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June 21, 2015

One memorable day my husband, Don, tagged along with me on a "Nana Aesop" storytelling gig. Newly retired, he was always working and had never seen me present solo, as a storyteller. My beloved "Don Juan" has supported me for years, in my one-woman play. He often assisted me on gigs with my props, enjoying dinner, overnights in nice hotels, for my Dunbar theater programs. While trying to relax and watch sports on TV, he has endured and survived the madness of my rehearsing out loud in the kitchen. This would be a very new adventure, him accompany me and playing drums for me, on this straight up storytelling gig.

A few days before, I asked him if he could play my djembe drum for the opening and closing song. I thought it would be fun. From time to time he'd come into the play room and hit the drum, displayed a natural tempo. He'd drum along as I jammed a calypso or reggae beat on my bass. The day I asked, after he watched the nightly news, he was either over confident or was hoping I wasn't serious. With a "unhuh" he put off our rehearsal until the night before the gig.

Together, in our creative space ( use to be kids play room, now my studio) I enthusiastically sang out the Aesop song, while banging out the rhythm idea for him to improve upon.  He was not inspired. He looked tired, bland, wouldn’t smile, killing me softly. Then he announce begrudgingly “I’m not an entertainer.” 

“Well neither am I” I lied, trying to find a common ground. “It’s not only about “entertaining,” I told him. “It’s about bringing JOY to people.” He looked at me deadpanned like I was a court jester without a court to jest. He couldn't care less, didn't have a clue and so what? All rolled up into one non-eye contact.

I scooted closer, chair to chair, hugging the drum and looked him in the eye. I didn't want to tell him, because I didn't really know what to expect. All audiences are special and I'm grateful to get one. So I told him this one would be physically and mentally challenged and should be able to experience storytelling, with a touch of soul sista' theataaaa, like everyone and anyone else. 

Ok, ok, no drumming. You can't force a feeling. But honey can you still hang with me as my partner? Honey do, experience the adventure of witnessing exactly what a storyteller does AND Honey...its over 100 miles and I don't want to drive alone. So there! Honey did.

Don's hobby is photography, as fine as he is on the eyes, he’s rather hide behind a len peeking at a bird or flowers. I met him taking photo's of me for a Caribbean Newspaper at the International House in Philly. 

So ok, just come and take photos and I’ll drum myself. Now I am acting! 

Yes, I let him off the hook and practiced drumming on my own. I came up with a few beats and it sounded just like I knew what I was doing. Then I packed up my jeep with my Aesop props, bucket, vase, stones, djembe drum, shakere, and boom box. I threw my anxiety to the wind and requested him to drive me. Forgetting how nerve wracking it is on highway curves, signage of  25mph and Don taking them at 45mph. This time,  I hit the recline button, shut my eyes, Aseop stories floating in my head. Interrupted with thoughts of creating a good story to control my control issue's.  

So wouldn’t you know it, I got the Map Quest directions all mixed up…(I didn't like the GPS  always recalculating lady) So I'm reading the directions and we flew onto the northeast extension…ended up in Quakertown, PA. We turn around and go back to PA turnpike and head out to Langhorne, PA…lost 45 minutes…then we drove around and around the facility grounds, arriving 15 minutes late. I hate being late, for anything! I will be on time for my own funeral, promise.

Fortunately, the lady who hired me was so happy I was coming she didn’t care we were late. She was so hyped on the phone giving me directions and waving us down as we approached the building. On the gym floor lounging around on assorted giant bean bags were youths of all nationalities, sexes and disabilities. Older, and some younger folks in wheelchairs formed a outside circled with attendants behind them, chin in hands, staring at cell phones, totally uninterested. The room was a buzz with anticipation of "Nana Aesop."

I bounced in the room making a “entrance”, smiling, waving, and singing….”Stop, Stop, Stop, listen to the stories of Aesop”…as loud and bodacious as I wanna be. Buzz gave way to silence. Beth, the Program Director set my props on the table and pushed a chair in my direction. Still singing out, I sat down and pop, popped, popped on the djembe.  I sang out melodiously the poem I wrote about Aesop, to accompany the “borrowing” of the chorus, of the Aesop Song by Diane Ferlatte a gifted storyteller. She created, recorded and I had her permission to revise and make it my own. Every one picked it up, mimed and sang along, loud and proud. ”Stop, Stop, Stop…listen to the stories of Aesop”!

I glided into an original telling of Lion & Mouse, Milkmaid & Pail, Boy Who Cried Wolf and Crow & The Vase (as appose to pitcher). To the right far side of the room, Don leaned on the edge of the stage, camera in hand, taking photos. 

Between one of the stories, I walked over to Don, quietly and kindly let him know he should take out only photos of me, and from the back of the room. Please, no photos of the audience as I have no permission, and privacy issues come into play. He nodded, and slowly moved inconspicuously to the side of the room, staring at the audience. Camera at his side for a few moments. Starring. He was captivated by the attentiveness and interaction of the folks listening, Interacting and singing along with Nana Aesop.

While handing out stones for the Crow & Vase/Pitcher tale, Beth, the program director, signaled, pointing to her watch, it will have to be the last story. Later she explained, the kids could stay and listen to me forever, but the attendants were on time shifts and had to leave at 3pm.

That was fine. They had plenty stories to remember. As the youths were being led out of the gym by assistants, many were singing as if on broadway.…”Stop, stop, stop, listen to the stories of Aesop!” 

All praises to Diane Ferlatte and my nerve.

During one of the stories, I invited a young man to play the djembe. He was beaming and playing better than me or Don. He ran up to give me a goodbye hug. All of his friends followed suit and I was suddenly surrounded with hugs and questions. One young lady who called out the moral at the end of the Milkmaid story before I finished; “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch!” stepped up to personally let me know, one of the stories I told, was NOT a Aesop story. Busted. She was on it!

It was a hour. Adrenaline peaked. Excitement was in the air. Instead of packing up, I helped serve ice tea and cookie's to the wheelchair bound ladies who were waiting for attendants to return and take them to their rooms. 

Having spent his early years with his grandmother, my husband has a special affection for elder folks. I met him at the refreshment table as he also collected cookies and ice tea at the the request of one of his new lady friends. 

Don is the total opposite of me.  Don is a bit of an introvert, as I am not. So here he was catering, chatting and smiling with residents and attendants.  My shy, reserved and “non-entertaining” husband came to my aide and took on the role of roadie and helped me pack up. It was a lovely facility, with beautiful people, what a wonderful day. Storytelling is gloriously intimate. 

Since then, I have returned and facilitated a LOL4Real Laughter Yoga wellness session to everyone's delight.

That day. On the drive home we missed the turnpike exit and winding up on 95 south, the longest way ever. Finally, reaching West Chester, Pennsylvania, a small college town, we celebrated at Wendy’s. for the fabulous strawberry chicken grilled salad. As we quietly enjoyed the strawberry grilled chicken salad. Suddenly, as if to realize we had finally made a right turn, as if he finally understood the power of storytelling.

 Don assured me, “I’ll drum for you next time, if you want me to.” 

Guess my djembe drumming was bad, as in the old fashion BAD.