Last night local storyteller and photographer Barbara Eberhard invited me to read "something" from one of my novels and offer my books for sale at her inaugural "Stories R Us" at Nik & Ivy Brewing Company in Lockport.
So guess what? I'm going to tell you a story in order to tell you this story. Actually, I'm going to tell you a couple of stories.
Tom felt that we, as writers, should get used to publicly reading our work. I should also mention that Tom loves to perform and he thoroughly loves open mics. The rest of us agreed to do it, but most of us (me included) approached the mic with sheer terror, and our shaking voices showed it.
Our first open mic was on Oct. 17, 2013, and WriteOn's original member and intrepid videographer recorded each of those readings and has continued to do so ever since, since WriteOn (pre-COVID), would hold these one to two times a year.
And Tom was right. Although I don't gravitate toward the mic as he does, my fright has been reduced to strong intimidation with practice through the years.
Now Barbara Eberhard is very supportive of WriteOn. She attends our open mics, author signings, and our annual anthology release party, in addition to being very talented creatively and just a good person all the way around.
Naturally, I wanted to support her. And by supporting her, I could say "yes" to an opportunity to support a local business (I was giving away $5 gift certificates to Nik & Ivy with select purchases), face my persistent fear, and (maybe) entertain some of the people attending.
And while we were there last night,. Rebekah found a great story idea. So guess who's going back very, very soon?
But I digress (wink).
Actually, I'm going to digress once more.
In 1990, our second year as a homeschooling family, the third grade history book we used featured a series of biographies. One of those people featured was poet named John Greenleaf Whittier. I had never heard of him, so the children and I learned about him together.
A big deal was made of his poem "Snow-Bound," which the book did not feature, and which we did not read until years later, thanks to the power of the internet. But all of my kids now know who he is and are familiar with some of his poems.
We did forget to take Bertrand's photo (he was in Rebekah's purse with Uncle Barty).
Good evening. My name is
Denise M. Baran-Unland and I tell stories by writing.
I’m more comfortable behind a
computer than behind a mic, so if I sound like I’m hyperventilating, I am.
Ironically, my story tonight,
which is from one of my novels, is about
a storyteller.
The setting is about this
time of year, 1884, at a harvest party on the fictional Fisher Farm, which is
just outside a fictional fishing village – Munsonville – in Northern Michigan.
The events are seen from the
perspective of a sheltered 9-year-old girl named Bryony. She’s being raised by
her widowed father, who’s also pastor of the local church.
This event is her first
gathering outside church picnics and potlucks.
Here’s the part I’m reading
tonight.
The villagers were just entertained
by a mysterious magician and the women are discussing him as they eat.
The men will have a
jack-o-lantern carving contest. The winner receives a bottle of Clyde Fisher’s
moonshine.
And the winner, Owen Munson,
our storyteller and founder of the village, will tell his version of the
Halloween legend, Stingy Jack.
The night then turns into an
open mic, with the village’s mayor getting up to recite a poem by John
Greenleaf Whitter.
At which point Bryony falls asleep.
The end.
Talk of the magician ruled
the refreshment hour, with Mrs. Bass dominating the conversation.
"Abnicola the Great! Seriously! Who was that
man?"
"I don't know, Sally, honey, but, oh! Wasn't he
something? I declare, I've never been so frightened out of my wits! Why, if I
hadn't known James was here protectin' us, I would have..."
"Maybelle, sometin' is right. He skeered me, and I
think Sebbie was skeered, too."
"Phoebe, honestly! That was probably James Fisher masqueradin.'"
Mr. Drake looked up from where he and Addison were
inspecting the pumpkins. "James was in the last row, Sally. I saw him
myself."
"Well, it wouldn't surprise me if Mayor Pike hired
him. He knows every swank."
"Boswell?" Mrs. Pike walked toward the gaggle
with her plate. "No, he's as mystified as we are. And it wasn't Owen who
arranged it, either. I already asked."
Mrs. Parks swapped Bryony's empty dinner plate for one with
thin slices of all three pies, drizzled with cream. Above the din, Bryony heard
Mrs. Drake say, "Sally, kin I have yore recipe for..." and Mr. Bass cry out, "Let the carvin'
begin!"
The men dashed about, grabbing pumpkins, brandishing
knives, and pouring drinks, before settling in the vicinity of the bonfire and
slicing into virgin orange flesh. Without saying a word amongst them, Mr.
Hasset and his sons quietly selected their pumpkins and began the serious work
of carving them.
"Now gentlemen," Mayor Pike held his pumpkin over
his head. "Watch as I transform this simple gourd into the perfect
Hoberdy's lantern."
He dropped to the ground Indian-style, wedged the pumpkin
in the space between his legs, and jabbed as if Old Nick was driving him.
"I expect serious results from our two master
carpenters," Mr. Drake said. "Addison, how can we expect to win with
Mr. Bass and Mr. Betts in our midst?"
"Wash a masta at woork!" Mr. Betts wiped the
drool from his mouth and picked up his knife.
"Mister Sebastian," Mr. Bass retorted. "Know
your place!"
For a moment, all was quiet, and then...
"Dang nab it, I've cut myself!"
"Orville, how did you...OW!"
Mayor Pike jumped up, blood trickling down his hand. Mr.
Parks was already running for rags.
With a sneer. Mr. Bass momentarily glanced up, his forehead
and cheeks shiny with sweat. "Bosie, stick to your books and leave carvin'
to experts!"
"Pumpkin-carving is work for sober men." Mrs.
Fisher cast a reproachful look at the group and then a proud one in her
husband's direction. "You won't be finding James acting all silly and undignified-like.
Why, just last night, when we were working on the preparations for tonight's
party, he told me..."
Mr. Fisher sat apart from the rest, methodically turning
his innocent pumpkin into Lucifer after the fall. By his side was a half-full
glass of milk. In the fire's glow, he looked as young as Robbie.
"Maybelle, mind yer damn bizness. Sides, you callin'
my Sebbie a drunk?"
Bryony ate the pie in little bites and in alphabetical
order, savoring each mouthful, making the sweet treats last. This impromptu
entertainment by the men was nearly as good as the magic show.
"Well, that scared the dung outa me!"
"Owen, what the Sam Hill is that?"
"Wha'd he carve? Lemme see!"
Mr. Munson's strutted around, flaunting his version of a
Hoberdy's Lantern.
"Why, it's the restored head of the headless
horseman!" And Mr. Munson threw back his own head and laughed so strangely
Bryony's skin prickled.
Gradually, the men arranged the pumpkins, now grotesquely
carved and lit with candles, around the bonfire, which now burned lower, less
brightly.
"Owen, come git yore prize!"
Mesmerized, Bryony watched the flickering eyes of the
cadaverous lanterns.
"Now, you young'un's know the legend of the Stingy
Jack?" Mr. Munson asked.
A chorus of young voices cried, "Noooo!"
Immersed in the mystery of the night, Bryony could only
watch Mr. Munson and shake her head.
A sly expression crossed his face, and he took a swig from
his well-earned bottle.
"Well, it just so happens Stingy Jack's legend begins
with a bottle just like this."
Mr. Munson held it up for all to see.
"Now everyone knows," Mr. Munson dropped his
voice, "that the devil makes the best moonshine around." He raised
his eyes and the bottle. "No slam, Clyde!"
"None, taken!"
"So Stingy Jack longed for some of the devil's brew,
but he didn't want to ante up for it. 'Course, he wouldn't share that
information with you-know-who. So he washed his face and combed his hair and
knocked on the door of hell and told the devil he wanted to buy his best
spirits.'
"'Why, come in, Jack,' the devil says, setting down
his pitchfork and opening the furnace door wide. 'I've got just the thing.'
"So Jack goes inside, drinks up the sample, and says,
'Oh, ho, devil, you have to get up early in the morning to trick Old Jack. I
said I wanted to buy your best spirits.' And Jack threw down the glass."
Mr. Munson's eyes swept over the crowd. "Now what do
you s'pose happened to poor Jack?"
No one answered. Bryony's mouth hung loose, and she shrank
lower on her hay bale..
"Well, the devil says, 'Why, Jack, you are a clever
man. I only save the best spirits for the most worthy of drinkers.' And the
devil brought in a fresh glass for Jack to taste.'
"Jacks drinks it up, smacks his lips, and again throws
down the glass. 'Mr. Satan,' Jack said, 'I'm beginning to think the tales about
your moonshine are false. If you don't have anything better'n this, I'll be on
my way.'
"But as Jack turns to leave, the devil grabs him by
the throat. 'Now, Jack,' the devil says, 'I'll have no dissatisfied customers,
especially when they are as discerning as you. Wait here.'"
Mr. Munson took a gulp and swiped his mouth on his
shoulder.
"So Jack waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he
waits, and he waits. After a long, long wait, the devil trots in with a glass
of the clearest brew Jack ever did see. Jack, delighted the devil finally
brought forth the goods, savored that drink, sip by itty bitty sip, until he
was done."
Mr. Munson paused, grinning as wickedly as a Hoberdy
lantern.
"'Did you enjoy it?' the devil asked. 'I've had
better,' Jack said and turned to the door, only to find the door had
disappeared into the flames, as had the walls and everything else except for
him and Satan.
"'It's time to settle your debt, Jack,' the devil
softly said.
"This frightened Jack, but he still was keen on
outwitting the devil. 'Lookee here, Satan,' Jack said. 'I've somehow misplaced
my wallet. If you just let me run home, I'll be back lickety-split with your
money.'
"'I'm afraid it's not that simple, Jack,' the devil
replied."
Mr. Munson took a gulp of Old Man Fisher's moonshine and a
step toward the audience.
"'You see, Jack, anyone who's tasted my prized spirits
can no longer enter heaven, but because you tried swindling me, you ain't fit
for hell, either.'"
Mr. Munson moved closer to the hay hales.
"This frightened Jack. He wished he never heard of the
devil or his moonshine."
Mr. Munson leaned close to the front row.
"'There's only one way to pay for this, Jack. I'm
gonna have to take..."
He grabbed Freddie Betts' throat, and Freddie slid right
off his bale and out of Mr. Munson's clutches.
"Your soul! MUAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!"
Freddie sprinted to the outhouse. With a snarl and a
chuckle, Mr. Munson brought the bottle to his lips, leaned down, and scanned
the faces before him.
"Now that the devil had poor Jack's soul, he needed a
place to stick it. So he sliced the top off a juicy pumpkin, gouged out some
eye holes, and a nose hole, and a mouth hole so Jack could see the world he
lost, stuffed Jack's soul in, and popped back the top."
An invisible force lured Bryony's gaze to the rows of
Hoberdy lanterns, their lost souls cavorting in hellfire and damnation.
Mayor Pike, left hand wound conspicuously in linen, jumped
up. "Now, Owen, where's the culture? Where's the art?"
With a friendly leer, Mr. Munson staggered aside and swept
Mayor Pike into the foreground. "Let's hear it, fancy pants."
Swaying from side to side, although he did his best to
conceal it, Mayor Pike managed to get to center stage.
"A little John Greenleaf Whittier, if you please. I
shall now recite, 'The Pumpkin.'"
Mr. Munson moaned, clutched his heart, and slumped.
"Janet, how the hell do you suffer him?"
"He makes up for it." Mrs. Pike smiled a
mysterious smile, and her eyes danced.
One hand on his chest and bandaged hand to the sky, Mayor
Pike assumed an exaggerated orator position and began:
Oh, greenly and fair
in the lands of the sun,
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the cottage
enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms
all gold..
Mayor Pike teetered. Bryony's eyes drooped; her head
bobbed; her little body swayed with the dying fire, the starry night, the cold
breeze, and the drone of Mayor Pike's melodious voice.
