West Side Storytellers Stories from the heart of Arizona

November 2017 Volume 34, Issue 22

Giving thanks for what we have is something that comes up at Thanksgiving and I always vow to make it a habit daily through-out the next year. Some days I can do it, some days it seems like life conspires to overwhelm me with the trivial. I always think about family gatherings, of course, and the fun and crazy times my family had during the holidays. I recently lost a cousin who lived in Washington state, and it brought to mind a Thanksgiving in Prescott when he came to visit our family. He was older than my siblings and I by quite a bit, and had a cool car (a Jaguar!), and he would take us out for rides in it. This particular Thanksgiving my Dad was cooking a turkey on the spit over the charcoal fire, his specialty, but it was going to take several hours and we were im-patient and restless as kids usually are. In the goofy way of kids, we had made pilgrim hats—complete with buckles–and dressed up like pilgrims with thrift store clothing gleaned from who knows where. Our cousin Jerry loaded us up into his car and took us up to Thumb Butte for a ride and a walk in the forest. All I remember is walking around in the fallen leaves and picking up a few to bring back, dressed as pilgrims and acting nutty. He must have gotten quite a laugh out of our outfits and our wild ways! I don’t remember much else, except that we usually had laughter and fun along with the meal. I’ll always be grateful for that. My folks didn’t have much, but they did have love, and there was always more than enough love to go around. In the way of people from that generation who had lived through the depression and the sec-ond World War, they took in their siblings if they fell on troubled times, and they helped each other out in myriad ways. Having an aunt and uncle and a cousin or two at our house was not uncom-mon, and my Uncle Andy moved back to Arizona after his wife died to be close to my Mom. I’m not sure people do that so much nowadays, but it added love and happiness to my life. Cooking with love is also a legacy gleaned from all those family times. Even if it was humble food, it was made with love . . . November 1st will be the celebration of the Day of the Dead, another holiday that celebrates families, but in this case it is the ancestors that have passed on. There is a personal account of pre-paring for this day on page 6. The West Side Storytellers will be celebrating the art of story-telling along with storytelling guilds worldwide during Tellabra-tion this November with several appearances, and by sponsoring a night of stories and songs in concert. The details of the appearanc-es are on the events page, and a flier for the concert is on page 2. This issue of the WSST news is full of holiday poems, stories about giving thanks, a description of Thanksgiving on the frontier and much more. I hope you’ll enjoy it. Andy These pictures tickled my funny bone when I found them—cats can be so crazy and so much fun. If you put the platter out, it is an invitation, isn’t it?! And you thought you’d decorate with leaves, but they’re way too irresistible! Happy Thanksgiving!

"The wild November come at last Beneath a veil of rain; The night wind blows its folds aside, Her face is full of pain. The latest of her race, she takes The Autumn's vacant throne: She has but one short moon to live, And she must live alone." - Richard Henry Stoddard, November

The Constellation Cassiopeia appears in November

One of the most popular stories from ancient mythology is told in a group of constellations that highlight November’s sky. Cassiopeia was the wife of King Cepheus of Ethiopia, who stands next to her in the sky. They are the only husband-and-wife couple among the constellations. Classical authors spell her name Cassiepeia, from the original Greek Κασσιέπεια, but Cassiopeia is the form used by astronomers.

Cassiopeia, the vain queen of Ethiopia, claimed that she was the most beautiful woman of all, angering the sea nymphs. They convinced the sea god Neptune to send Cetus, a nasty sea mon-ster, to destroy the kingdom. To appease the gods, King Cepheus ordered his daughter, the princess Andromeda, chained at the edge of the sea as a sacrifice. But she was rescued by Perseus, who flashed the monstrous head of Medusa at Cetus, turning him to stone. As a reward, the hero was wedded to the lovely Androme-da. In the sky, Cassiopeia is depicted sitting on her throne. Each night she circles the celestial pole, sometimes upright, sometimes hanging upside down in apparent danger of falling out. The my-thologists interpreted the indignity of this celestial fairground ride as part of her punishment from the gods, who made her a figure of fun. Aratus wrote that she plunged headlong into the sea like a diver (some translate it as ‘tumbler’), her feet waving in the air, because as seen from Greek latitudes she would have received a ducking at the lowest point on each circuit. Her long-suffering husband Cepheus alongside her endured the same fate. Germanicus Caesar described Cassiopeia thus: ‘Her face con-torted in agony, she stretches out her hands as if bewailing aban-doned Andromeda, unjustly atoning for the sin of her mother,’ and this is how she is drawn in early manuscripts illustrating the works of Aratus and Hyginus. However, from the time of Dürer onwards she was portrayed not with her arms outstretched but holding aloft a palm frond in one hand. With her other hand she is either holding a robe or fussing with her hair. The five brightest stars of Cassiopeia are arranged in a distinctive W-shape which writers such as Aratus likened to a key or a folding door. Alpha Cassiopeiae is called Schedar, from the Arabic al-sadr meaning ‘the breast’, where Ptolemy said it lay. Beta Cassiopeiae is known as Caph from the Arabic meaning ‘stained hand’, because the stars of Cassiopeia were thought by the Arabs to represent a hand tat-tooed with henna. Delta Cassiopeiae is named Ruchbah, from the Arabic for ‘knee’, rukbat. The central star of the W, Gamma Cas-siopeiae, is an erratic variable star, given to occasional outbursts in brightness; it has no official name.

As seen from the Northern Hemisphere on November evenings, Cassiopeia appears in the northeast sky at nightfall and swings high to the north as evening progresses. It’s easy to spot, shaped like an M or W. Cassiopeia can be used as a marker to see the Andromeda galaxy, but you need a dark sky. Note that one half of the W of Cassiopeia is more deeply notched than the other half. This deeper V is your “arrow” in the sky, pointing to the An-dromeda galaxy.

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A night of Songs and Stories with

Nancy Elliott and Sue Harris Saturday, November 11th

at

Barbara’s Place 9003 W. Lillian Lane Tolleson, Arizona 85353

Nancy Elliott is a singer, songwrit-er, poet, storyteller (with a storytelling workshop to share), horsewoman, and runs her own busi-ness as a seamstress and tailor, with a shop called Katy’s Cache at Monterey Court in Tucson. (katyscache.com & nancyelliottmusic.com)

Sue Harris was named a Culture Keeper during Arizona’s Centennial for her work to preserve Arizona Culture. She is a

member of the New Chris-ty Minstrels, is a talented folk singer, songwriter, cowboy/girl poet and per-former, and runs her own business producing hand-made luxury soaps and lo-tions. (Littlemamaproducts.com)

Two songbirds, each with a different story. Two powerful businesswomen, gentle singers, talented entertainers. Join us for a night of story and song

from the heart of Arizona.

Presented by the West Side Storytellers Guild

Potluck at 5:00 pm & Concert at 7:00 pm Suggested donation $10

The West Side Storytellers are presenting this concert as a celebration of Tellabration, the world-wide celebration of the art of Storytelling held every November. Join us for a night of song and stories!

The Storyteller’s Kitchen

November 2017

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I Ate Too Much

"I ate too much turkey, I ate too much corn, I ate too much pudding and pie, I'm stuffed up with muffins and much too much stuffin', I'm probably going to die.

I piled up my plate and I ate and I ate, but I wish I had known when to stop, for I'm so crammed with yams, sauces, gravies, and jams that my buttons are starting to pop.

I'm full of tomatoes and french fried potatoes, my stomach is swollen and sore, but there's still some dessert, so I guess it won't hurt if I eat just a little bit more." Jack Prelutsky

With Christmas on the event horizon, food for the holidays includes all of the things we love to eat that remind us of home and family. Nothing says holidays in Arizona like tamales. Here is some histori-cal insight into one of our favorite holiday treats.

Buckwheat Cakes

"Now the frost is in the air. Blue the haze at early dawn. There is color everywhere. Old and ragged looks the lawn. Autumn's resting on the hills. Harvested are fruit and grain, And the home with gladness thrills. Buckwheat cakes are back again! Every season has its joys, Every day its touch of mirth. For us all - both girls and boys - God has well supplied the earth. What if care must fall between Peace and pleasure now and then? Autumn holds this happy scene: Buckwheat cakes are back again! Time and trouble change us all, Youth gives way to middle age, One by one our fancies fall Till we reach life's final stage, But in spite of aches and panes And the difference old age makes, Man devoted still remains To a stack of buckwheat cakes." Edgar A. Guest

These poems are about November food! The love of the food we grew up with is always a subject of conversation in November. This story is about traditional food, and love of family in the Indian culture.

A Granddaughter's Powerful Love Story, Told Through An Indian Cookbook by Kamala Thiagarajan for NPR

Although she'd never cooked until her early thirties, food was al-ways an integral part of Archana Pidathala's life. The author of the self-published cookbook, Five Morsels of Love, shortlisted earlier this year for the 2017 Art of Eating Prize, cherishes memories of long, languid summers spent at her grandmother's home in the South Indian state of Andhra Pradesh. Her grandmother, Nirmala Reddy, a cookbook author herself, asked her grandchildren every day what they wanted to eat for each meal. "She never once complained or felt overwhelmed by the incredible amount of cooking she did for us. And she always prepared all the dishes we asked for," recalls Pidathala. Pidathala says her favorite recipes from Five Morsels of Love have the power to instantly transport her to back those blissful summer afternoons. Sometimes, she would watch as her grandmother chopped vegetables and crushed spices on a stone pestle, releasing a fragrance that stirred her appetite. The pachchi pulusu (a tangy peanut stew), the anapaginjala pulusu (a hyacinth bean curry that her grandma loved) and her own personal favorite, the ulava charu (a slow-cooked, thick stew made from horse gram beans) were the flavors of her childhood. It was the eggplant biryani, however, that always brought home to her the ingenuity of her grandmother's cooking. "It was perfected after years of trial and improvisation," she says. "No special occasion in our family is complete without serving this dish."

Archana Pidathala sorts through old recipes that belonged to her Grandmother.

Continued on page 4

Point of View by Shel Silverstein

Thanksgiving dinner’s sad and thankless Christmas dinner’s dark and blue When you stop and try to see it From the turkey’s point of view.

Sunday dinner isn’t sunny Easter feasts are just bad luck When you see it from the viewpoint Of a chicken or a duck.

Oh how I once loved tuna salad Pork and lobsters, lamb chops too Till I stopped and looked at dinner From the dinner’s point of view.

Pumpkin Pie Martini Courtesy Stephen Phillips for Food Network

1/2 ounce Stoli Vanilla (optional to give it kick) 1 ounce Pumpkin Spice liqueur (such as Hiram Walker) 1/2 ounce Kahlua 1/2 ounce Butterscotch Schnapps 1/2 ounce half-and-half Crushed graham crackers Cinnamon stick (garnish)

Add all liquids in a shaker filled with ice. Shake and strain into large martini glass rimmed with crushed graham crackers. Garnish with a cinnamon stick.

Granddaughter’s Story continued from page 3

At mealtimes during those summer after-noons in Hyderabad, Pidathala remembers gathering the children of her family close while her grandmother lovingly ladled food onto one large plate. "Communal eating in this way wasn't un-common in India. It happens in many families, though it is getting rarer today," Pidathala says. "These early experiences brought home to me how food can nourish the soul as much as the body, how it can create enduring bonds." The five morsels in the book's title refers to these cousins, who bonded over such exquisite meals. They're represented in the recurring motif of the five grains of rice that prance across the soft yellow cloth-bound cover like snow-flakes. Her grandmother's death in 2007, barely nine weeks after she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, devastated the family. Pi-dathala, who had recently moved hundreds of miles away to Benga-luru to begin a career in IT, particularly reeled after the loss. "I had always promised her we'd work together on an English translation of her cookbook, written in Telugu [a language native to Indian states of Andhra Pradesh and Telangana]," says Pidathala. The simple paperback had seen three print runs since it was pub-lished in 1974. It was the kind of book that emigrants sought to carry back with them overseas. By offering an authentic taste of home, it helped them ache less for what they'd left behind. "Ammamma, as I called her, had always wanted to reach out to a much wider audience, but I thought I had all the time in the world to make that happen," Pidathala says. She spent the next few years immersed in the hundreds of reci-pes that her grandmother had painstakingly documented. They were everywhere — including on the backs of medical prescriptions and withered wedding invitations. Deciding to translate parts of the original cookbook first, she added recipes that were childhood favorites. However, she

struggled to quantify ingredients — something that her grandmoth-er, like most other Indian cooks, did with instinctive ease. "I had no idea that recipe writing could be so nuanced," Pidathala laughs. "It was a fascinating journey, and every day, I was learning something new. But I had to measure and cook each recipe several times to perfect it. For someone who had never cooked before — that was the real challenge." In 2013, with help from a friend, Bengaluru-based food blogger Chinmayie Bhat (who shot the photos for the book), she tried out dozens of recipes over the weekends. When the cook who had her helped her grandmother through the years visited Pidathala, the trio made a formidable team — they prepared and photographed 60 dishes in 5 days. And remarkably, a book that focuses on a tiny slice of Indian cuisine — the fiery, chili-laden food native to the state of Andhra Pradesh — soon made an impression on people from around the world after it was self-published in May 2016. Pidathala personally shipped the book to readers in 40 countries. It was also stocked internationally by niche and indie bookstores. Chen Kariv, a graphic designer and her friend, Hili Enzel, a high school teacher, were the first from Tel Aviv, Israel, to order the book from the author's web site. "Hili and I are food enthusiasts, and cooking meals is our way of hanging out together," says Kariv. "At first it was a challenge to identify all the special ingredients. It was a very different [cuisine] from what we know." The duo were soon cooking for their friends. "It's a great way to explore other cultures, by trying to learn their flavors," says Kariv. Today, Pidathala is an accomplished chef. "Although I began this journey to honor my grandmother's memory, along the way, I discovered her passion for cooking," she says. As she ponders over writing a second cookbook, culled from her grandmother's notes over the years, she's grateful for reclaiming the kitchen as a place that embodies creativity, self-expression and love. Kamala Thiagarajan is a freelance journalist based in Madurai, South India. Her work has appeared in The International New York Times, BBC Travel and Forbes India. You can follow her on Twit-ter: @kamal_t

Pradathala holding the cookbook that is her labor of love

Continued next column

Frank Bruni on Leftovers Former New York Times food critic and author of the foodie memoir Born Round describes his “endless Thanksgiving feast” in an essay for Real Simple magazine that begins at the table and moves to a very important pay-off from Thanksgiving: the Leftovers. In his family, the tradition is turkey sand-wiches, not the day after, or a week after Thanksgiving, but turkey sandwiches immediately following dinner. A representative from Bruni’s family goes to the Italian bakery for sandwich rolls that “aren’t so much beds as thrones for the tiers of white and dark meat” topped with “mayonnaise and Miracle Whip, two kinds of mustard, pan gravy, canned cranberry jelly, fresh cranberry sauce, and even, incredibly, stuffing.” Though these sandwiches sound absolutely delicious, Bruni is "moved less by its majesty than by its context—by my sense of the ritual surrounding it as something that sets my family apart and, really, defines us.”

Thanksgiving Musings

Laurie Colwin on Turkey (or Seasonal Angst) Laurie Colwin, the late food writer for Gourmet and author of several books, including the cherished Home Cooking, understood why turkey is reserved for Thanksgiving. In More Home Cooking, she describes trying to cook turkey breasts during the off-season, only to be disappointed. “There is really a je ne sais quoi about turkey cooking—the air of festivity, the family squabbles, the constant basting—that does not apply to the turkey breast, which is, really, a convenience of food... A turkey without seasonal angst is like a baseball game without a national anthem, a winter without snow, a birthday party without candles. For better or worse the exhaustion, the exhilaration, the expectations and the complica-tions are a kind of emotional condiment, the secret element that gives turkey its essential spirit.”

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Calvin Trillin on Spaghetti Carbonara Calvin Trillin has been on a national campaign since the early ‘90s to make Spaghetti Carbonara the national Thanksgiving dish. In his book, The Tummy Trilogy, he writes: “It would also not require much digging to discover that Christopher Columbus, the man who may have brought linguine with clam sauce to this continent, was from Genoa, and obviously would have sooner acknowledged that the world was shaped like an isosceles triangle than to have eaten the sort of things that the English Puritans ate. Righting an ancient wrong against Co-lumbus, a great man who certainly did not come all this way only to have a city in Ohio named after him, would be a serious historical con-tribution. Also, I happen to love Spaghetti Carbonara. It was at other people’s Thanksgiving tables that I first began to articulate my Spa-ghetti Carbonara campaign—although, since we were usually served turkey, I naturally did not mention that the campaign had been inspired partly by my belief that turkey is basically something college dormito-ries use to punish students for hanging around on Sunday... I reminded everyone how refreshing it would be to hear sports announcers call some annual tussle the Spaghetti Carbonara Day Classic.”

“This is Thanksgiving, which is celebrated by us by partaking of a dinner of wild ducks roasted, stewed quails, mince pie and a very fine watermelon just picked from the vines, all of which we heartily enjoyed.” Wait, watermelon for Thanksgiving? Seems that’s what California Gold Rush mer-chant Stephen Chapin David recalled. Another Forty-Niner, Alfred T. Jackson, recalled his 1850 Thanksgiving: “All we did was to lay off and eat quail stew and dried apple pie.” While many associate the first Thanksgiving as taking place at Plymouth Rock in 1621, Texans claim Spanish explorer Juan de Oñate celebrated it in April 1598. After running out of food and water, and being forced to seek out scarce desert vegetation, the 400-person expedition saw the Rio Grande as its salvation. Gaspar Perez de Villagrá wrote, “We built a great bonfire and roasted the meat and fish, and then all sat down to a repast the like of which we had never enjoyed before. We were happy that our trials were over….” Elizabeth Le Breton Gunn lived in Sonora, Mexico, with her family from 1851-61. Despite not being in the U.S., she celebrated Thanksgiving. “I baked six pumpkin and two cranberry pies on Wednesday. The berries came from Oregon and were good, but small…. I put currants in the pumpkin pies and they were very nice, but not like yours, because I cannot afford the milk and eggs and our hens do not lay now. I also made a boiled bread pudding with raisins in it. On Thanksgiving Day I baked a ‘rooster pie,’ and Lewis and the children said it was delightful.” In 1863, the year Abraham Lincoln made Thanksgiving a na-tional holiday, newspapers all over the West contained ads for Thanksgiving balls, suppers and other celebratory events. The mer-cantile stores placed ads weeks in advance, like in the Arkansas Daily Republican, “Fifteen days to Thanksgiving day. Prepare your turkeys and cranberry sauce.”

One Nebraska merchant used Thanksgiving to sell his merchandise. In 1875 the Daily Ne-braska Press ran this ad, “The Governor’s Thanksgiving Proclamation reminds us that turkeys are a good thing to have—so are pic-tures from Howard’s.” Menu items from restaurants to home ta-bles included many of the traditional favorites we still enjoy today—fare such as turkey, cranberry sauce and mince, apple and pumpkin pies.

Even the prisoners at San Quentin celebrated Thanksgiving. Their 1877 gala at the California prison, decorated with flags, flow-ers and evergreen, began with a ball the night before, where they entertained by playing violins, guitars, an accordion and a banjo. Since the crowd was male only, four of the prisoners dressed in borrowed female attire for the dances. Thanksgiving dinner consist-ed of roasted mutton, roasted pork, apples, peas, pies and cakes. Hotels in Kansas City, Missouri, outdid themselves in 1888. Items on the menus included Blue Point oysters, little neck clams, calf’s brains, buffalo tongue, red snapper, black bass, salmon, ca-pon, turkey, duck, ribs of beef, veal, quail stuffed with truffles, elk, squirrel, opossum, shrimp, pompano, asparagus, artichokes, pud-dings, pies, ice cream, macaroons and Roquefort and Edam cheese.

While it’s not fancy, cranberry sauce is traditional and super easy to make, as you’ll see in the shared 1890 recipe:

Cranberry Sauce (serves 4 -6) 1 quart cranberries 1 pint water 1 pound sugar

Place cranberries in a large saucepan and cover with water. Cover the cranberries with a lid and simmer until the berries split. Add the sugar and allow the berries to gently boil for about 20 minutes. Place in a container and chill until ready to serve.

Thanksgiving on the Frontier - From Forty-Niner dinners to prison balls to fancy hotel meals. By Sherry Monahan for True West (to subscribe visit truewestmagazine.com)

Sherry Monahan has penned Taste of Tombstone, Pikes Peak, The Wicked West and Tombstone’s Treasure. She has appeared on the History Channel in Lost Worlds, Investigating History and Wild West Tech.

Cooking with Love

When I first encountered the notion of infusing love into food in the book Like Water for Chocolate , it seemed far-fetched. Then Ayurveda taught me that preparing food with loving attention and blessing it with gratitude before eating adds nourishment and makes food healing medicine. Hippocrates, father of Western medicine said, “Let food be thy medicine, and medicine be thy food.” Dr. Vasant Lad, my Ayurve-dic teacher, said, “If you eat when you’re upset, you digest sad-ness.” And, “Who you share your meals with is as important as what kind of food you eat.” Masaro Emoto discovered that human energy and conscious-ness affect water’s molecular structure. His experiments showed that positive thoughts, words, intentions, and prayers produce har-monious crystal formations in water, and even cleanse polluted water. And negative thoughts, words, and feelings produce frag-mented, disharmonious crystal formations. Most foods, and human bodies, are mostly water. And our thoughts and feelings, our states of mind and emotion, energetically affect our food and our bodies for good or ill. You can sensitize yourself to how different foods, and different people, affect you physically, emotionally, and energetically. Pay attention to what you eat, how you prepare your food, who you share it with, and how you feel physically and emotionally during and after eating.

We’re always infusing our food with our feelings and thoughts when we prepare it and as we eat it. We also digest the feelings and thoughts infused into our food during its preparation. So it’s im-portant to be conscious when we prepare food for ourselves and others. Our spiritual intentions and vibrations while preparing and shar-ing a meal make the meal sacred. This is the key to Christmas, Thanksgiving, Shabbat and Passover dinners. Ancient cultures saw food as a gift of God, and believed God manifested in sacred cele-brations. Understanding this can transform our relationship to food, and inform our relations with others, making ordinary meals sacred occasions. As a little girl, when I was sick my grandmother made me borscht, the best comfort food and healing medicine I’ve ever had. I tasted her love. We can give love-infused food to others by cook-ing with loving awareness. We can turn ordinary dining experienc-es with family and friends into loving, sacred occasions. May your relationship with food nourish you to the fullest in body, mind, and spirit. – Anya El-Wattar (ramdass.org)

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I hold close to my heart and in my soul those good old days of November when I, as a child, and would help my abuelita, grandmother, commemo-rate our loved ones who had passed away. Beginning in October I would ask: – “Abuelita, when will we go to the market to buy the papel picado“ (paper with cut-out figures)? – “Abuelita, how many days until we go to the cemetery?” – “When are you going to get the table ready for the altar offering?” And she would patiently respond, “Very soon, sweetheart, but remember that first we have to clean the house really well for their visit. They’re our most important visitors and we have to welcome them in to a very clean and organized home!” I thoroughly enjoyed those afternoons when, after school, we would go to the market to buy everything we needed for the holi-day. By that time the market would be packed with things for the Day of the Dead. I remember that before, just like now, flowers were sold everywhere, especially the cempasuchitl, that orange flower that is only sold during this time of year. There were stands where practically everything for the Day of the Dead was sold everything – candles, black ceramic candle-sticks, and the fruit of the season: squash, sugar cane, and bananas. The bakeries prepare “Pan de Muerto,” day of the dead bread and other special types of bread as offerings; for example, the golletes, a pink doughnut-type of bread, which symbolizes the cycle of life and death. “Get ready, sweetheart,” my grandma would tell me, “Today we have to get up early to get everything ready.” October 31 had finally arrived, the eve of the big celebration. First, I would help her put aside the living room furniture to get the table ready. Then we would cover the table with a white cloth, my grandma’s favorite. “This one I embroidered when I was 16 years old, just before I married your abuelo, your grandfather,” she told me. I preferred putting out the brightly colored papel picado and the calaveras that made me laugh more than they scared me.

Once the tablecloth and papel picado were ready, we would carefully place the little toys for the angelitos – that’s what we called those close to us who died as children. “This little doll was your Aunt Margarita’s favor-ite,” my grandma would remember as she hung the old doll above the altar. One by one, we would take my ancestors’ special belongings out of their box. Each one would remind us of a familial anecdote. Discovering the contents of that old cardboard box

was for me like opening a treasure chest. We would place the candles that we’d bought in the market one by one on the altar: one for grandpa, another big one for Mother, another for Aunt Margarita…My grandma said that their light would guide their souls to our house, and each one had his or her own candle because there was something special to remember about each one of them. “Grandma, I’ll place Baby Jesus and Mary,” I would say as she held the bench so that I could climb up to put them in their places at the highest part of the offering. Then we would put cempasuchitl flowers and some sugar calaveras, the kind that have the name of the deceased on their forhead.. We would also take out our treasured family pictures of our dearly departed and hang them on the altar. Oh! I couldn’t forget the glass of water and the little plate of salt…they say it’s to relieve the thirst of the souls that return. The rest of the day my grandma would spend in the kitchen preparing our lost loved ones favorite dishes. Meanwhile, I took the petals off the cempasuchitl flowers to make a path to the offerings. In the afternoon, the house would be filled with the aroma of the food grandma had prepared: mole with chicken, red rice, little zuc-chinis. When I was younger I used to think that food would really be eaten, but then they explained to me that it was just so that the souls could enjoy the delicious aroma. When everything was ready, we would go to the cemetery with more candles and flowers to wait there for the souls. To call them, the church bells would ring all night. How time flies! Today I prepare an offering with my children and I see in them the same excitement I felt as a child. Today I light a candle in honor of my grandma and I know that, even if only for a few moments, we’ll be together again. From Mexico.com Continued next column

The Legend of the Cempasuchil Flower The Day of the Dead Flower From Mexico.com

This beautiful legend recounts the love story of two young Aztecs, óchitl and Huitzilin, a ro-mance from which the cempasuchil flower was born.

This wonderful love story began when the two young Aztecs were still little. They used to spend all their spare time playing and enjoying discovering their town together. Alt-hough Xochitl was a delicate girl, her family let her join in the adventures of her neighbor Huitzilin. With time, it was only natu-ral that their love would flourish. They particularly enjoyed hiking to the top of a near mountain where they would offer flowers to the Sun god Tonatiuh. The god seemed to appreciate their offering and would smile from the sky with his warm rays. On a particularly beautiful day at the top of the mountain, they swore that their love would last forever. When war broke out the lovers were separated as

Huitzilin headed to fight and protect their homeland. Soon the dreaded news of Huitzilin‘s death reached Xóchitl. She felt her world falling to pieces, her heart completely torn. She decided to walk one last time to the top of the mountain and implore the sun god To-natiuh, to somehow join her with her love Huitzilin. The sun moved by her prayers threw a ray that gently touched the young girl’s

cheek. Instantly she turned into a beautiful flower of fiery colors as intense at the sun rays. Suddenly a hummingbird lovingly touched the center of the flower with its beak. It was Huitzilin that was reborn as a hand-some hummingbird. The flower gently opened its 20 petals, filling the air with a mysterious and lovely scent. The lovers would be always together as long as cempasuchil flowers and hummingbirds existed on earth. This is how the cempasúchil flower came to be the Day of the Dead Flower.

A Day of the Dead Story: Those Good Old November Days

Of all the bedtime-story versions of American history we teach, the tidy Thanksgiving pageant may be the one stuffed with the heaviest serving of myth. This iconic tale is the main course in our nation’s foundation legend, complete with cardboard cutouts of bow-carrying Native American cherubs and pint-size Pilgrims in black hats with buckles. And legend it largely is. In fact, what had been a New England seasonal holiday became more of a “national” celebration only during the Civil War, with Lincoln’s proclamation calling for “a day of thanksgiving” in 1863. That fall, Lincoln had precious little to be thankful for. The Union victory at Gettysburg the previous July had come at a dreadful cost – a combined 51,000 estimated casualties, with nearly 8,000 dead. Enraged by draft laws and emancipation, rioters in Northern cities like New York went on bloody rampages. And the president and his wife, Mary, were still mourning the loss of their 11-year-old son, Willie, who had died the year before. So it might seem odd that Lincoln chose this moment to an-nounce a national day of thanksgiving, to be marked on the last Thursday in November. His Oct. 3, 1863, proclamation read: “In the midst of a civil war of unequaled magnitude and severity … peace has been preserved with all nations, order has been main-tained, the laws have been respected and obeyed, and harmony has prevailed everywhere, except in the theater of military conflict.” But it took another year for the day to really catch hold. In 1864 Lincoln issued a second proclamation, which read, “I do further recommend to my fellow-citizens aforesaid that on that occasion they do reverently humble themselves in the dust.” Around the same time, the heads of Union League clubs – Theodore Roose-velt’s father among them – led an effort to provide a proper Thanksgiving meal, including turkey and mince pies, for Union troops. As the Civil War raged on, four steamers sailed out of New York laden with 400,000 pounds of ham, canned peaches, apples and cakes – and turkeys with all the trimmings. They arrived at Ulysses S. Grant’s headquarters in City Point, Va., then one of the busiest ports in the world, to deliver dinner to the Union’s “gallant soldiers and sailors.” This Thanksgiving delivery was an unprecedented effort – a huge fund-raising and food-collection drive. One soldier said, “It isn’t the turkey, but the idea we care for.” The good people of nearby Petersburg, Va., had no turkey. Sur-rounded and besieged by Grant’s armies since June, they were lucky to eat at all. The local flocks of pigeons had all mysteriously disappeared and “starvation parties” were a form of mordant enter-tainment in this once cosmopolitan town. What prompted Lincoln to issue these proclamations – the first two in an unbroken string of presidential Thanksgiving proclama-tions – is uncertain. He was not the first president to do so. George Washington and James Madison had earlier issued “thanksgiving” proclamations, calling for somber days of prayer. Perhaps Lincoln saw an opportunity to underscore shared American traditions – a theme found in the “mystic chords of memory” stretching from “every patriot grave” in his first inaugural. Or he may have been responding to the passionate entreaties of Sara Josepha Hale, editor of Godey’s Lady’s Book – the Good

Captain Sanderson’s Commissary Beef Stew (from the history kitchen on PBS.org—read more about Civil War food) The following Union army recipe comes from Camp Fires and Camp Cooking; or Culinary Hints for the Soldier by Captain Sand-erson. It’s a basic recipe (in those days known as a “receipt”) for “Commissary Beef Stew.” This easy meat stew is thickened with flour and filled out with potatoes and vegetables. The flour and added vegetables allowed Union cooks to stretch small amounts of meat into a substantial, filling meal. While many wartime stews were made from salted preserved meat, this recipe appears to be written for fresh beef. Here is the original recipe, as transcribed in A Taste for War: The Culinary History of the Blue and Gray.

Housekeeping of its day. Hale, who contributed to American folk-ways as the author of “Mary had a Little Lamb,” had been advocat-ing in the magazine for a national day of Thanksgiving since 1837. Even as many states had begun to observe Thanksgiving, she wrote in 1860, “It will no longer be a partial and vacillating commemora-tion of our gratitude to our Heavenly Father, observed in one sec-tion or State, while other portions of our common country do not sympathize in the gratitude and gladness.” So how did the lore of that Pilgrim repast get connected to Lin-coln’s wartime proclamations? The Plymouth “first Thanksgiving” dates from an October 1621 harvest celebration, an event at which the surviving passengers of the Mayflower – about half of the approximately 100 on board — were able to mark their communal harvest with a shared feast. By the account of the Pilgrim leader Edward Winslow, this event was no simple sit-down dinner, but a three-day revel. “Amongst other recreations,” Winslow wrote, “we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we enter-tained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which we brought to the plantation.” There is nothing novel or uniquely American — and nothing especially “Pilgrim”– about giving thanks for a successful harvest. Certainly it has been done by people throughout history and surely by earlier Europeans in America as well as Native Americans. But New Englanders, who had long marked a Founders Day as a celebration of the Pilgrim and Puritan arrivals, began to move across America and took this tradition – and their singular version of history — with them. Essentially a churchgoing day with a meal that followed, the celebration of that legendary feast gradually evolved into the Thanksgiving we know. Eventually, it was commingled with Lincoln’s first proclama-tion. During the post-Civil War period, the iconic Thanksgiving meal and the connection to the Pilgrims were cemented in the pop-ular imagination, through artistic renderings of black-cloaked, churchgoing, gun-toting Puritans, a militant, faithful past that most likely rang familiar for many Civil War Americans. But one crucial piece remained: The elevation of Thanksgiving to a true national holiday, a feat accomplished by Franklin D. Roo-sevelt. In 1939, with the nation still struggling out of the Great De-pression, the traditional Thanksgiving Day fell on the last day of the month – a fifth Thursday. Worried retailers, for whom the holi-day had already become the kickoff to the Christmas shopping sea-son, feared this late date. Roosevelt agreed to move his holiday proclamation up one week to the fourth Thursday, thereby extend-ing the critical shopping season. Some states stuck to the traditional last Thursday date, and oth-er Thanksgiving traditions, such as high school and college football championships, had already been scheduled. This led to Roosevelt critics deriding the earlier date as “Franksgiving.” With 32 states joining Roosevelt’s “Democratic Thanksgiving, ” 16 others stuck with the traditional date, or “Republican Thanksgiving.” After some congressional wrangling, in December 1941, Roosevelt signed the legislation making Thanksgiving a legal holiday on the fourth Thursday in November. And there it has remained. Continued next column

Note that grammar and measurements have been clarified from the original source:

Cut 2 pounds of beef roast into cubes 2 inches square and 1 inch thick, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and put in frying pan with a little pork fat or lard. Put them over a fire until well browned but not fully cooked, and hen empty the pan into a kettle and add enough water to cover the meat. Add a handful of flour, two quar-tered onions, and four peeled and quartered potatoes. Cover and simmer slowly over a moderate heat for 3 ½ hours, skimming any fat that rises to the top. Then stir in 1 tablespoon of vinegar and serve. Other vegetables available, such as leeks, turnips, carrots, parsnips, and salsify, will make excellent additions.

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How the Civil War Created Thanksgiving by Kenneth C. Davis (for the opinionator.blogs.nnytimes)

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We all love visual shorthand for our lives, whether it’s the Apple logo for technology or a flag for patriotism. Just as Thomas Nast’s ver-sion of Santa Claus endures as the quintessential Christmas image, Norman Rockwell’s classic painting of an American family at Thanksgiving (detail shown above, full pic-ture here) has stood for seven decades as the single image most Americans associate with turkey day. But few Americans know the full story behind (or even the title of) Rockwell’s painting—the political and human rights roots of the text Rockwell aimed at illustrating. As we plan to sit down as a nation and give thanks, it’s important to remember what Norman Rock-well’s Thanksgiving picture’s really about. As any school child knows as they industri-ously make construction paper turkeys and buckled hats this week, Thanksgiving started with the pilgrims way back in the 1621. Howev-er, the idea of celebrating Thanksgiving as an official American holi-day only dates back to 1863, making this year the sesquicentennial of Thanksgiving as well as the American Civil War. Then-President Abraham Lincoln deemed the last Thursday in November as a day of “Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens” during those dark days of fraternal conflict. Almost four score years later, President Franklin D. Roose-velt signed a bill on December 26, 1941 (just weeks after the attack on Pearl Harbor plunged the United States into World War II) mov-ing the date for Thanksgiving from the last Thursday to the fourth Thursday in November. Sadly, Thanksgiving’s too often been cele-brated from its very beginnings in the shadow of war and with the specter of empty seats around the table. In January 1941, FDR delivered his State of the Union address in which he outlined his idea of the Four Freedoms, which included freedom of speech, of worship, from fear, and from want. Defending his vision against charges of unrealistic idealism, FDR added, “That is no vision of a distant millennium. It is a definite basis for a kind of world attainable in our own time and generation. That kind of world is the very antithesis of the so-called ‘new order’ of tyranny which the dictators seek to create with the crash of a bomb.” Against fas-cism on the rise in Europe, FDR struck a blow for freedom by elo-quently and efficiently listing its essential components for all the world to see. Two years later, over four consecutive issues during February and March 1943, The Saturday Evening Post published essays on each of FDR’s Four Freedoms, each accompanied by a painting by

Continued next column

Norman Rockwell. To depict Freedom from Fear, Rockwell painted a mother and father tucking their children into bed to sleep the sleep of the blissfully innocent. For Freedom of Wor-ship, Rockwell collected together a wide array of faces each with hands clasped in prayer—a fascinating image of spiritual solidarity at a time when Jews were being annihilated across Eu-rope for their faith. In Freedom of Speech, Rockwell painted a single brave soul standing up at a meeting to speak his mind and bare his soul. When it came time to symbol-ize Freedom from Want, Rockwell chose Thanksgiving as the perfect symbolic moment for Americans. We all know Rockwell’s Freedom from Want by heart, even if we don’t know its title. Three generations circle the food—a nuclear family more rarely seen today, but still existing in some hearts and minds as an ideal. (If Rock-

well were painting now, what might that modern American family look like racially or even in terms of sexual orientation?) From the lower right corner, in the finest Renaissance tradition of painting, a young man looks out at you directly—the classic challenge to the viewer posed by the painter and his painting. His smile asks you to join in with the wonder at the bounty set before them, but is that all it asks? After more than a decade of overseas wars draining of us blood and treasure and an economic downturn further depleting our reserves of good will and thankfulness, that young man’s smile re-minds us that the Thanksgiving thanks are not necessarily for abun-dant protein and four kinds of vegetables. Instead, the thankfulness is for having each other and the enduring capacity of people to free one another from all kinds of want—physical, emotional, and even spir-itual. The Thanksgiving of Rockwell’s painting speaks of the same freedom from want that FDR spoke of. We can’t “earn” or “deserve” such a freedom because, like the freedoms outlined in our Declaration of Independence, they are “inalienable rights” hand-ed down by God, but “enabled” by humans. We can’t earn them or fail to earn them, just as nobody has the right to deny them to us. When I look at Rockwell’s Freedom from Want I see the true mes-sage of Thanksgiving—the message forged in times of war and want – not the message of “I’ve got mine.” Yes, please give thanks for all you have this Thanksgiving. But please also remember that part of giving thanks involves helping others to have something to be thank-ful for, too. Give everyone a place at the table and you’ll be able to smile back at that boy in the corner in the true spirit of the season and the true meaning of Norman Rockwell’s painting.

What Is Norman Rockwell’s Thanksgiving Picture Really About? By Bob Duggan for bigthink.com

Tollbooth Timer I worked on a toll road, answering the phone, collecting money and issuing toll tickets. One Thanksgiving Day, a woman called to ask about road conditions on the turnpike. After I said everything was A-okay, she told me a friend was coming for dinner. Then came the stumper. “If my friend just left from exit twelve,” she asked, “what time should I put the turkey in?” Contributed by Sandra Shields

Guest Relations Our eldest daughter, Ann, invited her college roommate to join our large family for Thanksgiving dinner. As families sometimes do, we got into a lively argument over a trivial subject until we remem-bered we had a guest in our midst. There was an immediate, embar-rassed silence. “Please don’t worry about me,” she said. “I was brought up in a family too.” Contributed by Garrison H. McClure

These tiny tales are gems gleaned from the Readers Digest . . . Horn of Plenty When a music student brought his French horn to my shop for re-pair, he complained that the instrument “felt stuffy” and he couldn’t blow air through it. It’s not unusual to find partial blockages in brass instruments if small items get lodged in the tubing, but when I tested the instrument, the horn was completely blocked. After much probing and prodding, a small tangerine dropped out of the bell. “Oh,” said the musician when I handed him the fruit. Seeing the bewildered look on my face, he explained, “My mom used the horn for a cornucopia in a Thanksgiving centerpiece.”

Contributed by Mark L. Madden

Life Lessons: Giving Thanks Read one writer's take on the true meaning of gratitude By Heather Lende

I believe gratitude doesn't come in the front door all dressed up and bearing Thanksgiving pies—rather, it slips in through the kitchen door like the plumber did when the pipes were clogged just before my second daughter's home wedding. Forget what you've heard about not missing your water until the well runs dry. You never know what gratitude the sound of a flushing toilet can bring until you've seen one overflow three times during the week of your daugh-ter's wedding. My point is that gratitude is not the same as giving thanks. It comes from a deeper place that knows the story could have ended differently, and often does. Gratitude is surviving the worst thing you can imagine (for now! Trust me, there will be another calamity at some point, one so awful you'd trade it in a heartbeat for sewage seeping onto the carpet) and realizing that you are still standing. Gratitude helps you cheer the news that the lump is not malig-nant, and helps you to be grateful when you learn, as my friend Di-ana did, that her husband was not in any pain from his cancer, and could come home from the hospital to die with the cat on his bed, his dogs underneath it and family all around. Any of us who have lived past 50 surely understand the kind of gift that was to her, even if she had no options but to unwrap it. I had an old friend, a really old friend named Mimi Gregg, who was about 50 years older than me. She came to this tiny town in Alaska in 1946 with her husband, two babies and her mother, a for-mer opera diva named Madam Vic. The Greggs had bought the old Army barracks sight unseen and hoped to make it an artists' colony/tourist destination. But the plan never panned out, so with no money or jobs, Mimi's artist husband had to learn to hunt and fish and make furniture. But Mimi and her husband also entertained themselves and their new Alaskan friends in those pre-TV days with plays, dances and costume parties. Mimi always had most of our neighborhood over for Thanksgiving, baking soft buttery rolls in her wood-burning cookstove while a tape of La Bohème swelled in the background. Mimi lived well into her 90s and I never once heard her pine for the good old days or wish that her life was something other than it was. I learned a lot from Mimi. She taught me to go ahead and invite everyone over for dinner even if you aren't sure where they'll all sit, and to ask them to bring along a side dish or dessert and something to drink. When we were in community plays together she really did believe that "there are no small parts, only small actors." That senti-ment translated into all she did, and thus all I did in the roles I took on in the community, from being on the school board to singing in

Continued next column

the choir. Mimi worked for the newspaper, something I would also do. She understood the importance of getting the words right and meeting deadlines. She raised four children and they all went to col-lege. My five have all done the same. When I asked her the secret of her long marriage when mine was still young, she said, "Take the long view. If it won't matter in 10 years, let it go." If I said I didn't have time to help her with a play or bake for an arts council fundrais-er, she'd say "Oh, piffle," and remind me that if you want to get something done, you ask a busy person. I don't regret a single day of my friendship with Mimi, but I do regret not telling her how grateful I was for her mentorship. She taught me so much about how to live in a new town, in what seemed like a new country to me, a suburban New Yorker. In a small place one person can make a difference. And for me, that difference was Mimi. The other day my 80-year-old mother-in-law, Joanne, and I went to a birthday brunch for my friend Nancy, who just turned 53. There were a dozen other women friends gathered around the airy kitchen of one of those "well-appointed" newer homes, as Mimi would have said. We ate and laughed and Nancy opened presents. At one point Nancy got serious, and asked for our attention. "We have known each other for a lot of years, and I am blessed to have such good friends," she began. "We've been through a lot together: marriages, babies, teenagers, divorces, illnesses, deaths. Maybe it's because I'm getting, well, older," she said, laughing and taking off her reading glasses (in truth, she looks fabulous, not a day over 49), "but I really wanted to say how truly grateful I am to have my mom and Joanne here. You are both such a good example of women who have lived life well, and who continue to, even after losing your husbands and going through difficult times. You inspire me, and I think all of us. I didn't want to miss an opportunity to let you know how much you mean to us." (Or something very close; I couldn't take notes on the napkin with everything suddenly so blurry.) So this Thanksgiving, like every Thanksgiving, of course, I will give thanks for all my blessings, which no doubt are the same things you are grateful for—family, friends, food—but I will do so know-ing that the people I love won't be at the table forever. I will be so grateful for who is still here, and with any luck at all, that will give me the courage to be like Nancy, and tell them so.

Heather Lende is a contributing editor to Woman's Day. Her most recent book is Take Good Care of the Garden and the Dogs. She lives in Haines, Alaska.

“You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pan-tomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, play-ing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink.” — G. K. Chesterton

“You simply will not be the same person two months from now after consciously giving thanks each day for the abun-dance that exists in your life. And you will have set in mo-tion an ancient spiritual law: the more you have and are grateful for, the more will be

given you.” — Sarah Ban

A hardcover journal with seasonal quotes to use as a memory

book for holidays. Giving Thanks by M.H. Clark

Thanksgiving is a holiday of the heart. It is a day to celebrate of all the priceless things that we feel and experience together. This year, take a moment to write what you are grateful for something that speaks to your heart. And make this a tradition, year after year. The words you write will become your memories, and these memories will be-come a part of your shared his-tory. This book will serve as a record of all that shapes you and all that brings your family together. Filled with seasonal reflec-tions and questions to ponder, this foil-stamped and embossed guest book comes in a durable slipcover to preserve this keep-sake for years to come.

Available on Amazon.com

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Storytelling Events

Guild Meetings and more on the Back Page!

Contact Andy to list your events here at ahurlbut@cox.net

ODYSSEY STORYTELLING Tucson Thursday, November 2nd 7:00pm - 9:30pm

True stories from members about themselves and their lives, based on the "theme of the month." Check website for current theme: Odysseystorytelling.com ADMISSION: $8

The Screening Room, 127 E. Congress Street, Tucson Contact: Adam Hostetter Stories@Odysseystorytelling.com

The Moth Radio Hour

KJZZ is broadcasting the storytelling program The Moth from 3:00 to 4:00 pm on Saturday afternoons on local Public Radio Station 91.5 FM. Check out their web site at themoth.org/radio.

This is the program that inspired the Arizona Storytellers Project—a live broadcast of true stories.

Page 10

The Chatterbox - Open Mic Every Wednesday 8:00pm - 10:00pm Grand Central Coffee Company 718 N Central Ave. Phoenix 85004

Chatterbox Storytelling Open Mic is a live storytelling event hosted by Jessie Balli and produced by The Storyline Collective where everyone is welcome to share their story. Our mission is to give the community a place to share their truth, to connect with others and find their voice.

$5 All Ages Tickets available at door (Cash or Card) Wednesdays Sign-up 7:30pm Show starts 8 pm ends 10 pm

Check the website link for weekly themes. More Info: http://thestoryline.org/chatterbox

KJZZ (91.5 FM) is offering the TED Radio Hour on

Saturday mornings from 11 a.m. – 12 p.m.

This dynamic show expands upon discussions from the renowned TED Talks, where some of the world’s most profound thinkers and innovators are invited to give the “talk of their lives.”

Arizona Storytellers Project

November Theme: Food and Family

As we prepare for Thanksgiving, we celebrate the best of Arizona’s rich food culture. From tamale masters to artisanal food producers to family farmers and restaurateurs, we share stories about the dishes that inspire us and the families that developed our palates.

Thursday, Nov. 16 6 p.m. check-in; stories 7-9 p.m. The Farm at South Mountain, 6106 S. 32nd St., Phoenix.

$10 general admission, $5 students. 350 tickets available at azcentral.com

Stories of Hospitality: The Good to The Gasping Storytelling Event Hosted by Sean Buvala

November 18th 6:00 to 8:00 pm

A casual, outdoor evening of storytelling about hospitality so good it will make you cry and so bad it’ll make you gasp. Per-sonal tales and folk/fairytales. Variety of tellers

E-mail: seantells@gmail.com

$8 at the door—$5 with student ID. Beverages and art for sale.

Boon Garden Avondale 214 Western Ave., Avondale 85323

BOONgarden is a place of community education, gardening, art and refreshments. It is a place that seeks to be a blessing - a boon - to those in the west valley.

The West Side Storytellers celebrate Tellabration with a week of appearances!

November 11th Concert at Barbara’s Place featuring Sue Harris and Nancy Elliott 5:00 pm potluck, 7:00 pm concert (flier pg 2) 9003 W. Lillian Ln., Tolleson 85353 Donation $10

November 13th The West Side Storytellers appear on the pro-gram at Peoria Library’s Monday Night Melodies. Program starts at 6:30 8463 W. Monroe St., Peoria 85345 Free

November 15th The West Side Storytellers are the featured en-tertainment at the Beaded Lizard Gathering Wednesday night coffeehouse at the Beatitudes beginning at 7:15 1610 W. Glendale Ave., Phoenix 85021 Free

November 16th The West Side Storytellers appear at the Glen-dale Main Library’s coffeehouse in the Auditorium 6:30—7:30 5959 W. Brown, Glendale 85302 Free

Contact westsidestorytellers@yahoo.com for information

More Than Speaking - Half-Day With Sean Buvala Mon, Nov 13, 2017 1:00pm - 4:30pm

You’d rather eat cactus thorns than speak in public? We get you. Come learn what to say and how to say it in an Intensive Half-day Workshop! $97 Contact: Sean Buvala Email: seantells@gmail.com

“What most people need is much more more than speaking skills. Decades of teaching has taught me that. Success and connection come from changing your thinking about public speaking, finding the freedom to move from ‘them’ to ‘us.’ ‘How to’ is only a tiny portion of being a good public speaker.” –Sean Buvala, Founder and Instructor of the “More Than Speaking” public-speaking workshops.

Take Our Workshop and You Will be Able To: Stop “Elevator-Speeching” and Actually Communicate, Grow Your Business (Whatever it is), Speak With Clarity, Make Your Message First, Create Compelling & Profitable Presentations, Skyrocket Your Confidence, Even Communicate Better with Your Family!

More Info: http://seantells.com/morethanspeaking/

If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need. Marcus Tullius Cicero

BoonGarden 214 W Western Ave Avondale 85323

The West Side Storytellers meet on the first Satur-day of the month (except July and August) at 10:00 am at the St. John’s Lutheran Church

7205 N. 51st Ave., Glendale, AZ 85301

Next meeting will be on November 4th.

Our mission statement: West Side Storytellers (WSST) is a storytelling guild dedicated to the developing and advancing the art of storytelling by giving group performances, workshops and other storytelling events for public enjoyment and education.

Contact us: westsidestorytellers@yahoo.com

Newsletter - Contact Andy Hurlbut at ahurlbut@cox.net or call 602.437.0811 with feedback, questions and comments, or with

articles and information for events, etc. Articles or stories are lim-ited to 1000 - 1500 words or less.

The Back Page - more events!

East Valley Tellers of Tales Meet the second Saturday of the month (except July and August)

to hear great stories and celebrate Storytelling Successes. All tellers and listeners are welcome.

Next meeting will be on November 11th.

Meeting is from 10:00 am to noon at the Scottsdale Civic Center Library, 3839 N. Drinkwater Blvd., Scottsdale

(downstairs in the Gold Room)

East Valley Tellers of Tales is a group that provides a safe place to hear and tell stories, to learn about stories and storytelling, and enjoy fellowship with others. We support the personal and professional development of members, preserve and promote storytelling, and provide information about storytelling opportu-nities and events. Info at evtot.com

Tucson Tellers of Tales Guild Meeting

Next meeting will be November 4th.

Tellers of Tales was formed in 1979 to preserve and promote the art of storytelling. If you're looking to tell stories, learn to tell

stories or listen to stories, this is the group for you. Tellers of all skill levels are welcome OR if you just think it might be some-thing you'd like to learn we offer workshops and feedback on

ways to find, develop and present stories.

We meet the first Saturday of every month 9:30 am - 12:00 am (except July and August)

The Unscrewed Theatre 3244 E. Speedway Blvd. Tucson, Arizona 85716

West Side Storytellers Officers President - Mark Compton (Mark.compton@usa.net)

Secretary & Newsletter - Andy Hurlbut (ahurlbut@cox.net) Treasurer - Susan Sander (sksander@cox.net)

Web Guru - Donna Martin (dmartinstoryteller@gmail.com)

November always seemed to me the Norway of the year. Emily Dickenson

Charlie's Thanksgiving Prayer © 2007, Hal Swift

Ol' Charlie Walker is out on the trail when Thanksgivin' Day comes around.

He's got no potatoes or turkey and gravy, and his table is just the hard ground.

He'd gone to the mountains to bring down the cows, and it's takin' more time than he'd thought.

The snowstorm is somethin' he hadn't planned for, so he's glad for what grub that he's brought.

Charlie says, "Well, I can like it, or not, I can offer up thanks any where.

But it's Thanksgiving Day, so I might as well like it. So saying, he started this prayer.

"Dear Lord, I thank you for my darlin' wife, I tell you, you picked quite a looker.

And she's been my helper, and give me her love, no matter the places I've took her.

"We really feel blessed with the sons that you've give us. We've raised them the best that we could.

They're all of 'em grown now, and out on their own. Your blessings on them, if y'would.

"Our grandchildren, too--my goodness, bless them! The world will soon be in their hands.

But I know with your help, they'll all do just fine, whatever the future demands.

"The herd that we've got aint' much this year, but they're healthy as they can be.

I'm thankful for that, and I give thanks too, for the health that you've given to me.

"Oh yeah, the horses! Why without them two, I wouldn't get anythin' done.

With their sense of humor, and all of their tricks, things wouldn't be nearly as fun.

Old Charlie is still thinkin' thoughts of his folks, as he shakes out some feed for 'is friends.

He builds him a shelter of sagebrush and rocks on a hill where a small river bends.

He makes sure the animals all are okay, takes his bedroll then, and lays down.

Ain't long 'till he's dreamin' about his dear wife,

dressed up in her white wedding gown.

Charlie hears the notes of the Wedding March. The snow continues to fall.

His breathing gets slower, and he doesn't move. Now, he hears nothin' at all.

His three sons gather around where he lays, each one of 'em callin' his name.

The youngest, Bucky, says, "Wouldn't you know? Every year it's exactly the same."

The middle one, Dave, says, "I guess it's the food. makes 'im fall asleep in 'is chair.

He's probably dreamin' he's out on the range, on 'is favorite dapple-gray mare."

"I dunno," says Bucky. "Did anyone notice, he was hummin' a song just now?"

Dave says, "He prolly was singin' to sleep his horses, or maybe a cow."

Charlie wakes and stretches and says, "Where's the snow?" Son, Gary, says, "Just in your dreams."

"Why, I guess it was," Charlie says, and grins. "Life ain't, sometimes, how it seems."

"Pumpkin pie is ready!" his wife calls out. Then asks, "Charlie, where have you been?" "Just sayin' thanks for m'blessin's," he says.

"All that's left t'say now is...Amen."

West Side Storytellers Membership Application $10 annual Membership entitles you to receive a monthly e-newsletter

For information contact wesidestorytellers@yahoo.com (please make checks payable to Susan Sander)

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