at the Brazilian children's group 
- posted by Brian Herod @ 12:37 PM

 
Salt Marsh

Up at 6:00 am to drive to south Houston to meet the exec director of Natural Legacy, a ecology program that I do work for, to meet her highschool students to go to Galveston Bay to plant in the coastal marshes. It's been threatening rain the last few days and was supposed to pour today, but I didn't care. The last of my big responsibilities were over for the month and I wanted to just get outside somewhere were all that I was required to do was to dig a hole and put a plant in it. We got to the site and registered then took a brief van ride to a boat landing then across a small bay that had already been half planted last year. These little islands of plants sprung above the water. Fish, crabs and shrimp lay their eggs there because of the protection from predators. We stepped out of the boat into knee high cool Gulf waters. Large plastic tubs lay in the center of each island. The islands had been made by dredging the surrounding waters. We were supposed to plant the Core Grass plants around the perimeter. The grass smelled like rotten eggs because of the high levels of hydrogen sulfate in the ground from which they were grown. The soil in that area underwent anaerobic decay rather than the aerobic that normally occurs on land. We took turns with the shovels, prying back the sandy soil below the water and placing the grass within. Each time the plant hit the soil, it seemed as though they grasped out to each other, the plant sinking in the soild and the soil reaching up towards it like lovers reunited.

As we planted, more and more people arrived by boat. Soon the shallow bay was filled with middle school students, biologists, conservationists and directors. The directors were, of course, barking orders and pointing fingers here and there.

On one of the shallower islands in a dry spot, the skimmers had already started nesting. They're black birds with white outlined wings and thin, orange bills. They detach their lower mandible as they fly above the water skimming the tops. They squacked at us as we invaded their territory. Two eggs lay in the middle of the small island. On another island, a stranded jellyfish about the size of an apple lay pulsating on the shore attempting to return to the water. It's ochre veins throbbed attempting to push it's way through the air across the sands. Debbie picked it up with a shovel and placed it back in the water. In the distance, we could see the bands of dark grey clouds. Near lunch time, the boat guy arrived announcing that everyone would need to leave soon because the storm was about thirty mintues away. Instead of leaving on the boat, we walked across the marsh onto the access road and hopped into the van.

When we returned to the park, there were hotdogs, chips and sodas for everyone. I don't care for hotdogs much but I was so hungry that I chowed down on two of them. After a few mintues of the festive celebration of the work day, a park ranger announced over a bullhorn to everyone that the storm was almost here and people who parked in the field needed to move because otherwise they might be trapped there when the rain hit. I volunteered to move the van. By the time I drove to the cement road about 100 feet away, the wind was blowing so hard that I could barely open the door. I put on my rain jacket and started running back to the tent. By this time, the rain was falling in sheets. It blew off my cap. I ran quicker. Earlier in the week, I'd slighly pulled a muscle in my calf while jogging. As I ran, I felt a little snap down there, then suddenly, I wasn't running any longer and felt a searing pain in my leg. Dang, I'd really pulled it now. I walked back to the tent and would have been soaked if not for my trusty jacket. We waited underneath the big tent watching as the organizers attempted to take the covering off the smaller tents. One had already blown away. The rain was closer to horizontal than vertical as the wind whipped it around. The large tent which we were under began to creak. It had already come off of it's foundation in two places. One of the organizers announced, "Everyone, get your t-shirts and return to your vehicles. We're afraid for everyone's safety in the tents." They ran to the van and I hobbled along behind them. I was drenched as we sat in the van waiting for rain to let up. Debbie's mother had left a message on her cell phone saying that storms were headed for that direction and that she should get out of the water immediately. Debbie laughed because the message had been left hours ago while we were right in the middle of the marsh.

When the rain let up slightly, we drove home without incident. I limped back to my apartment, drenched and satisfied.


- posted by Brian Herod @ 4:26 PM

 
Helloween

My life had come to this. I was going to asphyxiate in the smoke filled room an arms length away from a Barbie radio that could have saved my life. Did I mention that I was dressed as a wizard?
The talent agency had hired me to tell stories at a Halloween party. An event production company needed someone to tell some fairy stories for one of their parties. The agency asked me if $300 for 30 minutes would be enough. After my tongue crawled back into my head, I said as calmly as I could, “Yes, that will be sufficient.” They asked me if I would wear a costume. For that much, I'd wear a dress. The client ended up making a counter offer for a sum that was less, but still almost criminal. They booked me for two parties: one on Friday night and another on Saturday. Both parties were located, of course, in some of the richest parts of town.
The first one was in the Museum district. I passed by the valet parking and parked my own car. Valet parking for a party! Woof! I made my way to the back as per my instructions. I was supposed to meet the coordinator, Mark. One of the many wait-staff led me into the kitchen. Mark had the dapper outfit, short grey hair and lisp of someone who had scored high on flower arrangement and interior decorating on his career aptitude tests. I could tell that he was the man in charge because he was already drinking heavily. “Eight o'clock, already?” he asked looking at his watch. “Here's the costume,” he said passing a small package of black nylon and a pointy hat with silver stars on it to my guide. “Take him upstairs.”
Downstairs of the house was darkened. The kids were running around poking the waitstaff dressed as Frankenstien with their pitchforks. The staff was playing with them as well, saying, “Kill the Children!” in menacing tones. The waiter led me upstairs to a little girls room. We past the lacy ghost hanging from the stairwell ceiling with the strobe light behind it. A smoke machine periodically spewed out creepy smoke into the stairwell. The walls were decorated with teddy bears and a wrought iron bed took up most of the space in the middle. A wooden doll house complete with wooden people and cars lay spread out on one of the tables. The Barbie radio lay next to it. The waiter left me to change in privacy. The costume was one of the prepackaged wizards outfits, black nylon with silver trim. I hoped it was short enough. If it were too long, that would be a problem. It was just about right. I'd arrived early, so I sat in the wooden rocking chair to warmup my voice and relax a bit.
That's when the smoke from the machines outside began billowing in. It arrived in great clouds and lingered in the air so thick that I could barely see the windows across the room. I could breathe alright, but I had the odd sensation that I should be dancing and industrial music should be thumping through the air. Unfortunately, all I heard was the sound of the children terrorizing the waitstaff, “Get them guys!” they rallied the troops.
“No one go upstairs,” the staff pleaded with the kids as they tried to fortify their positions upstairs. The kids begrudgingly returned to the land of light to leave the storyteller to panic. Kids running around poking adults is not a good omen.
Eight o'clock rolled around. I comforted myself that thirty minutes passes quickly and that when it was over, I'd have $200 in my pocket.
I carefully negotiated my way down the stairs. Between my heavy boots, the long cloak and the flashing of the strobe lights, I'm lucky that I made it down without cracking my skull in a tumble.
I had forgotten to ask the coordinator where I was supposed to be performing. I assumed it was in the living room that I'd seen on my way up.
“Come on kids, I've got some magic tricks to show you and some stories to tell.” The kids cautiously rallied around a sofa in the living room. I showed them a few slight of hand tricks that I know with a string. Two boys in the back started booing and giving me the thumbs down sign. “That's the worst trick I've ever seen,” they opined. A few more boos from some of the younger boys imitating them. The coordinator burst into the room, “No, not here, outside,” he said pointing to the patio next to the house.
“Come on kids! Let's go outside!” I tried to be as enthusiastic as possible. We got settled outside. They had me performing in front of the bar. The kids were sitting on miniture red plastic chairs that had been gathered around sugar cookie stations where they decorated the cookies. Great! They'd been eating sugar for hours before I showed up.
I showed them some more tricks and received a rousing round of boos from some of the older kids. “How about a story?” Some of them, true to form, exclaimed “No!” I started with a mild Halloween story. Somewhat scary, but no ghosts to offend any sensitive parents. Some of the kids left and others stayed sinking into the experience. Loud music flooded the yard so I had to tell as loudly as I could. I finished the first one. More boos peppered the responses. I'd been hired to tell fairy stories, magical tales of wonder. “Screw that!” I said to myself. “I'm going to scare the holy Hell out of these little monsters. I want them to go to bed tonight so scared that they pee in their Ralph Loren pajamas.” I started with the Gold Arm, an oldie but goody jump story. By the time I came to the end, the kids were hanging on my words and the spiteful comments were less and less. When I jumped out at them, one little girl jumped so much that her mock cocktail spilled all over her princess outfit. “Too bad,” I maliciously thought. Sweat was running down my neck and had begun to gather on my face. Yes, October in Houston and it was still in the eighties during the day and the seventies at night. The next one wasn't as scary, but a good story that I could scare them at least a little with. In the middle, a three year old with a Spiderman costume walked toward me with a plastic devil's pitchfork. He walked past the chairs and poked me in the thigh with it. I waved a finger at him and continued. Near the end of the story, a ghost pulls out a long, sharp silver knife. A boy dressed as a pirate gave me his plastic knife. I hid it in my sleeve and pulled it out at the appropriate moment. It added to the verisimilitude quite well. I finished with a few more scary stories. They clapped when I was done. My throat felt like I'd gargled with paving stones and my nerves were jumbled. Still, it was over. No staying afterward and chumming it up with the kids. I'd paid my time and now it was time to collect my money and leave. On the way toward the staircase, a little girl stopped me and said something. I couldn't hear her so I bent over. “You're the worst storyteller ever,” she reported.
“That's nice,” I said. “Happy Halloween to you.” I made my way as quickly as possible to the stairs. In the room, I ripped off the costume, folded it and placed it in the bag. I was going to wait until the kids cleared out a bit to preserve the magic that I was actually a wizard come to tell them stories, but then I thought, “No way! They don't deserve the magic. I'm getting the hell out of here.” I walked downstairs and toward the back where I thought that Mark would be. On my way out, one of the ruder children said, “You were the wizard who told stories.”
“No, that was my brother,” I said keeping a brisk walk to the kitchen. By this time, Mark had hidden in the garage surrounding himself with wait-staff and tamales. I gave him the costume.
“How was it?” he asked.
In a moment, scenes of iron maidens, hot pokers, and cat-o-nine tales flashed through my mind. The torture of sorcerers, witches, and warlocks by robed priests followed. “They were a little rambunctious,” I replied. “You know how kids can get.”
“See you tomorrow night,” he said. “It will be a lot lighter, more pink, more Wiccan.” I wondered if I would have to test whether little witch children float in swimming pools.
I left as quickly as I could reflecting on the experience. If someone pays you a million dollars to eat a turd sandwich, two things are true. First, you will eat a turd and no amount of condiments will hide that fact. Second, you will walk away with a million dollars. I walked away with breath that was a little stinky and a pocket that was a little lighter than a million dollars.

p.s.

The next night's job was much better. Beforehand, I ate loads of multi-flavored jelly beans (my favorite) to remind myself that the world was a good place. Afterward, my faith in humanity was at least partially restored. Huzza! for little kids.
- posted by Brian Herod @ 10:32 PM

 
And the Camel You Rode in on...

A YMCA had hired me to tell stories to their three and four year olds for two sessions. I'd already been out once and had a good time with the kids. They were still young and wanted to talk and stand up during the session.
I arrived early and the kids were still in another classroom. The counselors were getting plastic bins together and two of the children were waiting. When I entered, they ran up to me. One said, “You're the farmer from last time.” I was wearing overalls and a brown hat, so I really couldn't deny it.
“Yep, that was me,” I said.
The other girl with hair Goldilocks would have been proud of said, “I know my mommy's first name.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Georgia!” she squealed with delight at her furtive knowledge.
I decided to play dumb. “George? That's a funny name for a mom.”
“No!” she protested with a smile. “Georgia!”
“Georgie? That's a pretty name.”
“No! No! Georgia! Georgia! Georgia!” she laughed with delight.
“Oh! Georgia. That's a pretty name.”
“What's your daddy's name?” The other girl asked me.
“You're not going to believe this, but his name is Bobby?”
“Bobby?” They giggled as they put their hands over their mouths. “That's silly.” Goldilocks asked me, “What kind of car did you drive here in?”
“Car? I didn't drive here.” They both looked at me mystified.
“Well how did you get here?”
“I rode on a camel.”
“Really? Where is it?”
“It's outside tied up front.” I motioned with my thumb to the parking lot in front of the complex.
“Can we go see it?” I knew that I was in trouble. I had originally said that because I thought that they wouldn't believe it and have a good laugh about it. Now, I had these little girls looking up at me with expect little girl eyes. I dodged.
“Maybe later after the telling.” The rest of the class was arriving. Whew! Maybe they would forget.
I commenced the telling and they had matured in the month I had been gone. They sat and participated where appropriate. Unfortunately, my wish that they forgot about the camel was not on their agenda. Instead, they'd formed a minor communications network and the camel news had spread like a pant's wetting accident. When I finished, I asked, “Does anyone have any questions?”
Questions peppered out, “Can we see your camel?” “Can we pet it?” “What color is it?” That's when I knew that the piper had to be paid his due.
“Well boys and girls, I have to tell you the truth. I didn't ride here on a camel.” I was expecting a gasp of disappointment, instead one boy asked, “What color is it?”
“Uh,... red, no maroon.”
“Maroon?”
“Like that shield up there.” I pointed to the YMCA insignia above the door which included as one of its core values 'Honesty'. They seemed satisfied. I left as quickly as I could. As I walked under that insignia, I reflected on what I'd done. Had I scarred them for life? Would they trust an adult again? How could I have done that?
Then I considered it. A camel. That would have been cool.
- posted by Brian Herod @ 10:14 PM

 
Nice Hair

It was time for another haircut. The heat and humidity of Houston's summers make me keep it short in the back and on the sides, but it's straight everywhere else. I've been accused at times of putting a bowl on my head and shaving around it. It may be a cheap option, but it's simply not true. That doesn't mean that I'll skip out on men's night at the local-national-haircutting-emporium. It's five dollars less than regular for the same cut.
I had time to squeeze a trim in between appointments. Now, they charge extra for washing your hair. I normally forgo the extra expense and the stylist/barber/hair consultant spritzes me with a bottle of water. It's ok, but I miss those days of having a lovely woman running her fingers through my wet hair. First they would warm the water, then cool it off, exotic mango-lemon puree shampoo next, then a brisk rubdown with a fresh white towel and off to the cutting.
The cut went well. It was a new stylist and she pretty much followed the precedent. I tipped her a dollar as I left and rushed home to change clothes. I hate those little hairs that linger after the cut though. They linger on my back and poke whenever I move.
I rushed out to my next job on the far west side of town. I made it early to check out the scene. Upon arrival, I talked with the coordinator who had no idea that I was supposed to perform for her after-school program. She agreed to split the classes into younger kids and older kids and to give them a good run around the playground before expecting them to sit for an half hour. The kids have been in school all day and finishing homework for an hour before I see them. Without a little exercise to expend a little of that pent up energy, they'd resemble miniature chaos bombs waiting to explode in my face leaving me with the archetypal black face and blow back hair.
The older kids arrived first. Normally, they're a little better behaved, but not today. They listened well to the stories, but during the activity they pretty much followed their own curiosity. One of the reasons I ask the coordinators to split them into thirty minutes sessions is because I can endure most anything for thirty minutes. If something is going poorly, it's only a matter of minutes before the next group.
The kindergartners arrived. The eight of them sat in a small semicircle in front of my chair. With the earlier group, I had been big and boisterous. I had forgotten to warm-up my throat and had strained my voice a little bit. I had another gig that night and I wanted to avoid hurting it any more. I took the around the campfire approach with them. I leaned forward and spoke softly. They leaned forward, their mouths slightly open, their eyes wide. Yes, I was going to enjoy this session. They participated in the stories and followed the activities well. At the end I showed them some extra string tricks. One of them involves seemingly pulling a string through my neck. I have to remove the brown farmer's hat that I normally wear out in the schools. I removed it this time and set it on my knee. One of the little African-American girls wearing a plaid uniform said, “Ooh, your hair!” in a sweet, amazed little voice.
“What is it sticking up?” I asked.
“No,” she said pausing. “It's... handsome.” Another girl pointed at her and giggled. She blushed for a moment and hid her face in her hands. I blushed a moment as well, finished the trick and donned my hat again.
After talking with the coordinator about the next time, I left. The next gig was only about fifteen miles away, but it was rush hour in Houston. The latest freeway construction delayed me and as I traveled, I ate scrumptious dinner of protein bars. At least, it would sate my appetite for the next two hours until I could get some food with a less manufactured flavor.
I arrived early at the school. They had hired me to tell at a parent's night in the library. Parents and children who had walked from the local apartment buildings had already begun arriving. The Vietnamese, African-American, and Hispanic children crawled over the primary-colored plastic playground equipment as their parents looked on. The front doors were locked still. I pulled out my phone to call the librarian. An office worker opened the door and let me in. She said, “The library is at the end of the main hall.” I wonder how she knew that I wasn't just another parent. Maybe it was the green and yellow Hawaiian print shirt, big brown hat, amp and microphone in hand. It gives me away every time.
The school was fairly new and was laid out with the library as a junction point. No walls separating it from the hallways, but it was sunken down. The librarian put me in one of the corners on a small set of stairs that led to the main hallway. A map of the U.S. Carpet for the kids to sit on and chairs behind them for the parents. I asked her how many parents she expected. “Two to four hundred. They support the school fairly well.” A little more than I had planned on, but I'm flexible. I set up the amp and turned the volume way up.
After most of the parents visited their child's classrooms, the principal announced that for the PK, Kinder and first grade would have a storyteller in the library. “Cool,” I thought. “I'm legit now; I've been announced over a school P.A. System.”
Quickly, the parents and kids poured in. They filled the carpet and the chairs. After they filled that space, they lined up along the bookshelf walls along the sides of the library. “Holy smoke!” I thought. This crowd was much more than I had expected. I had expected that people would just stop by the library, hear a few stories then move on. This crowd was on the verge of becoming a mob. The ones along the walls talked amongst themselves and their voices filled the open space of the library.
The librarian announced me and I began. It was going to be a Kindergarten show: lots of movement, lots of repetition, simple words, short stories. I could barely hear myself through the amp, a bad sign. I notched my voice up several decibels. I was unsure if I could keep that volume up. After about thirty minutes, the principal announced that the 3-5th grade parents would meet in the gym for older-student orientation. The crowd instantly dwindled to about a tenth of it's size. I continued unabated. Soon, I am telling to a crowd of five children through a microphone. Two boys have snatched up stuffed animal tigers as large as they were and begin knocking each other on the mat and giggling. Two girls joined in the fun with smaller animals to the same effect. I continued wondering if they've spelled my name correctly on the check. I finished the story and sit on the steps to show them string figures and tell them stories in a more subdued way.
Most of the remaining kids gathered around and we continue. It's times like this that the evil storyteller whispers in my ear, “Tell them something that will keep sleepless tonight. They're only in first grade, you could really scare them, probably permanently.” The more prudent part won out and I told them some Jack tales.
In finishing, I showed them the string through the neck trick. I took off my hat and lay it on the steps. One boy said, “Wow!”
“What?” I ask.
“Your hair.”
“Is it sticking up?”
“No. It's... Nice hair.” He struggled for the words in English.
Maybe I should have tipped the stylist more.
- posted by Brian Herod @ 8:48 PM

 
Many Miles to Fly

We had just finished the planning meeting for the after-school program for the YMCA. It was located in one of the older parts of Houston that still remained blue-collar and had resisted gentrification. Dee, the executive director of a hands on naturalism program, had contracted with me to help design a program for the youth in the after-school program.

We'd finished the planning meeting having ironed out the logistics of the program. I had asked her to see the garden in the back that her organization had designed.

The glass back door opened onto a concrete walkway that lead straight to a back chain-link fence. The sun was setting slowly over the squat wood paneled houses across the street. Native shrubs lined the walls of the building and circled the fence that enclosed the playground equipment. She pointed out the cement hopscotch slab. “One of the artists designed the hopscotch figure.” Two boys and a girl threw stones on the red, yellow, and blue numbered squares of mosaic tiles. An older counselor watched and laughed as their stones skittered across the shiny, uneven surface.

“Over here is the rest of it.” She guided me over a small wooden bridge that spanned a man-made dry stream. Smooth dark rocks were embedded in the small culvert. The native plants lined a square sitting area with a picnic table underneath a Formosa tree heavy with drooping seed pods. I ran my hand down its scarred curving trunk. “What a great centerpiece,” I said.

“The original plans for the garden included tearing down the tree, but many of the members were against it. They'd grown up under the that tree with picnics and games. So, they decided to leave it.”

We cross back over to the cement sidewalk. I looked down toward the street again noticing a humming bird on one of the bushes with green furry leaves and pompoms of coral colored trumpets no bigger than the end of my little finger. A humming bird hovered around the flutes. “Look a humming bird,” she said. “Those plants are magnets for humming birds. Not many people use them in their yards, because you have to get them primarily from native plant suppliers. Hey, kids, do you want to see a humming bird?” They halted their game for a moment. With flushed cheeks and the slight pant of the game still on their breath, they stood next to us. She pointed toward the bush. “You have to focus your eyes like you're watching a bumble bee. See it there? It's resting on the fence now.” They squinted, tumbling the stones from hand to hand. “Look! Did you see it fly away?” It zigged through the air in a brown streak. They nodded and smiled, returning to their game.

Dee spoke for a moment with the counselor. The counselor said that she had received a job at one of the Hilton hotels working in the kitchen. “Naoma wants to be a chef someday.”

“Houston is a good place for that,” I replied.

They talked more about her schedule and how that would impact her participation in the student environmental arts council. A few moments later, we re-entered the building and walked out the front door. “Hummingbirds migrate the furthest distance due to their small size, from North to South America.” The busy street was gradually getting darker. “They really struggle here to provide memberships to people in the neighborhood,” Dee said. “They do a good job though. Many kids come to this program and it's a real family feel.” From the street, the YMCA building looked like many other concrete structures in Houston. How many of the passengers in the cars that sped by knew that gardens lay in back with children hopping upon shining shards of colors and hummingbirds resting in the blooms of silent fireworks?
- posted by Brian Herod @ 12:54 AM

 
As I was Going to St. Ives

I was telling stories at one of Houston's Charter schools. They're an experiment at giving principles and communities more discretion in how to operate the school. Some have been successful in graduating high school classes that had one hundred percent college acceptance rate. Other have been boondoggles with administrators driving Mercedes and children failing their state-mandated exams.

This school was located in the southwest region of Houston. This area is possibly one of the most diverse. Many migrant families live here occupying the miles of apartment buildings. Professionals from India, Pakistan, Africa and other Asian countries also take up residence in the neighborhood homes that were built in the seventies.

The students in the program reflected this culture. The storytelling program was scheduled as an end of the week treat. They had a six inch stage with microphone. I arrived early to make sure the sound system was prepared.
Like many charter schools, the building reflected the uniqueness of the school. This building was located in one of the many business districts of Houston. It was probably erected in the seventies as an office building for manufacturing. No windows adorned the outside, only the vertical slabs of pebbled concrete. Only a yellow sign hanging from the chain-link fence around the asphalt parking lot indicated that this structure held children inside.

My contact person led me into the cafeteria. She was a tall, thin woman who's Spanish accent contrasted sharply with her blond hair, blue eyes, and tight lipped pale features. I asked her where she was from originally. She said, “Argentina” in her friendly but taciturn manner. Her last name sounded Polish, so it was unlikely that she was descended from the Germans who had fled to Argentina after WWII.

The drop down ceilings held fluorescent lights that show their pale glow on the worn carpets and shiny laminated images of flowers and bears on the pre-K classrooms. The cafeteria that she led me to had more of low ceilings and sterile light that failed to reach into the corners of the black stage at the extreme end. This stage had three black walls and rose all of six inches off the ground with a black wooden floor beneath it. Small stage lights hung from the drop down ceilings at intervals. Someone had been committed to creating a humble stage worth acting upon.

First the kindergärtners and first graders tumbled in. Slowly settling down on the cafeteria tables after much scolding by harried teachers. I showed them some string tricks as they waited for the next activity. They voiced their amazement with “oohs” and “aahs”. I moved around from table to table. Some kids snacked from bags of chips while others held on firmly to their backpacks.

My audience, the second graders and up, entered. Some ran in packs of giggles, while other strolled in with the sophistication that only a fifth grader can show. A few of the boys blatantly ignored their teachers directions and watched as I showed them “Man Climbing a Tree” and “Jacob's Ladder”. They eventually settled into their places at the tables. I returned to the stage at the front of the cafeteria.

My contact had introduced me to the after-school counselors. One was a stout man with dark skin, thick mustache that matched his full wavy hair. He was wearing a white martial arts clothes and was bare footed. The other man had a round face and full goatee with broad expressive features. The last one she introduced me to had set up the sound system. He was a young man with shiny, spiky hair who spoke with a heavy Spanish accent. I rarely saw so many men working at an after-school program.

Some of the teachers marched the younger kids to classrooms and the older kids filed in lines at the foot of the stage with much ado. The young man turned off the lights. The light pink stage lights cast a rosy glow across the room. The lights shown at the side of the stage, so I could still see in the audience. When the lights are directly in front, I can only see silhouettes. I showed the students some more tricks and they quieted down into the settling darkness. I was telling them riddle stories that day. We started with incantation of the classic “St. Ives”. I asked them to repeat after me and we began with line after line. No one knew the answer to “Kits, cats, sacks, and wives, how many were going to St. Ives?” It was only a warm-up though.

One boy near the front who wore blue slacks and a white button up shirt began whispering to his neighbor. The goateed man shined a flashlight onto him and gave him a loud “shhh!” I had thought that practice had died out with small town theaters. I was glad to see it returning to hold the sanctity of the performance.

I continued with the program. They listened intently to the dilemma of the farmer in “The White Dear”. Which would he choose for his one wish: gold, his mother's eyesight to return, or a child for his wife? I told some Nazrudin stories. They had some trouble following those, but they were short enough to keep from bogging the program down. I invited some of the students on the stage to act out the riddle of the farmer who crossed the river with a bag of grain, goose, and fox. One boy in the back solved the problem. I invited him up and he directed the actors on how to cross the river. He had longish, straight black hair and a Hawaiian print shirt on. It's always this type that are good with riddles; ones that just don't fit into the molds laid down for typical students. I followed up with “Juan and Jose”, my adaptation of an old riddle story about twins and a final examination that one of the brothers answers for the other.

At the end, I invited volunteers to read riddles out to the rest of the group. By this time, the audience had dwindled. Many parents had arrived to pick up their children for home. I have a wooden box a little bigger than my hand that I've painted red with yellow Celtic knot work pained on the top lid. In it, I have strips of paper that contain riddles and their answers. I open the lid and invite the volunteer to read the riddle to the audience. They do and the rest of the audience makes their guesses. Some answers are way off base, but others slow inch closer to the answer. Who ever answers correctly can draw the next one. We finish a few rounds, then I conclude the program with thanks for them listening so well and I ask them to give themselves a big hand.

The fluorescent lights snap on again. The students crowded onto the stage asking to see more string figures. I showed them some of the magic tricks. Others approached the microphone and began talking into it, cheerily hearing their voices echoing off the walls. The goatee man walked up to the microphone and started searching for the off switch. He persistently wrested it from the clenching hands that are eager to give their master a voice. The young man turned it off at the sound board and the children scurried to other diversions. I met the coordinator on my way out and told her that I thought the program went well. She scheduled me for next month. In the lobby, a few of the students were lounging on the leather sofa waiting for their rides home. An older girl said to me in a halting accent, “You were nice up there today.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I see the riddle box again?” a boy asked. He pulled one out and read it to the girl. She couldn't answer it but asked me for one as well. I said, “OK” and she pulled one out as well.

The boy asked, “Can I keep it?”

“Yes, can I keep mine?” the girl added in eager tones.

I had printed them on my home printer and cut them into thin slices the length of a letter's width. They'd been folded in half and were crumpled in spots from the hundreds of hands upon them. Why would they want them so badly?

“Yes, you can keep them.” They gave slight jumping motions and peered onto the pieces of paper.

Ancient Greek theater was a form of ritual, a magic, that transformed people into animals, gods, heroes.

On the black stage under the rosy lights through of the stark microphone, we'd made a magic. The red box under my arm was no longer a mere basswood box, but rather it had become a receptacle for secrets waiting to be revealed. They took tokens to remind them of the enchantment that comes from a raised stage and three black walls. Such a place has the power to sweep children away from the pebbled concrete walls of a refurbished office building to a place where kits, cats, sacks, and wives travel away from St. Ives.
- posted by Brian Herod @ 12:46 AM