So a Writer Walked into a Bar...

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. 

Back in 2013, my WriteOn Joliet co-leader Tom Hernandez worked out an partnership with the owner of Book and Bean Cafe in Joliet, which is inside the Black Road branch of the https://www.jolietlibrary.org/en/Joliet Public Library, where WriteOn meets.

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.

Here is my first one, for anyone who needs a good laugh. I should add it was my first time standing up before a group of people and speaking since I had to give speeches in "Concepts of Communication," my first mass communications class as a freshman in the fall of 1979 at the College of St. Francis in Joliet, before it became the University of St. Francis.

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.

One is given a nod in my BryonySeries novel Call of the Siren. 

And Timothy, when he created the calendar page on the BryonySeries website, used the opening of a Greenleaf poem (The Pumpkin) never knowing those same lines are featured in one of the novels, since he hasn't read that one yet.

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.

So last night.

The other four storytellers were real storytellers. They told engaging, relatable stories from their lives that held the audience, including me, absolutely captive.

And me?

Well, I read an excerpt about a harvest party takes place at a nineteenth century party on a farm and features a storyteller telling his version of the Halloween legend Stingy Jack.

I ran into an old boss from the paper route days.

I sold five books (yes, in a bar) and gave away three gift cards.

We did forget to take Bertrand's photo (he was in Rebekah's purse with Uncle Barty).

And while the entire night was perfect from beginning to end, perhaps the most exquisite part of the night, for me, was when I neared the end of the piece.

For the piece I had read featured someone reciting, by heart, The Pumpkin. And when I launched into it, my eyes happened to meet Timothy's in the back of the room, and it was a joke only we got.

But the really, really fun part, for me, was the sudden realization that I was standing at a mic, in a bar, and reading a poem by John Greenleaf Whittier.

Truly, an exquisite moment.

Most of you can leave off reading now.

But if you're curious about the piece, here it is now, for your enjoyment, in the large type I used last night, the better for my old eyes to see it, my dears.

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.

 

 

How Many Know This Poem?

I never heard of the poet John Greenleaf Whittier until 1990, the year after I began homeschooling my oldest son Christopher.

I had ordered some books from Abeka, and the chapters in the third grade history book were all biographies. One of those biographies was about John Greenleaf Whittier and, according to the author, his most famous poem, "Snow-bound." Do check it out; I linked to a version with the most delightful illustrations.

It took many more years before I actually ever read this very long poem. Child number five was in high school, and I found the poem online. It's really long, so we didn't read it one sitting. 

Here's my point in sharing this story.

People often enjoy the sameness of holidays and the traditions that get passed down in families; we look forward to revisiting them every year, and they give stability to our lives. So it's natural to feel their loss this year, when we've already experiences so many crushing losses.

But nothing ever stays the same, and even traditions evolve. Everyone is a little older, and we have new family members: spouses, in-laws, babies. Maybe Grandma isn't here this year, or maybe Grandpa isn't all the way there.

Yet just because we can't have Thanksgiving the way we want it, doesn't mean we don't have plenty of reasons to celebrate - or that we can't sidestep the rut of some-old thinking by thinking in a new and fresh way - like reading a poem you've never read, written by someone who once shared our world, and gave thanks, and enjoyed pumpkin pie (although mostly like none as good as Aunt Bess made it), and has only his words left to show he was here.

I first read this poem when I wrote the third installment of "Before The Blood." The town's mayor (after a wee too much to drink) decides to recite it for everyone at a harvest party (to the groans of those within hearing).

In fact, I'll let him introduce it. But first...

May today be blessed and beautiful for everyone reading this blog, and may you ever find reasons to rejoice and thanks.

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:

"The Pumpkin" by John Greenleaf Whittier

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,

Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,

While he waited to know that his warning was true,

And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain

For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.

 

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden

Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;

And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold

Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;

Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,

On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,

Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,

And the sun of September melts down on his vines.

 

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,

From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,

When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board

The old broken links of affection restored,

When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,

And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,

What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?

What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?

 

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,

When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!

When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,

Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!

When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,

Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon,

Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam,

In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!

 

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better

E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!

Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,

Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!

And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,

Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,

That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,

And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,

And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky

Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!

Below is the pumpkin pie Rebekah baked yesterday using a new technique.