Ellen Munds receiving her Service Award.
Written by Lou Ann Homan-Saylor
The month of October opens with the harvest moon, the first scarlet branches in the maples, and apples heavy in the orchard. It is also the annual pilgrimage to Jonesborough, Tennessee for the National Storytelling Festival, and I must go.
On Wednesday evening Jim May makes the journey from Chicago and I from Angola to Indianapolis. Ellen and her family graciously open up their homes to traveling storytellers and we are no exception. Conversation and tea cups empty before eleven bells and we each retreat to our rooms, but sleep does not come easy before this adventure.
With the breaking of dawn, the morning shadows fall upon our suitcases, laptops, books, and bags of fresh apples. The trick is to get all of our luggage as well as ourselves in Jim’s Prius. I take the backseat corner and surround myself with the leftover packing material…bottled water, Jim’s pillow and Ellen’s knapsack.
I have made this trip many times, and on this one I prefer the backseat driving role as I keep my ear tuned in on front seat conversation as we munch apples and almonds. It is interesting traveling with folks whose lives are entwined with storytelling and whose friendships we share from across the globe. We drop names of other storytellers as if they are our neighbors. We are curious about their lives, both professional and personal, and we each seem to know different stories.
The weather is sunny and cool as we travel south. I am excited to see the first smooth roundness of the mountains rise before us. I am hoping to see deeper shades of gold and tangerine in the elevation above us, but green dominates the landscape. We stop for lunch at Colonial Sanders for pinto beans and grilled chicken.
By late afternoon we pull into Jonesborough where the welcome mat has been set out for thousands of folks, who, like us are making this journey. We drop Jim off at the Burkett’s who live in the ancient red brick house upon the hill overlooking one of the town’s cemeteries.
Ellen and I stay a few miles out of town and register at our hotel. We stay only long enough to change clothes, pack a bag of warmer clothes and head back into the town. We park the car up on the hill by the cemetery as well and walk into town. Everything is decked out with the grandeur of autumn…pumpkins, scarecrows, shocks of corn, and swaying shingles announcing wares and food.
We do not stop on this evening as Ellen is receiving the coveted Service award for her work with NSN. The award is long overdue as her work began back when we were NAPPS! She is glowing and elegant in her dress of purple linen and dark leggings as she is introduced to take the stage. She immediately receives a standing ovation from her colleagues who do not let up on their applause which comes deep within their hearts.
I know she is glad to be the first recipient of the evening’s awards as she can enjoy the rest. When the evening’s festivities die down, much as the embers of a campfire, our dark figures dart through the town to rooms that take us to a well deserved rest. Ellen and I realize that we forgot about supper, but there is too much to talk about to care much.
Purple mountain shadows give rise to daylight as we pull back the morning curtains. We pack our knapsacks and my new carpetbag, a gift from my mom as we will not be returning until the wee hours of the morning.
We register, get our swatches, and circle our program with the storytellers we want to see. We re-circle again and know that we will change our minds a dozen times before the week end is over. There are four large tents set up with storytelling beginning at 10:00. The crowds are large and the thousand seats in each tent are full. There are usually a few seats in the middle of each row which means climbing over person after person after person…
We meet friends and storytellers for dinner at the Main Street Café for the evening’s buffet of a home cooked dinner complete with southern pecan pie. We eat and then continue our journey for the olio and then to the midnight cabaret.
I take a lonely stroll through the town before the cabaret marveling at the beauty. It is the oldest town in Tennessee and on this evening it is draped in the shadows of the full moon. The church steeples point directly towards the big dipper and Jupiter. I find a late night café with fresh hot tea and again take my seat for the show. There are no tickets left as we anxiously await the performance by storyteller, song-writer and musician John McCutcheon. He has grown a beard since the last time we saw him and the look is good on him. We sing. We laugh. We cry. The ninety minutes fly by on this flawless performance. We stand and cheer, and he honors us with an encore performance.
It is with bleary eyes that we head back to the hotel to sleep.
The next two days blend into one another as time passes over the tents and waves the wand of contentment.
We sit in on an intimate chat with Kathryn Windham as she talks about her life in Selma, Alabama. The Reverend Jones takes us to Detroit for his blues music and introduces us to his wife, Sister Bernice. Sheila Kay Adams weaves her music and stories from the mountains. The three Bills of Bill Harley, Bill Lepp and Willie Clafflin give us the deep inside-our-belly laughter that makes us ache all over.
I cannot listen hard enough or long enough. I do not take notes. I do not skip a session. I let it all seep into my heart and soul.
The last curtain falls, metaphorically speaking; I pick up my carpet bag and make my way out of the tent. The folks begin leaving immediately as I stand motionless soaking up the sunshine of the late afternoon. I am filled up with story, yet I can’t pull away.
We head over to the hotel to toss our clothes into bags and get the packing started. We time ourselves for thirty minutes and head back into Jonesborough for the wrap up party at the Burkett’s house on the hill. All the lights are on in this old brick home. There are folks in every room talking about every subject. Huge pots of soup simmer on the stove. I meander from room to room and finally find myself out on the back porch with a group of storyteller/musicians playing tune after tune. We sing and laugh to the accompanying voices of the tree frogs.
Cool rain falls softly as the guitar cases close and the good byes are shared around the house and then back again. I find good strong coffee in a corner of the kitchen and fortify myself for the leaving. It is never easy to say good bye to these folks, and with another festival woven into our souls, we leave.
Morning arrives and the three of us head north. We are in need of showers, our own beds, and time alone, but we are richer in so many ways by this experience…in so many ways.
