergarten, kept the Old Gal company so she could heal while wrapping her grandma arms around her greatest joy–That Kid.

After The Accident my mother slipped into a strange emotional fragility with gripping episodes of anxiety, fear, worry.  Mind you, she always had a heavy dose of those things.  But like most of us, she had learned some coping strategies.  Her strongest technique was an iron will to keep DOING.  Always busy, never slowing down until she reached pure exhaustion. Gardening, sewing, building, cooking, baking. My mom was very capable.  The Hand Thing stopped her. The pain never really went away. Oh, she eventually rose up and kept going, but the pain would echo back.

And I saw a veil had been torn.  The veil had covered a deep underlying instability that haunted her since childhood.  My mom had two nervous breakdowns before the age of ten. One day her tongue swelled up, she couldn’t talk.  She stood in her schoolroom, dumb.  They sent her home…for a long time.

My sib and I learned early on that we needed to protect her. We held her up when our dad was gone on long military assignments.  We held her up by being “good kids,” never shaking things up so much as to break her (of course, we also kept a lot of secrets from her as we grew older). And we learned that when we tried to “do our own thing,” she came unhinged. Our cute, funny, sweet mom, who loved to sing and dance, would turn into an attack monster. Lashing out with vile tongue, grabbing what she could find to beat on us–fists, switches, hair brushes.  I remember running to my room to hide. Then one day I remember grabbing her tool, wrenching it from her hand, and whacking her hard on the back to stop her. I hurled wretching obscenities. “Take that, bitch!”

But through it all, she is my mom. In 1997 I had a heart-wrenching epiphany: Whatever had happened to me at her hand was done.  It was my journey, my road, and finding my course was just that…my job and responsibility.  No more blaming The Mom for my f&*k-ups.  And no more confronting her with information that she could not even begin to process.  Like a lightning rod, I found my ground and knew that the roles has reversed. Mother, now the child. Child, now the mother.

Twelve years later I rock her and tuck her in at night.  She’s deaf as a post, but when I whisper “The Lord’s Prayer” gently into her ear, she finds the words and joins in.  Safe. Snug. She falls asleep.  Then the next day I take a ferry and a plane. Bound for home.  I get a call from my niece, “Don’t get your feelings hurt, but she doesn’t remember that you were here.  And she’s as happy as a clam!”  Oh, that is sweet music.  She is happy.

So now it’s 5 days after Christmas.  My niece called this morning to ask for a whole bunch of legal docs.  Always diligent, always a detailed planner, she’s working to get my mom into an Adult Day-Care program. Why? Well, to give HER a little break, but more importantly to give my mom time away from home, off the mountain.  To let her shine with other folks her age.  She’ll sing to them.  She’ll do her version of the Hula, and put on shows!  It’s what she does in her best moments.

While we’re on the phone, the hub-bub is right there in the room. Justine asks for papers.  I ask for FAX numbers. Justine supplies.  Oops! Baby Darwin squirts from both ends. Soli is singing and chatting in the background.  I ask to speak to Soli.  Justine says, “Oh, yes! That will keep her occupied while I’m here talking to the ADC lady.  Here, Soli, Auntie B.Z. wants to talk to you.” Soli on the phone. I ask a couple of those easy Yes/No questions.  She understands everything, but can’t build the long sentences yet.  Soon though.  I ask if I should sing “I’m a Little Teapot” for her.  ”Hmm, mmm,” she replies.  That’s a “yes.” I start singing. Suddenly my mom realizes that Soli is talking to me.  ”B.Z.”? On the phone? I want to talk to her, too.”  Now Mom starts singing.  And all this while Justine is holding a pukey baby and trying to outline details of a plan with the Day-Care Center’s director.  Some giggles from the director transmit over the phone.  Grandma singing and talking.  Soli humming.  Baby coo-ing.  Justine sighs.  Then….click.

I’m home.  It is quiet.  Peaceful.  They are all there together.  By now they’re packed into the little red bubble, cruising home.  A whirlwind of family love, of crazy mixed-up mental abilities.  Soli and Darwin, growing and evolving into fit-minded little people everyday.  Beautiful and brilliant Justine and her incredibly dear husband Steven.  My adorably creative big boy nephew Rane, inventing, composing–wild imagination!

And my mom.  Each day getting a tiny bit farther away.  Each moment slipping from us piece by piece.  They are all there together. And I am with them, too. Loving, smiling, holding those moments.

I’m B.Z. Smith…I tell stories…Here’s one.

My 11 year-old granddaughter wrote me today with a “Florida Rap” about Christmas: A parody on the contrast of Christmas’ traditional imagery of snow, freezing cold and being all bundled up in wool and down, compared to her daily experience of sunny, warm days, tropical breezes and alligators. I love it when my grands and greats show their creative stuff!

I’ve had a couple of Florida Christmases, wearing my Aloha shirts, going for walks in shorts and sandals.  Being with my little family is the best, helping the kids make gifts for their parents, then watching those same kids dive into THEIR presents on Christmas morning.  Being home with a chance of snow is pretty good, too.  A bittersweet taste of my life is that my immediate family is spread all over the continent, and now far beyond this land mass as my bro and his wife anchor in Hawaii for a few years.  But then my family has always been that way. I’ve never really known anything else. Growing up I celebrated Christmases in Texas, Idaho, California, the Philippines, New York, Massachusetts, California again, Texas again, Michigan, California again, the Philippines again–Pilot’s daughter, ya know.

It’s coming on Christmas…no matter where you are, no matter who you are with this year.

So, this year I fly home from a quick visit to see my little mama in Washington.  I hurry to get ready for Christmas with my sweetie and his mom; to grab some time with my California grands and daughter. Get the tree (a live one, no cutting one down this year), put up twinkling lights, wrap a few small gifts, run to the bookshop for one more small gift, plan menus, bake, bake, bake.  As I can, I grab some sweet moments of conversation with dear friends and local family, try to get in touch with old friends who are far away. And remember.

While in Washington I made thumbprint cookies with my great nephew Rane.  Now, I know lots of people have lots of recipes for various versions of thumbprint cookies, but I swear hands down that none can compare with my mom’s thumbprint cookie recipe.

She got the recipe from a neighbor around Christmas 1954, and we have baked those little buttery balls of delight every year since (and there have been lots of mid-year batches, too).  This year marks the  55th year of baking thumbrpint cookies.  And this year also marks my FIRST year of OFFICIAL  LEGACY mentoring, getting ready to pass down my “vast knowledge and experience.” (PLEASE…note the quotes.) So, I thought I’d share the recipe with you all:

1 cup softened real butter

1 cup packed brown sugar

BLEND TOGETHER LIGHTLY, THEN ADD…

3 cups all-purpose white flour

1 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons real vanilla

2 tablespoons of 1/2 & 1/2

BLEND ALL TOGETHER.  PRE-HEAT THE OVEN TO 375º.

NOW… Gently roll into little marble size balls.  Don’t be too rough; you’ll make the cookies tough!  Just enough pressure to help the dough hold together.  These cookies don’t spread much, so you can put them fairly close on the baking sheet.  When you’ve got a full sheet, it’s time to PRINT!  Poke your thumb into each little ball to create a nice deep well.  THEN BAKE FOR 12 MINUTES.  You might check them at 10 MINUTES.  They just need to be golden brown on the bottom for perfection.  When they’re done, set them aside to cool and get ready for CHOCOLATE FUN!

Do you have a double boiler?  Wow!  You do?  You must be a true gourmet.  Most of us just rig up our make-shift double boilers by finding the just-right sized heat-tempered bowl to gently rest in the just-right sized saucepan with some water in it.  Well, after you’ve gotten your “rig” set up, open a bag of SEMI-SWEET CHOCOLATE CHIPS!

Have I ever told you how incredibly fussy I am about chocolate?  Well, here ya’ go!  As far as this chocoholic is concerned there is really only one brand of chocolate chips:  GUITTARD!  Nothing else will do, unless, of course, you are regionally impaired like I was in Washington where they do not sell Guittard chocolate chips at my niece’s fantastic gourmet market, in which case we settled for Ghiradelli (how plebeian!).  In a pinch Ghiradelli semi-sweets are just fine, but I DO avoid Nestlé for many reasons.

But I must go on!

In the double-boiler, or make-shift version MELT…

2 cups of GUITTARD semi-sweet chocolate chips

MAKE SURE THAT YOU MELT IT SLOWLY, STIRRING FREQUENTLY TO KEEP THE CHOCOLATE CREAMY WITH A NICE LUSTER GLOSS.

Add 2 tablespoons of real butter

2 tablespoons of light corn syrup

2 tablespooons of milk or 1/2 & 1/2

BLEND AND CREAM TOGETHER TO MAKE A LOVELY GANACHE.

Now, put about one cup of powdered confectioners’ sugar into a plastic bag.  Place the cooled cookies into the bag and SHAKE!  Soon they will be coated with a dust of powdery sweet snow.  Place them on a sheet of wax paper and get ready to drop.   Into each little cookie well put one small spoonful of chocolate ganache. Drop, plop, drop, plop! Yum.  You are done!  Thumbprint cookies extraordinaire!  In the style of my sweet little mommy, Cora Elizabeth “Betty” Zane Walker Smith–a modest homemaker, a terrible cook, an OKAY seamstress and an excellent BAKER!  My dad fell head over heels in love with her when he first met her.  She was covered with flour from baking pies.

If you’d like, feel free to fancy them up even more before the ganache cools.  A slice of dried apricot or crystallized ginger, a bit of pecan or a cluster of pine nuts–All good.  But that basic chocolate thumbprint cookie?  It’s a family legacy, a Smith Family Christmas Tradition.  We’ve baked them at home, for school, for church, for neighbors, for friends and co-workers.  We’ve made them and gobbled them up before they are even cool.  We’ve mailed them half way around the world. And some day, for my wonderful nephew-in-law, I’ll try out a Vegan version…maybe.

But in the meantime, as I remember Christmases Past, I can hear my dad:

“Betty, I went to the store and bought you a sack of flour so you can make me some thumbprints.  Oh, I suppose the kids can have a couple.  Then we can mail some to Brother Nelson and his crew.  Send them to Nan and Bill, too.  Your brother Kenny, he likes them.  Your sisters?  Oh, I suppose so.  You could teach them something about baking!  And you could teach them something about being nicer, too.  Make some up for the neighbor who waters the lawn when we’re away.  And what about the mailman?  He’ll like ‘em.  Are you done yet?  B.Z., bring me a plate of those cookies that your mom made.  I’d better test them before we let anyone else eat them.  Is that all you brought? You durn-near missed ‘em, kid.  You’d better bring me a couple more.  And wait, I still have a sip of milk here.  I think I need one more cookie…to make things come out even.”

I’m B.Z. Smith….I tell stories…Here’s one.

(I started this piece 2 weeks ago, just after the 2009 Sonora Christmas Festival. Finally it’s done enough. But it’s a story that needs to be told..THIS is TuolCo Art History!)

Always working.

Who is that guy limping down the street? Funny crumpled velvet hat.  All adorned with Mardi Gras beads. Bundled up for cold in denim on denim with a plaid flannel shirt for accent. Heavy framed, thick glasses. A bit disheveled and scruffy, but wait!  Did you see that glowing smile, those laughing eyes?  Didn’t you just spot that guy at a crafts fair?  Or at a music festival?  He looks familiar. And look!  He’s putting up a poster.

Well, you found him…Richard Burleigh, one of  TuolCo’s true ART HEROES! (By the way, a crew of us are working on that list. Leave your own ideas about who our Sierra Foothill, CA, Movers and Shakers have been in the arts. Pick  folks with a long track record.)  After 35 years Richard Burleigh has brought more high quality art to Tuolumne County than anyone else. And I’ve got proof.

But you want the story first, right?  No?  You need your evidence? O.K. Here’s a SHORT list of performers that have graced our local stages because of Burleigh and his merry gang:

The R. Crumb & The Cheap Suit Serenaders, Peter Rowan, Bob Brozman, Kate Wolf, Nina Gerber, Laurie Lewis, Norton Buffalo, Way Out West, Joe Craven, Sourdough Slim & The Saddle Pals, Sarah Elizabeth Campbell, Tom Ball & Kenny Sultan, Golden Bough, Mumbo Gumbo, 8th Avenue String Band, Commander Cody, Summerdog Bluegrass Band, Puppeteer Bob Hartman, Izzi Tooinski, Grinn & Barrett, Stone’s Throw, Queen Ida & The Bontemps Zydeco Band, Tom Rigney & The Sundogs, Juggler Randy Dunnigan, Hawks & Eagles, Little Feat, Lydia Pense, Joe Bonamassa, Robben Ford, Tommy Castro, Elvin Bishop, Charlie Musselwhite. And great regional acts, like Faux Renwah, Coyote Hill, The Original Fiddlestix, Steve LaVine, The Story Tailors, The Blue Shoes Band, Bill Roberson, John Celluci, The Black Irish Band, The Story Quilters, Mountain Mischief, Mirth & Glee, Chains Required…I’ve barely begun.

Since 1975 Richard Burleigh’s Fire On The Mountain Productions has hosted a minimum of three major arts events in Tuolumne County, CA, each year.  They’ve easily broken a record with over 125 locally produced shows.  Each show has featured up to 15 different performance groups. Plus, Richard often consulted with local groups instrumental in giving birth to Tuolumne County’s Summer Concerts in the Park series.

You want to talk about the arts and its impact on the local economy?  Take it up with Burleigh!  Every year nearly 20,000 people attend his events.That’s more than 1/2 million in his career. Hotels and restaurants fill up. Sales and lodging taxes go “Cha-Ching.”  The Sonora Christmas Parade, a 26-year time-honored tradition, was intentionally planned to coincide with Burleigh’s Sonora Christmas Festival, now readying for year #36. For several years, Santa (dear old Fritz, our old local St. Nick–R.I.P.) spent his day at the fair, and then flew off to the parade. And that fun summer event, “Magic of the Night,”( now in about Year #10)  is oddly held on the Friday night before Fire On The Mountain’s annual Blues Music Festival ( now in Year #16).

It only makes sense.  Ten thousand folks hanging out in Sonora for the Christmas Festival? Let’s put on a parade!  Three thousand in town for the Blues Fest, filling up hotels?  They need something to do the night before the big jam begins…”Magic of the Night!”  And all the rest of us benefit.  Both of those City of Sonora events have taken on incredible lives of their own, in no small part due to the hard work of City Events Coordinator Sheala Wilkinson and all the dowtown merchants, who join in.  But, let’s also give Richard Burleigh a nod of thanks for giving the city a nudge.

So, how did it all begin? Imagine Richard in a business suit, standing in a Century City bank in L.A.  No way!  Yep.  And he was trying to stay sane.  It was the early 1970′s. Everyone was wearing his or her hippie costume, even that young banker with the nice long ponytail.  Richard Burleigh, a smart, savvy Beverly Hills boy, needed a creative outlet to wash off the stuffy bank.  Macramé?  Throwing pots?  How about weaving?  All the hippies were out exploring the arts and crafts. It was an era of skill-building, of living with what we made ourselves, of finding satisfaction in the work of our hands…and coming together to celebrate and lend a hand.

And there it was: Augustine Glassworks in Santa Monica, CA, a high-end stained glass and art glass restoration studio in West L.A. Richard soon found that working in glass relaxed him, helped him unwind from the hectic pace of Century City and banking.  It wasn’t long before this kid was doing lovely, classic Tiffany-style stained glass.  And the hip, chic L.A. crowd was buying up his work.

But L.A. was no place for the whims and fancies of a hippie.  Like so many, Richard packed up to look for a new home, a refuge from urban paces.  He and his girlfriend, another banker, made their way north to a little town–MiWuk Village.  Soon he was making windows for new homes, remodels.  Fire On the Mountain Stained Glass Studio opened in Twain Harte in a little shack right near the Eproson House.

Pretty soon 26 year-old Richard, a closet entrepreneur, wanted to find more places to sell his work.  One day a Tuolumne County art legend, Expressionist watercolor artist (and crusty old gal) Esther Allison, said to Richard, “You want more places to sell your stuff?  Well, create it yourself!”

At the time, arts and crafts festivals were springing up all around, like leaks in an old garden hose (a lovely hand-crafted garden hose?).  From LaJolla to Laguna, from Santa Cruz to Sonoma, young artists and artisans came out to the streets.  Reminiscent of medieval street fairs, these colorful, wildly creative folks came adorned in tie-dye and velvet. Pottery, jewelry, weavings, metalwork, windchimes, woven shawls–each one lovingly made by hand and heart. A Renaissance of the Artisan Class welcomed patrons, admirers alike.  Make a “sell” and ring the bell!

With Esther Allison’s scolding and visions of CRAFT FAIRS floating about, Richard gathered a collection of young, vibrant Tuolumne County artists. They were pretty easy to find. Oh, you should have been here then!  That brand new place–Columbia College–was a beacon to the young and creative.  They came to study and work with potter Dale Bunse, artist Joel Barber, dramatists Dave Purdy and Ellen Stewart, and they danced with Terry Hoff!  What a time it was!  A time of creative passion, a flurry of great vision, and a hope of working together.  Plus, young muscles to make it real, to build it.

In December 1975 Richard and friend Lise pulled together 25 local artists to sell their wares. Among them were potters Bill and June Vaughn, Chuck Baum’s soapstone carvings, Dale Bunse’s whimsical pots.  They invited The Original Fiddlestix Band to provide entertainment: Bobby Cole, Chris Kennedy (Stevenson), Julio and Becky Guerra. Everybody crammed into the Sierra Building (at Mother Lode Fairgrounds)and put on quite a show!  ”We were raw at it,” Richard confesses today. “We just kept figuring out how to do it, and how to make it better.”

Richard wants you all to know that BEFORE he did his first fair, there was a burgeoning group who attempted to do this.  Among them were Reb and Susan Silay, a pair of 1970′s TuolCo Hippies, trying to make a difference in our little mountain town. Quickly the group found out it was hard work!  Of course, Reb and Susan are still doing a darn good job with love and dedication for Sonora’s Stage 3 Theatre.

And things flew from there.  A year later, the ladies of the Eproson House, Martha Scott and Sally Wheaton, convinced Richard and Lise to pull together a summer fair in Twain Harte.  Today Twain Harte’s Summer Arts and Wine Festival is the mountain hamlet’s largest event of the year, pulling in up to 5,000 folks each summer.  Over 100 artists’ booths fill the streets and alleys, and a full stage line-up of fantastic entertainment springs up right under The Arch.

In 1978, at the 3rd TH Fair, Richard took a gamble with a couple of library “girls,” who called themselves The Moonbeams.  They wanted to tell stories?  ”What’s that about?” Richard wondered, but he took a chance.  Wendy Griffiths (now Bender) and I got up in front of a huge crowd and won their hearts with The Judge, by Harve and Margot Zemach--a lively, funny story.  Wendy went on to earn her Master’s Degree in Library Science and is a college academic librarian.  I still work for Richard telling stories.

Fire on the Mountain’s successes began to swell.  ”We were a bunch of artists getting together.  We were all committed to the task of making beautiful, good quality stuff,” Richard recalls.

Artists and artisans rushed to be involved in Richard’s fairs. The L.A. Times carried stories about Fire On The Mountain and their brand of arts entertainment. People flocked to see his artists, his performances–something for everyone to enjoy!  From Tuolumne County, Richard moved on to create the Auburn Crafts Fair, the Modesto Crafts Fair and the Sacramento Crafts Fair. He met lots of new artists and crafters along the way, amassing the best for his shows. This creative motley crew had grown into its own underground community.  The crafts fair people loved to come together, set up “instant art villages,” display their wares and hope for buyers…20th century American Gypsies.  And Burleigh has served them well. Always positive and personal, Richard has done the utmost to convey his mission:  To bring high quality hand-made art and crafts directly to the good people who love to attend and to provide outstanding, award-winning entertainment for fair-goers’ pleasure.

Along the way, Richard pulled many new people onto the Crafts Fair Gypsy Wagon.  Among his early protegées was a beautiful young actress, Melissa O’Brien (later became Stevenson), best known as MO, The Face Painter.  Her lovely painted faces became the signature of FOTM festivals.  And Richard let MO paint HIS face for each and every event.  There he’d go, walkie-talkie, tape measurer, hammer, scruffy hat, clipboard, keys dangling, painted up like a fairy.

Some creative folks even moved to Tuolumne County after hooking up with Fire on the Mountain.  Sonora’s Gini Seibert of Out of Hand Pottery was one of Richard’s early crafters.  Eventually she moved to Sonora, and has made a lasting contribution on community arts participation.  Bill and June Vaughn went on to win major awards for their work.  Photographer Thad Waterbury had many years with a highly successful photo booth at the Sonora Christmas Fair. Shirley Wilson Rose’s etched glass got its start from FOTM.  Award-winning watercolorist Doris Olsen has graced FOTM shows. After Dale Bunce retired from the shows, his former student Laurie Sylwester stepped in.  She, too, has garnered many honors for her ceramics. All of these folks got an early leg-up from Burly Burleigh.

And Richard knows how to be generous with his performers.  On stage, they rule!  Thanks to the dedicated talent of FOTM’s True Master of Ceremonies, Steve LaVine, it is always perfect (at least it seems so). The best jams, improvisations, collaborations show up on FOTM stages, carefully guided by LaVine.  Fortunately, Burleigh knew that he HAD to make sure his musicians had good sound men. (I’ve always liked a Sound Man.) In the early days Sonora’s Cole Music did the sound. Today it’s Richard Sholer’s guys…ShoSounds.  Richard learned his trade from Rick Thorpe, a Sound Man who knew electronics and mixing sound like no one ever since. When Rick had to give up designing the systems and sitting at the mixing board after a severe stroke, ShoSounds was right there to pick up and carry on.

“And we learned how to throw together some great parties!” Richard remembers.  For a long while, the Twain Harte Fair ended each year with a BBQ and potluck at the Burleigh home.  And FOTM always hosted a dance at Sonora’s Fair after “quitting time”–just for the artisans and their guests.  At these gatherings, the musicians often cooked up wonderful surprises of amazing talent with spontaneous jams and improvisational jazz. I remember dancing with my husband, Rick (Yes, Thorpe) on one such night.  We didn’t do that very often, so that little gem remains.

In the early 1980′s, The Story Tailors (Claudia Tonge, Steve LaVine and moi) performed at the Sacramento Crafts Fair at the downtown Convention Center. The place was brimming with incredible art and crafts, all gaily decorated with twinkling lights and colorful banners.  And the stage was hopping!  Every act was on fire!  But the final act of the day played like they were taking us all to Heaven: Queen Ida and The Bontemps Zydeco Band! I swept up my little 3-year old daughter.  We twirled and dipped, danced and frolicked to the steady rhythm of Queen Ida, playing her accordion. Ida’s husband rocking out on the washboard.  Her fiddler’s bow burning! While my Wrenbird and I danced away, I looked up.  Every crafter had left his booth and grabbed a partner!  Fair-goers set down their bags to swing. What a wild and wonderful time–pure musical joy!  And Queen Ida?  Ah, her feet tapped; she tipped her head back and her beaming smile rolled out across us, filling our hearts.  Bliss.

Now THAT is ART…holding us, letting us be a part of the moment.  Yes, we felt it and held it…for years after.

Last year’s Christmas show ended with a jam featuring Norton Buffalo on mouth-harp, the eminently talented Joe Craven on fiddle, ripping up one of the best sets I’ve ever heard!   This time I danced with my “new love” (Thank you, Baby Jesus!) And I’ll always remember the 1982 Sonora Christmas Festival.  Folksinger and songwriter Kate Wolf was performing.  I had written a story, based on her song “A Lilac and An Apple Tree.” When I told her about it and asked permission to tell it, she said, “Let’s do it together!”  What a joy, a cherished memory.  Her immense talent was gone too soon. And this year FOTM’s beloved friend Norton Buffalo died just days before the Christmas Festival. Both lost to cancer.

Many of the crafts are aging, and where are the young people who have that kind of passion?  Will they address this kind of event in the same way? The FOTM folks go to lots of arts, crafts and music festivals, searching out new talent.  That level of commitment takes a lot of work.  Lately the economic downturn has really hit crafters.  Some are reluctant to commit to shows. Buying a wind chime takes a backseat to buying groceries in such times.

Yep, life takes its toll, even on heroes. For Richard, his love life has had its share of twists and turns.  But recently a friend and I quipped that the guy always managed to meet wonderful, hard-working women who put their shoulders to the wheel to help the cause of FOTM.  Lise helped get things started.  Shirley helped everything build and grow. There was one who I don’t remember…SORRY.

But, today Richard knows how lucky he is. His wife of 23 years, Corinne Grandstaff, and his step-daughter, Sarah Grandstaff-Loughmiller, help out immensely, keeping things on task and on deadline.  His daughter, Kailee runs the box office.  And step-son Christopher Grandstaff leads on logistics.  Plus, he has a dynamite logistics team–from building stages to parking cars, and everything else. The team, affectionately known as “The All Things to Everyone Team,” could run the show without him, but…

Burly’s beaming smile and warm heart, his hugs–He is still the heart and soul of Fire on the Mountain.

In its heyday, Fire on the Mountain Productions was the leader of northern California fairs. “When we started, there weren’t very  many fairs. Nowadays there’s a fair on every corner,” Richard laments. “And quite honestly, some just aren’t very good.”

He’s older now…61.  He does limp!  A bunch of accidents have beat him up a bit. At times he appears to be a space-case.  But is he?  That mind has held all of this tightly for 35+ years, a vision of artistic excellent, quality.  Ask Richard a phone number that he learned eons ago.  He’ll know it.  Ask Richard how to mix a tight, well-designed concert composition, to make a perfectly balanced show.  He’ll know it.

Richard Burleigh just keeps going.  At first you’re probably curious, charmed by his efforts. Maybe you’re even surprised to find out that some musical legend has just shown up in your backyard.  How did that happen? Then you ignore all of FOTM’s work and stay home, do other things.  But then one day, you realize that FOTM team? They’re still at it, guided by Burly.  He’s the Court Jester, the King’s Fool, hiding deep wisdom and experience.    You see, he’s done it all for art, for love, for beauty, for giving a gift to his community.  What is he?  An art hero, that Burleigh!

I’m B.Z. Smith.  I Tell Stories.  Here’s one…

A Bright New Voice

Join us @TUOLUMNE COUNTY LIBRARY*, 11/17/09 TU Eve 6:30pm for ONE HOUR of stories @The 10th Annual TELLABRATION! Co-sponsored by TuolCo Lib & Mother Lode Reading Council.

Recently I asked a group of kids, “Are you alive?”  ”Oh, yeah!” they shouted back.  ”Then you’ve got stories to tell.”

Truth is, if you get down to it…Our stories are all we have, and they make our lives incredibly rich!  As a 35+ year pro-teller I’ve had the joy of being invited to schools, libraries, festivals, communities and lots of living rooms, sharing my “wares.”  Storyware…That’s it!  Storyware comes in all flavors, textures, recipes and portion-sizes.  

Lately I’m being teased by the talents of a wonderful new voice:  Colleen Dolan. Just 24 years-old (same age as me when I kicked in to telling), a 2008 grad of UC Davis, but already a veteran of the stage, and she is ready to launch!  In the midst of her bright fire, she hears the call to Tell Stories.  How lucky for all of us!  This young woman dreams of carrying the ancient storytellers’ staff, to bring VOICE to a new generation. In fact, she has already done The Pilgrimage to Jonesborough, TN, to the National Storytelling Festival!

Colleen in Mecca

Will we “elders” be ready for what her tribe might say, and how they might say it?  YIKES!

Colleen got bitten by this storytelling bug pretty early.  As a home-school kid, she studied storytelling with the talented Cynthia Restivo, my partner with The Story Quilters since 1995. At home in the Sierra foothills, Colleen also performed with Sierra Repertory Theatre and Stage 3 Theatre, enhancing and developing her interpretive skills. 

Last year Colleen decided to spend six months in Chile, teaching English as a Second Language with the “English Opens Doors” program. Just days before she took off to South America, we met to talk about storytelling.  She wanted to pick my old brain for ideas on using storytelling methods in her teaching efforts.  Of course, it’s a perfect match for learning any language..and well-documented as a useful teaching strategy (too many to link)!  After a lively chat on that, we talked about all of the new stories that Chile would give her. Then I watched her fly out the door, winging her way south!

To keep in touch and to keep her juices flowing, Colleen initiated an email Story Starter Project.  She sent out story ideas, and asked friends to write a response.  One of her writing prompts asked friends to write about an evocative smell, to recall a time and place…a story elicited by that smell.  We all know how powerful the sense of smell is, but only two of us took her bait. (Pity.  There could have been so many rich stories to share, to record.)

But first  enjoy Colleen’s own story/stories of smell:

“Smell is a very powerful sense. One of the most powerful I would argue. Just recently I was walking down an automobile crowded street and the sharp, pungent sent of exhaust washed over my olfactory gland. Immediately my mind was thrust into a crystal clear memory of Christmas tree decorating. Don’t ask why. The connection between car exhaust and pine trees is completely lost on my conscious mind, but somewhere way back in my crazy, rather crowded unconscious mind, there is a link. That is what makes smell so wonderfully fascinating, so ultimately dramatic. Like how the smell of fresh rain on dried leaves can cause shivers of excitement.

My mother’s neck: It is a wonderfully warm, soft place to lay your head and snuggle in. And it has a very particular smell, a smell that I have only smelled in that particular part of that particular body. It is sweet and perfumy, even though she does not wear perfume, like honey and chamomile. My mother’s neck does not smell like her soap or shampoo or our laundry detergent. It is completely separate from any chemically induced scent, and it has the fantastic power to cause my entire body to relax. It is a lovely smell.

When my mother underwent chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer her neck smelled different. It smelled metallic and sterilized. The chemicals that were sent to kill the cancer cells inside her also changed some of the most fundamental things that I knew about my mom: her personality, her appearance, and her smell. Without her smell, I actually found it a little difficult to recognize her. “Who is that woman again? Oh, hey, that’s my mom.” Like the baby calf smelling every cow in the barnyard in search of its mother.

I am very happy to say that my mother’s neck once again smells like honey and chamomile, and I can once again relax.”  The voice of Colleen Dolan.

Another young friend, musician Julie Schmidt, took Colleen’s story bait. Before reading, know that Julie grew up in a large family.  She wrote this:

“Burnt Toast. It was a chance to hang out with Dad. To be the only two people in the dark morning. To feel the cold linoleum under my feet. And listen to NPR’s “Morning Edition” theme song for the first that morning. I’d hug Dad off to work, take another bite of my toast then scramble back to bed to re-warm my feet and sleep a while longer. It would start with the smell, then the sound of a knife scraping the burn in attempt to smother it with butter. The light from the kitchen streamed through the hallway landing on my pillow followed by the muffled mumble of Bob Edwards. I’d tiptoe out and Dad would make me my own toast. We’d sit together, often times in silence.  The funny thing was, I thought I was doing Dad a favor, keeping him company and eating breakfast with him while everyone else was still slumbering, when in fact, those mornings are one of my most favorite childhood memories.”  Julie Schmidt’s voice.   

And now me…BZ Smith: 

“Licorice!  My sweet Nana, Kate McCorkell Walker, loved to give her grandchildren a nickel to go to the penny candy store on the corner near her house.  With our nickels clutched in our fists, my cousin Joyce and I would dash down the street to the old gas station on the corner.  This gas station had a fantastic candy counter.  We’d pick and choose through the glass jars…all lined up on the shelves, shining and sparkling with colorful candies.  Sometimes my Nana would come along.  When she did, she’d always buy herself a nickel pack of BlackJack Gum.  As soon as I smelled the strong black licorice, my mouth would start to water.  Slowly she’d pull one paper-wrapped piece from the blue and black gum pack.  I couldn’t wait until she’d hand me my piece.  But then, just as I was about to reach for it, my Nana would suddenly tear the piece in half.  ”Here’s one for you, B.Z.  And here’s one for you, Joycie.”  You know, even with 7 grandchildren, my Nana could make one pack of BlackJack last for more than a week!  Every time I see a pack of that famous gum and smell that black licorice, I remember my Nana.  

How about you?  Are you called to tell? No? Not sure? Well, keep listening to what your own heart says.  While you’re at it, listen to what your own mouth says.  Is it possible that you already ARE a storyteller?  You are alive, after all.

*If you live in California’s Sierra Foothills, come hear Colleen Dolan tell tales at the 10th Annual Tellabration! on November 17th, 6:30pm, at Tuolumne County Library, 480 Greenley Rd., Sonora, CA 95370.  Cynthia and I, The Story Quilters, will be there, too.  It’s a night to celebrate the Art of Storytelling…and to hear a dynamic new voice.

I’m B.Z. Smith.  I tell stories.  Here’s one.

But….shouldn’t I help them?  Shouldn’t I try to give my last piece of flesh to right a wrong, to expose facts, histories? I rose from my bed to sort my thoughts, my feelings. Do I jump into the fire of an empty house, or do I let it burn and walk away?

Up. Now I am up. I walk to my iBook G4 (tired old friend…or fiend) and turn her on. Emails? Essays? Blog posts?  Stop.

Look.  On the counter sits a box: Number 42. It holds treasures and trash of my daughters’ school days. Forget the mounting community crisis. Sort your own world first. Leaf by leaf, I rake through old photos, school play programs, little notes.

Among the stuff is my younger daughter’s journal from her first year in high school, part of a daily writing practice from her 1994 Honor’s English class. I read. I think the statute of limitations on “Mothers Reading Private Stuff” has passed…I hope.

Oh, that little paperbound notebook is filled with wonder! On the front, a note: “A Mind is Terrible Thing.” Perhaps this notebook is a Mother’s Lode, a vein of gold?   It is filled with amazing flights of fancy, a young girl on that edge of childhood, standing on a shaky precipice. Stories of climbing trees far beyond my reach. Dreams of slaying monsters, of friendships true and new.

There are dark corners, too. She writes of days and nights that are unraveling her magic, her spark as she struggled through the tangled labyrinth of American High School ( Definitely NOT a Disney movie). She writes of her inner wisdom, her core of knowing who she is and what she can do. I love my daughter…fiercely.

Then I read, “I hate my mom!” Take a breath.

Moms and daughters. Some days I wish I could wind back that clock….or re-set those glowing numbers. To have known when to just let go and when to hold on tighter.

I let her climb that tree, all the while knowing she was there standing 60 feet up, soaring over her world. I trusted her to get down safely, back on the ground. But where else should I have closed my eyes? What other times might she have sailed off and then landed gracefully, steadily?

My daughter, now a young mother: Strong, grounded, determined and dreaming. In one entry way back then she writes, “I love it (gymnastics) because you can soar through the air like nothing matter at first. The only thing you have to worry about is missing your hands. After the first try though, it’s about the funnest thing.”

Now she flies as she watches her own children. Soar, dear one. And don’t miss those hands.

The clock says 4:03. Back to bed. I’ve forgotten fire and found gems. Sleep.

I’m B.Z. Smith. I tell stories. Here’s one.