Faith, Folklore, and Friends

Image from Wikipedia I can't remember the first time I heard my Daddy tell the story.  A friend of his, who apparently didn't get out much, hitched a ride to town one Saturday.  Red clover was in bloom all along the roadside.  The friend, astounded, looked out and said, "Just look at all those strawberries!" My Daddy thought it was hilarious, and told the story every time we were riding and saw some red clover outside the car window. We, being terribly smart and contemporary, would roll our eyes at each other, smirking at that lame story we were hearing for the hundredth time. Image from Wikipedia Isn't it crazy, and isn't it sad, that by the time we are mature enough to realize the value in some stories, the storyteller is no longer with us?  This story was a part of who my Daddy was, and a part of who we all were, part of the glue that bound us together as a family. We are lonesome animals.  We spend all our life trying to be less lonesome. ...

The 2015 UNA Front Porch Storytelling Festival is over, and I'm sad to see it go.   Some days, I just don't have the energy to schlep my camera around all day.  I decided to leave it at home, and just take shots with my cell phone.  Bad idea! I only had one presentable photo;  Three on a String, shown below. Fortunately, you can go  here  and see lots of pictures and other information about the festival. This the the festival's fifth year, and in humble opinion, it was the best one yet.  I love that all the storytellers talk about the importance of stories; how it is the family stories told on the front porch and at the dinner table that make us remember who we are.  If we don't pass these stories to our children and their children, they will be gone forever. In addition, there is nothing better than spending two whole days with peeps that make you laugh until you hurt.  Can't wait for the next one.

I'm From Gravel Roads by Wanda Robertson I am from pea shelling and pinching pennies; from Vick's salve and Syrup of Black Draught. I am from the Tennessee hills, with its lush creek bottoms and rocky ridges, where panthers screamed, thunder shook the house, and whippoorwills lulled us to sleep. I am from corn fields and morning glories, black walnuts and hog killings, wood piles and canned vegetables, poke sallet and fresh promises. I am from big people.  I am from sharecroppers and quilters, from the scattered clans named Stricklin and Gean. I am from the weary with calloused hands and burned necks. I am from moonshiners and midwives, herbal healers and hell-fire preachers.  I am from Shall We Gather at the River and I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry . I'm from the South, from catfish and clotheslines and chasing chickens for dinner, from homemade ice cream and blackberry cobbler; from the cotton pickers, the re...