Mama Don't Allow (Much of Anything)

"Mama don't allow no music playin' 'round here.
Mama don't allow no music playin' 'round here.
Now we don't care what Mama don't allow,
Gonna play our music anyhow,
Mama don't allow no music playin' round here."

This song is the centerpoint for the illustrated book, Mama Don't Allow, by Thacher Hurd. It's got something for everyone in the audience: teenage rebellion, wisdom acquired through harrowing situations, and finally, the respect and admiration of one's elders. I used to worry that someone in the audience would say, "You're vilifying the mother!" but anyone with an iota of a sense of humor should recognize the irony in the situation: in real life, parents often have to beg, cajole, bribe and threaten their children into practicing their instruments. The book and song is one of Lucia's favorites. (I know I write that a lot. Every time, it's true.) We've checked it out of the library four times, and I finally bought a paperback copy yesterday. I'm working on the accompanying guitar chords. Nancy says that since I don't know how to play a D minor 7 chord, I can play a D minor chord, and it'll be no problem at all. Such is the nature of folk guitar. Purists would shudder, but I'm not playing for purists.

You can listen to a sample of the song as arranged by Fox and Branch. If you interest is piqued, here an article about how the music was recorded for the Reading Rainbow presentation of the book with the saxaphone playing of Tom Scott.

In our household, we don't stop with "Mama," for why should I have all the blame fun? After the first verse, we then go on to sing about the other people in our lives who allegedly are trying to oppress an aspiring musician: her Daddy, her uncle Ulric, the cats, the dolls, anybody with a name, really. (One of the cats makes a point of scratching the toy chest whenever I practice my guitar. Everyone's a critic!) One of Lucia's variations is "Mama don't allow no ocarina playin' here." Nothing could be further from the truth, but it's a funny joke that hasn't yet gotten old for Lucia.

By the way, if you're not ready for two or three-chord songs, here's a good one-chord song to play in storytime: All Around the Kitchen (Cock-a-doodle-doodle-doo.) You'll need some sort of guitar-strap so you can dance around the room. I am thinking of ABCGirl in particular. This song has your name written all over it.

P.S. I wrote my first song on the guitar tonight. There's a song in Mama Don't Allow called "Swampland Lullaby," (written by Thacher Hurd) but unlike the title song, there's no music for it. It would be silly to play one song on the guitar but not the other. So, I made one up. I am not sure about the whole copyright deal, so I shall refrain from posting the song. Please email me if you're interested in my chord arrangement, and I'll send it to you.

Lunch Lady

I know I said that I wouldn't post until tomorrow, but seven days seems long enough to go without blogging. I feel refreshed, and ready go to work again. I'm back, and this time I'm really silly. I shall start up with a little melodrama for LoneStar Ma, who requested (twice!) a story with the phrase "Lunch Lady."


Rory loved the Lunch Lady. It wasn’t because of her appearance. Actually, he wasn’t sure what she looked like. Her hands were covered with cellophane gloves and any silvery-black curls that escaped from her shower-cap were strictly against regulation, but Rory was sure that behind the steam-covered spectacles were kindly eyes. It wasn’t just that she always gave him a paper cup of chocolate pudding instead of red –gelatin with celery bits, or that she understood his repulsion of gravy to the extent that she would save for him a small batch of uncontaminated mashed potatoes. It wasn’t just that she always made sure that on Slab-of-Goo Fridays there was always a piece of plain pizza set aside for Rory, instead of pizza with the suspiciously-shaped grey-green sausage bits that were supposed to be so sought after.

This is why Rory loved the Lunch Lady:

One day, while standing in line, Nick Meagher stood on Rory’s shoelaces. Rory stepped forward, and fell. Nick laughed. “Eat the floor, Rory!” he said. “It’s better for you anyway. There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch."

Rory fumed. Just because he had a Free Lunch ticket did not mean that he expected handouts. Rory gripped the bars of the tray table and pulled himself up. He grabbed the first thing he could get his hands on. All he had expected really was an unopened carton of milk to use as a wet-grenade. Instead, he found himself gripping the Lunch Lady’s ladle. It was full of gravy. Rory swung the ladle as if it were a sword, and the spoon connected with the side of Nick’s head. Gravy splattered everywhere. The gravy wasn’t hot, but Nick roared with pain anyway.

Witnesses afterward said they weren’t sure what happened. The only person who seemed to know at all what went on was the Lunch Lady herself. “The ladle must have slipped out of my grasp when Nick stepped on Rory’s shoelaces,” she said. “I’m sure it was all an accident, of course.”

An investigation ensued. There was some legal talk of suing the Lunch Lady, suing Rory’s parents, suing the school… but all of that talk abated when it was discovered that Nick Meagher had been hoarding stolen ice-cream tickets in his locker and selling them at a discount. Nick Meagher denied everything. “I’ve been set up!” he howled as he was dragged away to the in-school suspension dungeon.

As far as everyone knows, he is there to this day still.

Taking a Break

I am taking a short break from this blog. I will answer individual emails, but I do not plan to post anything until next Friday, October 28th. Many blessings to all of you, Alkelda

P.S. This week would be an excellent time for you to leave me a story word!

Hitman J's Word Verifier Story Game

Dear Hitman J,

Reading your blog is one of my guilty pleasures, and the only reason I don't link to you is because Brad the Gorilla claims that I'm already crowding his space by linking to Nonny. I confess I am easily cowed by Brad the Gorilla, as his temper is legendary, and he often threatens to withhold delectable desserts from me if I do not comply with his wishes. I simply cannot flambe bananas the way he can.

I have enjoyed participating in your Thursday activity of Word Verifier: The Gathering, whereby we go into your comments section, read the verification word, and write something creative with just a bit of guidance from your esteemed self. This week's assignment was "Wet and Wild, Down and Dirty." Here is what I came up with, undoubtably influenced by watching the "Days of Empire" episode of PBS's historical reality television program, Manor House:

"Gdrcr!" the todder roared as she ran through the sprinkler and slipped upon the muddy patch just outside of the zinnias.

"Cordelia, you've just muddied your new eyelet lace frock," Lady Hortensia Wilderbeasting cried. "You are a wild, wild child and I do not know what has come into you. Mind your manners, change your frock, and come into the house for tea, dear."

"Gdrcr!" Cordelia called out again. Her eyes gleamed as she grabbed a handful of zinnias and pulled them up by the roots.

"And stop speaking like a savage," Lady Wilderbeasting reprimanded. "It is most shocking, most shocking indeed."

However, just beyond Lady Wilderbeasting's watchful eye, there were events transpiring in the shrubbery behind the zinnias that would have truly bade her call for the smelling salts. Tristan, the stagecoach driver, was delicately painting a henna tattoo of a rose upon the work-chaffed foot of Gwynnis, the house-parlor maid. Little did Lady Wilderbeasting, Cordelia, Tristan or Gwynnis know that this henna tattoo symbolized the beginning of the end of the British occupation of India.

Jenny Jenkins and Marisol the Doll

For the past few days, we’ve all been ill with some general, nameless malaise. Lucia could have been teething, but where does that leave Bede and me? We all seem better today. Lucia has a brand new rag dolly named “Marisol,” created from fabric remnants, felt, and leftover black merino yarn with which I used to knit a hat for Ulric. (By the way, the dolly does indeed have an embroidered nose and mouth, but the camera flash washed them out.) Lucia requested a polka-dotted dress and green gloves for her new dolly, but I have not had a chance to fit clothes for Marisol. The dolly has been instrumental in helping Lucia go to sleep, and I don’t want to mess with a good thing. I write this, Lucia is singing, “Good night, Marisol!” and "Marisol, do you want to shake hands?" May the good luck hold. And hold.

Speaking of clothes, one of Lucia’s favorite songs right now is “Jenny Jenkins.” It just so happens that I’ve learned the chords for a version of the song. The rhymes are mostly my own, but I’ve nicked a couple from David Grisman’s/ Jerry Garcia’s version, as well as Sharon, Lois and Bram’s. You are welcome to use any of the rhymes or make up your own. “Jenny Jenkins” is a folk song, after all. It belongs to all of us.

D                             G           A7
Will you wear (yellow) oh my dear, oh my dear,
D                        A7
Will you wear (yellow) Jenny Jenkins?
         D                        
No, I won’t wear yellow,
                  G
it’ll make me bellow,
      D                                           
I’ll buy me a fildy-foldy, tildy-toldy,
                   A7
rildy-roldy roll,
               D
Jenny Jenkins roll.

More rhymes before the last verse:

Green—makes me feel mean
Red— it’ll go to my head
Blue—rather eat my shoe
Purple— make me burp-le
Pink—I think it might stink
Peach—it’ll make me screech
Beige—shows my age.
Black—get a lot of flack
Brown—makes me frown
White—color’s too bright
Grey—that’s all I’ll say
Orange—“No, orange I won’t wear, and it rhymes, so there!”
*Chartreuse—look like a goose
*Vermillion—‘cos it costs a billion
*Cyan—‘cos I’m not a fan

*Somebody’s going to be a smarty-pants, and I want to be prepared.

Last verse:

Then what will you wear, oh my dear, oh my dear,
What will you wear Jenny Jenkins?
Oh, what do you care if I just go bare!
I’ll buy me a fildy-foldy, tildy-toldy, rildy-roldy roll,
Jenny Jenkins roll.

All the Pretty Little Horses

Nursemaid and Child

Hushabye, don't you cry
Go to sleep, you little baby
When you wake, you shall have
All the pretty little horses.

Dapples and greys, pintos and bays,
All the pretty little horses.

Way down yonder
In the meadow
Poor little baby crying ‘Mama’
The birds and the butterflies
Flutter ‘round his eyes
Poor little baby crying ‘Mama.’

Hushabye, don't you cry
Go to sleep, you little baby.
When you wake, you shall have
All the pretty little horses.


I’m learning this song on the guitar. Preliminary research lauds this song as a soothing, peaceful lullaby about a mother’s love for her child, but it struck such a yearning, melancholy within that I had to do a little more digging. I didn't have to dig all that deep to find a number of sources that revealed this ballad from the American South is about two babies: the plantation master’s child, and the nursemaid's own baby. No wonder this song unsettles me so.

Here is an MP3 download of All the Pretty Little Horses" sung by Miranda Russell. This version has more vocal and instrumental curliques than I like, but I wanted to link a free legal download of the song.

Vasilisa the Brave and the doll of intuition

The story of Vasilisa the Brave (or "Beautiful," depending upon who's telling the story) has two endings: the first ending is when she returns home from her visit to Baba Yaga, and the second ending (a denoument, really) deals with her fine weaving skills that facilitate her meeting with the Tsar. What I love most about this story is the doll that Vasilisa carries in her pocket. In Women Who Run With the Wolves, Clarissa Pinkola Estes writes about the doll as a symbol of Vasilisa's intuition. There are times when Vasilisa speaks, and times when she keeps her thoughts to herself.

Sometimes, there are people who just don't get it when in fairy tales the main character receives help from others. They complain, "What's so great about Vasilisa when it's the dolly who does all of the work?" It is one thing in a novel when human beings do all the work for the main character. However, a fairy tale is not a novel. A fairy tale is deliberately two-dimensional, methodically archetypal. Can you imagine how tedious it would be if the main character simply discovered his or her inner courage without any impetus to do so? Besides, in many of the stories, the characters who are too prideful to offer or accept any help from beings that seem weaker than they are often the ones who end up turned to stone or with their heads chopped off.

For a time, I carried a little wood-and-cloth dolly in my pocket to remind myself to trust strong inklings. I even made "intuition dollies" for friends. I almost flipped out when I thought I had lost the doll right before my Comprehensive Exams, and then had to give myself a stern pep talk about superstitious thoughts. I think that may be the biggest reason as to why I don't wear a brown scapular. I get attached to things. I worry. Like Dumbo (yes, I have actually watched Disney cartoons), I need to learn to let go of the feather.

Still, if I ever have to go to the woods to borrow some fire from Baba Yaga, you had better believe I'm going to hold onto my dolly.

Leatherwing Bat on the Ocarina

I haven't played the ocarina in over a week, mainly because I'm concentrating on guitar lessons this month. One of my favorite folk songs is "Leatherwing Bat," and I hope to be able to figure out the accompaniment to this cheerfully mournful song by the end of the year. In the meantime, I can play it on the ocarina. I didn't find ocarina tablature on the web for "Leatherwing Bat," so I transcribed my own. Here is a link to the traditional lyrics (though like many folk-songs, they vary.) For Lucia's bedtime, I often just sing the first and last verses. I tweaked the lyrics for my own use because as we all know, fickleness, heartbreak, and longing are equal opportunity experiences.

Ironically, I like to sing "Leatherwing Bat" only when I'm in a good mood. It's like an ABBA song in that way.



"I," said the little leatherwing bat
"I'll tell you the reason that
The reason that I fly by night
Is because I lost my heart's delight."

Refrain:
Howdy dowdy diddle-dum day
Howdy dowdy diddle-dum day
Howdy dowdy diddle-dum day
Hey le lee-lee lie-lee low

"I" said the blackbird sitting on a bench
"Once I courted a handsome wretch.
He proved fickle and turned his back
And ever since then I've dressed in black."

(Refrain)

"I" said the red-bird sitting on a fence
"I fancied a lad and he fancied me.
He got scared and from me fled
And ever since then my head's been red."

(Refrain)

"I" said the owl with a head so white
"A lonesome day and a lonesome night,
Thought I heard some pretty-boy say
She'd court all night and sleep all day."

(Refrain)

"I" said the little turtle dove,
"I'll tell you how to win your love,
Court him night and court him day
Never give him time to say you nay!”

(Refrain)

Checker Trousers with Ladybug Buttons

Behold the first pair of trousers that I have made with some success. They fit! I added a funky ruffle to the cuffs to lengthen them so that Lucia could wear them in winter. Lucia has been a fan of the checkerboard pattern ever since she first read A House is a House for Me. While the book is a celebration of different kinds of dwellings, it might just as well be a textiles guide for the very young.

The Pomegranate Tree, Part II

Welcome to Part II of "The Pomegranate Tree," post-dated for the sake of tidiness. Copyright 1994, 2005. Here is the link to Part I.

The serpent squeezed its body tightly around the woman’s neck. The serpent said, “Now, you will die.”

The woman did not know what “die” meant, but as the serpent began to choke her, she knew the pain was connected to the word it had uttered. With all of her strength, the woman grasped the serpent and pulled his lashing body from around her neck. As she gripped the serpent, it spat venom at her eyes. Although the liquid seared her face, the woman did not let go.

Finally, the serpent ceased to struggle. With great weariness, it asked, “What do you want of me?”

“The truth,” the woman replied.

“As you like,” the serpent said. “I will answer any three questions you ask. I will also grant you a blessing if you will release me.”

“I want to know why you pretended to be kind to me, and then turned on me in malice,” the woman demanded as she clenched the limp animal.

“Oh woman,” the serpent replied, “I never pretended kindness, although I intended no cruelty either. I told you in the beginning that my name was Knowledge. I am not noted for my gentleness, as I will teach you and your descendents many times more.”

“Why are you not kind?” the woman asked. She wanted to kill the serpent, but as long as the serpent continued to answer her, she would refrain.

“I am not kind because it is not in my nature to be kind,” the serpent said. “When El created me, El filled me with the Knowledge of the world. I learned all of the possible consequences of every action. If I knew only half of what I know, then I could believe that everyone would make good choices with proper happy endings for all. But that is not so. You do not know everything, so you can be kind. I cannot.”

The woman began to pity the serpent. She loosened her hold slightly. The serpent expanded its throat muscles, as they had become cramped by the woman’s fingers. The serpent said, “I will give you my blessing, which is this: Your children will seek me to study under me. Those who find me and who do not die when I bite them will learn from me all they wish to know.”

“Thank you,” the woman said, “but I have not yet asked you my third question.”

The serpent smiled. “Ask me another time," it said. The serpent wriggled free from the woman’s hands, dropped to the grass and disappeared into a hole beneath the tree.

Then, the woman heard footsteps against the ground. She turned around to see the man. He had just woken up.

“Love, I have slept a long time, and now I am hungry,” the man said.

The woman picked up the pomegranate that had fallen from her hand into the grass. “Eat with me” she said, handing him some seeds of the fruit.

After they ate, the woman and the man fashioned themselves cloaks of eucalyptus leaves, for the garden had become a bit chilly. They waited for El. When El appeared, accompanied by the morning star, the woman greeted El and said, “I don’t think we should stay in this garden any longer.”

“Yes,” El said. “This garden is beautiful, but I created it alone. Now that you are older, you may create gardens as well. On the other side of the river there is land for you to plant and tend. I will send water and sun for your gardens, but you shall nurture the land and eat that which you harvest.”

The Pomegranate Tree, Part I

The following story is from my senior project, a small book called The Language of Leaves. I chose the title from a line in an e.e. cummings poem. Afterward, I experienced what I thought was writer's block. Really, it was more a matter of my attemping to write the thinly-veiled autobiographic first novel, instead of something more enjoyable (for example, a science-fiction western space saga.)


The Pomegranate Tree, Part I
Copyright 1994, 2005

After El Shaddai, the creator of the world, formed the woman and the man, El said to them, “This ground is my garden, therefore it is your garden. Everything you see is yours to touch and all the fruits of the trees are yours to eat. However, the pomegranate tree is different from the others. As long as you stay far from this tree, your days and evenings will be equal in length, and you will need to worry about nothing. But if you eat the fruit of the pomegranate, you will surely change, and that change will alter everything you know.”

El left the garden when the evening star appeared. The woman and the man lay in the grass beneath the eucalyptus tree, and its branches moved with the damp river breeze. The woman turned to the man and asked, “What did El mean by ‘change?’” She did not understand, for the leaves in the garden did not yet fall, and the oranges and pears did not yet rot.

The man did not answer her. He was asleep. The woman rose and walked toward the pomegranate tree—the tree that El said could change her.

“You might never know what change is,” a voice said near her ear. The woman looked up. A long, shimmering green serpent, burnished silver with moonlight, had wound itself around a limb of the tree.

“Who are you?” the woman asked.

“I am Knowledge,” the serpent replied. “I am the crown of the brow of El, and I advise El in all manners concerning this world.”

“Could you advise me?” the woman asked.

“What, good woman, could you possibly want me to tell you that you don’t already know?”

“I want to know what change is,” the woman said. “I want to know if I want it. El said that if the man and I ate of this fruit, we would change. Would it be a good thing if we did?”

“The serpent blinked one emerald eye, and then the other.” That would depend,” the serpent said, “on what you think a good thing is.”

The woman did not know. She turned away from the tree and returned to the man, who was still sleeping. As she lay beside him, the woman wondered, “He sleeps, so why can’t I sleep too?” But since the woman was not tired, she stayed awake and thought about the serpent whom she could still see intertwined in the branches of the pomegranate tree.

After several hours had passed, the woman was hungry. She was careful not to disturb the man’s sleep as she untangled her fingers from his hair. She walked over to a peach tree. However, the peach she ate did not satisfy her. She devoured a pineapple, and then a handful of brown olives, but after sampling fruits from almost every plant in the garden, she was still ravenous. Then, the woman approached the tree of change and reached out for one of its gold-tinged, rosy fruits. As she began to pluck the pomegranate from the branch, the serpent slid over her hand and wound itself around her wrist.

“Change hurts,” the serpent said. “Woman, if you do not eat this fruit, you will never need to choose anything, for you will have everything. Life in this garden will continue as always and El will provide all the pleasures and enjoyments you wish for. Why would you want to alter that which you already have so easily?”

The woman drew her hand away from the fruit. The serpent glided up the woman’s arm, coiled around her neck, and flicked its tongue against the inner curve of her ear. “Do you really want to lose your man as he searches for someone younger and more delicious than you?”

“He wouldn’t,” the woman said.

“He might,” the serpent countered. “You wanted me to counsel you, and now I am telling you this: Be sensible. Stay safe.”

“I don’t believe you,” the woman said. She reached for the fruit again. The woman pulled the pomegranate from the tree, bit into it, and swallowed the rind, pulp and seeds.

The serpent squeezed its body tightly around the woman’s neck. “Now, you will die,” it said.

Part II continues the story...

Our Lady of the Pomegranate

"In Christian iconographic paintings, the Virgin Mary often holds Persephone's pomegranate, symbolizing Mary's authority over the death of her son, much as Athena in her dark or gorgon-like moods upheld a pomegranate in her left hand....In Jewish lore it was again the fruit of things forbidden, growing upon the Tree of Knowledge (of sexuality & death) forbidden to Adam and Eve."--Paghat the Ratgirl

Leonardo's Madonna holding a pomegranate


Boticelli's Madonna holding a pomegranate

Hitherby Dragons: a storytelling site

(Copper pomegranate charm)

From the storytelling website, Hitherby Dragons, here there be here are three stories that feature the Greek goddess Persephone. Thanks to Jope for introducing me to Rebecca's site. Jope said, "I'm kinda surprised you don't know [Rebecca] -- somehow it just seems like all you storytelling types would at least be aware of one another." Well, we should be aware of each other. We really should.

I don't have that many friends who are official storytellers. Most of the professional storytellers I've met have years more experience and depend upon their craft for their livelihoods. They are mentors and role-models but they are not necessarily chums. The storytellers with whom I hang out are roleplaying gamers who think plot and character development are just as important as experience points and magic items. Other storytellers are people who like to watch lots of television and movies and who are more than happy to oblige when I ask them to Tell Me What Happened. Afterward, I have rented some films based on their retellings, and was disappointed when they were not as good as my friends' stories. A few of my friends can actually make up stories as they speak (Bede is one of the gifted few.) I fall into none of the above categories, but I can listen and appreciate a good story when I hear one.

Without further ado, hitherby dragons:

History: Boedromion 19: Delicious Pomegranate!

History: Boedromion 20: The Only Fruit That Tastes Like Dust

History: Boedromion 21-22: Things and Choices

Silly Personality Quiz: Which Muse Are You?

You are Thalia
You scored 68 MUSE POINTS!

Thalia (Thaleia) the "Flourishing" is the muse of comedy and of playful and idyllic poetry, and is seen with a comic mask. She is sometimes seen with a crown of ivy and a crook. By Apollo, Thalia had the Corybantes, priests who castrated themselves in identification with the goddess, Cybele.



Link: The Which Muse Are YOU? Test written by babescottie on Ok Cupid