West Side Storytellers Stories from the Heart of Arizona

December 2016 Volume 24, Issue 12

How Pecos Bill Saved Christmas © 2009, David Althouse

You’ve heard the tales of Pecos Bill, a western hero bold and true— Like his paintin’ deserts, ridin’ twisters, and marryin’ up with Slue-Foot Sue.

Atop Widow Maker, his cantankerous steed, live rattlesnake whip in tow, Pecos swung a mighty wide loop, ‘twas a one-man Wild West show.

So it would’ve come to no surprise to those who knew him best, Pecos once saved Christmas when it was almost cancelled way out west.

Pecos was winterin’ in Colorado at his cabin two miles high, When he stood up to look southwesterly to the Arizona sky.

His eagle eyes could take in country most normal eyes couldn’t see, And he spotted somethin’ white where the Grand Canyon was supposed to be.

The worst winter storm in history had filled the great chasm up with snow, And soon he spotted reindeer antlers stickin’ up from down below.

Well, Pecos knew no such reindeer lived out in Arizona land, So he knew St. Nick was trapped with his sleigh and reindeer band.

Great times call for great men, and such was true upon this night; Christmas hung in the balance, and Pecos aimed to set it right.

Pecos whistled for Widow Maker, and the ornery hoss was there post haste, And they took off like a lightening bolt with little time to waste.

In just a couple of minutes they were at the canyon rim; Pecos looks at Widow Maker and then he says to him,

“I’m gonna gargle some nitroglycerin mixed with habañeros don’t you know, And I’m gonna blow it through the canyon and melt down all that snow!”

Now, Pecos was a known spitter, and could prove it with his deeds, Having practiced with tobacco juice and watermelon seeds.

He chews on the habañeros and swishes the nitroglycerin all around, Plants his feet, pulls in some air, and then—he unwound!

This fireball of a concoction blast through the canyon—end-to-end— Allowin’ the Christmas sleigh to elevate and fly off in the wind.

Now if you doubt this story, and think it doesn’t make much sense, Next time you’re at the canyon just look at the evidence.

Great fire-burnt canyon rocks were left behind from Bill’s fiery spray, Which is why they’re reddish orange even to this day.

Every Christmas my Grandmother would bake a dizzying array of cookies and create a gift box for us with all the different kinds of cookies in it. She lived in Nebraska and we lived in Arizona, so these boxes were always highly anticipated. When they came, my mother would dole out the cookies so that eventually we each got a taste of all of them. We had our favorites of course, and I still have her recipes for the chocolate thumbprint cookies, snickerdoodles and sugar cookies. Some-how though, her cookies had that special some-thing in them that made them taste better. I guess it was love . . . It’s funny how when someone else makes something for you, it really does seem better than when you make it yourself. That something can be food or a simple cup of coffee. A couple of years ago we made a long journey across the coun-try, stopping at various homes of family and friends along the way. One of the more memora-ble places we stopped was our friends’ cabin on a small lake in Minnesota. One evening it was chilly and our friend made us popcorn. Not in the microwave, but in an air-popper! It tasted so good, and was a comforting snack. We drank wine with it because for sure popcorn goes better with wine. It made me remember times when my mother made us popcorn for an after-school snack, and we ate popcorn and apples in the golden after-noon while we did our homework. Christmas is a time of gathering together and much of the time is spent sharing food. Food seems to have wound its way around the stories in this month’s newsletter too, and there are recipes with many of the stories. There are many treasures in this issue of the West Side Storytellers news. From a wild story of Pecos Bill to an account of the ghost town of Santa Claus, Arizona, and from the stories of Christmas on ranches to kids’ stories about Christ-mas, it is lots of fun. As the weather cools and the cats seek out the sunny places to curl up for their naps, I find my-self bringing out my knitting project more often and settling into my comfy chair with a warm cup of tea at my elbow. I hope you find quiet time and peaceful days to enjoy, and I wish you all the best of the season and for the new year. Andy

One of the ways in which cats show happiness is by sleeping.

Cleveland Amory, The Cat Who Came for Christmas

The first stories of Pecos Bill were published in 1917 by Edward O'Reilly for The Century Magazine, and collected and reprinted in 1923 in the book The Saga Of Pecos Bill. O'Reilly said they were part of an oral tradition of tales told by cowboys during the westward expansion and settlement of the southwest including Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. But American folklorist Richard M. Dorson found that O'Reilly invented the stories as "folklore," and that later writ-ers either borrowed tales from O'Reilly or added further adventures of their own. One of the best-known versions of the Pecos Bill stories is by James Cloyd Bowmanin Pecos Bill: The Greatest Cowboy of All Time (1937), which won the Newbery Honor in 1938 and was republished in 2007. Pecos Bill: The Greatest Cowboy of All Time is a children's novel by James Cloyd Bowman about the American folk hero Pecos Bill. Raised by coyotes, the hero has various supernatural powers, including the ability to talk to animals, and becomes a spectacularly successful cowboy. The novel, illustrated by Laura Bannon, was first published in 1937 and won the Newbery in 1938.

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Out and About by Mark Compton Scarves, hats, jackets, heavy coats - items only recently removed from the closet. And it’s about time. But late October, while there was still a warm breeze in the night air, Ari-zona Republic and the uber-charming Megan Finnerty and Daniel Gonzalez co-hosted an

evening of storytelling at the Desert Botanical Garden. The theme was ‘Immigration & Identity.’ The tellers were varied, and many had an emotional punch that was felt long after we left. Alexus Rhone, who helps bring these evenings together, sug-gested several weeks ago I bring my ESL (English as a Second Language) class knowing it would be especially interesting to them. It was, and I have to thank Alexus in making that all hap-pen. Joyce Story, a friend, former neighbor and storytelling com-panion, flew into Phoenix in early November. On her first day in town we went down to the Storytelling Institute at South Moun-tain Community College for an evening called Stew & Fry - in recognition of Native American History month (traditional stew and fry bread was served). The evening was emceed by Kyle Mitchell and the place was packed! Kyle told us a moving story about his time in the service. He was followed by a terrific story-teller, Tim Terry, who kept us all engaged with an amusing 45 minute story about dog’s tails. He could have made it 3 hours long, I don’t think we would have minded, he was so good. Later that weekend we made it on over to the Valley Vista Performing Arts center in Surprise to see Bar-D Wranglers, a real deal group of cowboy musicians from Durango, Colorado. An amusing, talented group of guys, and I wasn’t too surprised to run into Lon & Andy in the lobby. The highlight of the storytelling season was West Side Story Tellers putting together a Tellabration event at Glendale Public Library, who sponsored it with a grant. Tellers from all over the valley came and told for 3 hours - Mark Goldman, Sean Buvala, Doug Bland, Loren Russell, Dorothy Daniels Anderson, Dr. Jay Cravath, Joyce Story, Sandy Oglesby and Elly Reidy. Besides the featured tellers, there was an open mic in the lobby, and a kid’s area with crafts & stories. A great time was had by all. This is the 2nd time West Side Story Tellers and Glendale Library have collaborated on a Tellabration, hopefully they can make it a 3rd annual in 2017. On the 17th there was another Arizona Republic Storytelling, this time at The Farm At South Mountain. What a charming venue. It really is a large plot of land which utilizes a farm to dining table philosophy, houses several restaurants and shops. Cooking classes take place, all kinds of things happen, and story-telling on this particular night. I was thrilled, not only to have my friend Marilyn Szabo along for the ride, but we were able to wear our coats, hats and scarves! Megan kept reminding the audience how chilly it was, as if we couldn’t tell, but personally I was lov-ing it. Bring on the cold. The evening’s theme was Food & Fam-ily and there were many fine tellers, I really did laugh and cry. One was so sad. In case you didn’t know, Mark Goldman is heading a ‘storytelling tour’ for a 10 day trip to the British Isles in May. Last Tuesday he mentioned the air fares to Dublin are an aston-ishingly low $375 round trip, which makes his tour really afford-able. I bought a ticket and plan to join Mark this May. Who knows how long these will be this cheap. As my father use to say ‘Snooze and you lose.’

Santa Claus, Arizona: A Brief History December 21, 2015 from the Arizona Highways

Santa Claus is mostly a December phenomenon, but for decades, you could meet Santa all year long — at Santa Claus, Arizona, a tiny town near Kingman in the northwest corner of the state. Here, now, is an abbreviated history of the site, sourced from several reputable online sources.

How did Santa Claus end up in Arizona? In the early 1930s, real-estate agent Ninon Talbott and her hus-band moved to Kingman from California. They founded Santa Claus in 1937. The idea was to attract land buyers to the area. That didn't happen — by all accounts, nobody ever bought land in the town, and the Talbotts sold it in the late 1940s. But Santa Claus became a tourist destination anyway.

Why did people go there? For starters, there was a post office, which meant every Decem-ber, visitors could send their kids’ letters postmarked from Santa Claus. There also was the Santa Claus Inn (later known as the Christmas Tree Inn), a restaurant described as one of the finest in the region. And, of course, visiting kids could meet Santa every day of the year. The town's proximity to Historic Route 66 helped keep it alive.

Did anyone famous ever visit? Duncan Hines, who knew a thing or two about good food, was a fan of the restaurant. Robert Heinlein, the author of Starship Troopers and other science-fiction novels, wrote a short story about being served a gourmet meal by Mrs. Claus. And Jane Russell, actress and muse of Howard Hughes, reportedly threw a party there in 1954.

What happened to the town? By the 1970s, business was dwindling and the town was falling into disrepair. In the late 1980s, a visiting writer de-scribed padlocked, dilapidated buildings and a run-down gift shop. The last of Santa Claus' businesses closed in 1995.

What's it like today? It's slowly fading into the desert along U.S. Route 93, it seems. As recently as February of this year (2015), the property was still being offered for sale, but as you can see in the image below, there's not much left of Santa Claus, Arizona. Fortunately, there's a place in Indiana for those seeking that coveted Santa Claus postmark.

Images of Santa Claus, Arizona. Above, the whole town. Left, close-up of the last building on the right.

The Storyteller’s Kitchen

December 2016

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Classic Sugar Cookies from Betty Crocker

1 ½ cups powdered sugar 1 cup butter or margarine, softened 1 teaspoon vanilla ½ teaspoon almond extract 1 egg 2 ½ cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon cream of tartar Granulated sugar or colored sugar

Mix powdered sugar, butter, vanilla, almond extract and egg in large bowl. Stir in remaining ingredients except granulated sugar. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours.

Heat oven to 375ºF. Lightly grease cookie sheet.

Divide dough in half. Roll each half 1/4 inch thick on lightly floured surface. Cut into desired shapes with 2- to 2 1/2-inch cookie cutters. Sprinkle with granulated sugar. Place on cookie sheet.

Bake 7 to 8 minutes or until edges are light brown. Remove from cookie sheet. Cool on wire rack. Frost as desired.

Snickerdoodles from Betty Crocker

1 ½ cups sugar ½ cup butter or margarine, softened ½ cup shortening 2 eggs 2 ¾ cups all-purpose or unbleached flour 2 teaspoons cream of tartar 1 teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ cup sugar 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

Heat oven to 400ºF.

Mix 1 1/2 cups sugar, the butter, shortening and eggs in large bowl. Stir in flour, cream of tartar, baking soda and salt.

Shape dough into 1 1/4-inch balls. Mix 1/4 cup sugar and the cinnamon. Roll balls in cinnamon-sugar mixture. Place 2 inches apart on ungreased cookie sheet.

Bake 8 to 10 minutes or until set. Remove from cookie sheet to wire rack.

The Medieval History of the Christmas Cookie By Stephanie Butler for Hungry History (of the History Channel)

It’s the most wonderful time of the year, when cooks around the country take to their kitchens to bake cookies galore. Whether you prefer gingerbread men, crisp springerle or crunchy biscotti, chances are you’ll enjoy some fresh baked Christmas cookies this holiday season. Like many Christmas traditions, the origin of this delicious custom lies ages ago, in solstice rituals conducted long before Christmas became the huge commercial holiday it is today. Winter solstice festivals have been held for eons, across the world. From Norway to West Africa, Ireland to India, groups of people gathered to celebrate the changing of the seasons. Cele-brations revolved around food; after all, you had to feast before the famine of the winter. Solstice often meant the arrival of the first frost, so animals could be killed and kept safely to eat through the winter, and fermented beverages like beer and wine that had been brewed in the spring were finally ready to drink. As any modern host knows, a hearty roast and a stiff drink need just one thing to complete the party: dessert. By the Middle Ages, the Christmas holiday had overtaken solstice rituals throughout much of present-day Europe. How-ever, the old feast traditions remained. And while the roast and drink recipes were probably quite similar to what earlier Europe-ans had enjoyed, the pastry world was experiencing some amaz-ing changes. Spices like nutmeg, cinnamon and black pepper were just starting to be widely used, and dried exotic fruits like citron, apricots and dates added sweetness and texture to the des-sert tray. These items, along with ingredients like sugar, lard and butter, would have been prized as expensive delicacies by medieval cooks. Only on the most important holiday could fami-lies afford treats like these, which led to a baking bonanza to prepare for Christmas. And unlike pies or cakes, cookies could be easily shared and given to friends and neighbors. Our modern Christmas cookies date back to these medieval gifts. Though cookies have come a long way since medieval times, some things haven’t changed. Many Christmas cookies are still heavily spiced. We think of “traditional” Christmas flavors like cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger, and those are exactly the same spices medieval cooks would have used in their cookies ages ago. Gingerbread is a classic Christmas cookie, and yet it’s also a cookie that would have tasted strikingly similar back in the Mid-dle Ages. Ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg and mace combine to make a snappy, spicy taste, just like they would have back then. And gingerbread uses molasses as a sweetener, something that medie-val cooks would appreciate as refined sugar was so expensive. These cooks would not have made gingerbread men, how-ever. The first person to try that was none other than Queen Elizabeth I of England, who had the cookie molded into the shapes of her favorite courtiers. The earliest examples of Christmas cookies in the United States were brought by the Dutch in the early 17th century. Due to a wide range of cheap imported products from Germany be-tween 1871 and 1906 following a change to importation laws, cookie cutters became available in American markets. These imported cookies cutters often depicted highly stylized images with subjects designed to hang on Christmas trees. Due to the availability of these utensils, recipes began to appear in cook-books designed to use them.

Simple Mocha Recipe

1 cup of brewed coffee 2 tablespoons of your favorite chocolate bar shavings or cocoa powder 1 tablespoon cream or milk

Directions: Brew 8 oz. of coffee with your regular brew method. Soften your chocolate shavings using a double broiler or micro-wave. If melting in a microwave, heat chocolate in 30 second intervals until creamy. Mix chocolate with your freshly brewed coffee then add cream or milk.

Barista’s note: Use fresh coffee and quality chocolate. For an experi-ment, add chocolate or cocoa powder to freshly ground coffee in its filter for a more infused chocolate taste.

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I n the Dutch colonial town later known as Al-bany, New York, there lived a baker, Van Am-

sterdam, who was as honest as he could be. Each morning, he checked and balanced his scales, and he took great care to give his customers exactly what they paid for—not more and not less. Van Amsterdam’s shop was always busy, be-cause people trusted him, and because he was a good baker as well. And never was the shop busier than in the days before De-cember 6, when the Dutch celebrate Saint Nicholas Day. At that time of year, people flocked to the baker’s shop to buy his fine Saint Nicholas cookies. Made of gingerbread, iced in red and white, they looked just like Saint Nicholas as the Dutch know him—tall and thin, with a high, red bishop’s cap, and a long, red bishop’s cloak. One Saint Nicholas Day morning, the baker was just ready for business, when the door of his shop flew open. In walked an old woman, wrapped in a long black shawl. “I have come for a dozen of your Saint Nicholas cookies.” Taking a tray, Van Amsterdam counted out twelve cookies. He started to wrap them, but the woman reached out and stopped him. “I asked for a dozen. You have given me only twelve.” “Madam,” said the baker, “everyone knows that a dozen is twelve.” “But I say a dozen is thirteen,” said the woman. “Give me one more.” Van Amsterdam was not a man to bear foolishness. “Madam, my customers get exactly what they pay for—not more and not less.” “Then you may keep the cookies.” The woman turned to go, but stopped at the door. “Van Amsterdam! However honest you may be, your heart is small and your fist is tight. Fall again, mount again, learn how to count again!” Then she was gone. From that day, everything went wrong in Van Amsterdam’s bakery. His bread rose too high or not at all. His pies were sour or too sweet. His cakes crumbled or were chewy. His cookies were burnt or doughy. His customers soon noticed the difference. Before long, most of them were going to other bakers. “That old woman has bewitched me,” said the baker to him-self. “Is this how my honesty is rewarded?” A year passed. The baker grew poorer and poorer. Since he sold little, he baked little, and his shelves were nearly bare. His last few customers slipped away.

Finally, on the day before Saint Nicholas Day, not one customer came to Van Amsterdam’s shop. At day’s end, the baker sat alone, staring at his unsold Saint Nicholas cookies. “I wish Saint Nicholas could help me now,” he said. Then he closed his shop and went sadly to bed. That night, the baker had a dream. He was a boy

again, one in a crowd of happy children. And there in the midst of them was Saint Nicholas himself. The bishop’s white horse stood beside him, its baskets filled with gifts. Nicholas pulled out one gift after another, and handed them to the children. But Van Amsterdam noticed something strange. No matter how many presents Nicholas passed out, there were always more to give. In fact, the more he took from the baskets, the more they seemed to hold. Then Nicholas handed a gift to Van Amsterdam. It was one of the baker’s own Saint Nicholas cookies! Van Amsterdam looked up to thank him, but it was no longer Saint Nicholas standing there. Smil-ing down at him was the old woman with the long black shawl. Van Amsterdam awoke with a start. Moonlight shone through the half-closed shutters as he lay there, thinking. “I always give my customers exactly what they pay for,” he said, “not more and not less. But why not give more?” The next morning, Saint Nicholas Day, the baker rose early. He mixed his gingerbread dough and rolled it out. He molded the shapes and baked them. He iced them in red and white to look just like Saint Nicholas. And the cookies were as fine as any he had made. Van Amsterdam had just finished, when the door flew open. In walked the old woman with the long black shawl. “I have come for a dozen of your Saint Nicholas cookies.” In great excitement, Van Amsterdam counted out twelve cookies—and one more. “In this shop,” he said, “from now on, a dozen is thirteen.” “You have learned to count well,” said the woman. “You will surely be rewarded.” She paid for the cookies and started out. But as the door swung shut, the baker’s eyes seemed to play a trick on him. He thought he glimpsed the tail end of a long red cloak. As the old woman foretold, Van Amsterdam was rewarded. When people heard he counted thirteen as a dozen, he had more customers than ever. In fact, Van Amsterdam grew so wealthy that the other bakers in town began doing the same. From there, the practice spread to other towns, and at last through all the American colonies. And this, they say, is how thirteen became the “baker’s dozen”—a custom common for over a century, and alive in some places to this day. (Recipe for these cookies below)

The Baker’s Dozen - A Saint Nicholas Tale (as told by Aaron Shepard)

Speculaas Koekjes (Dutch Spice Cookies)

Thirteen-year-old Lisa Jaarsma of Pella, Iowa, won a blue ribbon for these cookies at the Marion County and Iowa State Fairs and the special Meredith Award. The recipe is adapted from one used by the first settlers of Pella. Lisa's father Ralph owns Pella's Jaarsma Bakery which features many traditional Dutch pastries. These cookies are usually formed in wooden cookie board molds, traditionally in the shape of St. Nicholas, they're often called "St. Nick" cookies.

2 cups brown sugar 1 ½ cups butter 3 ½–4+ cups flour 1 egg, beaten 1 tsp salt, scant 1 teaspoon baking powder

Cream butter and sugar. Add remaining ingredients and mix, adding enough flour to form a very stiff dough. Press well-chilled dough into cookie boards (flour mold well, press dough in with fingers, level it off, then turn the board over and bang one end on the counter so the cookie drops out).* Place on cookie sheet and bake at 350º F. for 10 to 12 minutes. Store in sealed container to retain crispness.

*To use with Rycraft Cookie Stamp: wipe stamp lightly with oil to help pre-vent sticking. Form dough into 1-inch balls, (roll in granulated sugar), place on ungreased cookie sheet, and stamp immediately. If design disappears, add more flour to dough. If dough begins to stick, brush particles from stamp and treat again with oil.

*Or shape into cylinder of desired size and chill thoroughly in covered con-tainer. Slice and bake as above. Makes six dozen this way.

1 teaspoon cinnamon ¾ teaspoon cloves ½ teaspoon nutmeg ½ teaspoon allspice ½ teaspoon ginger

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Snowed In by Marla Guest Smith

A lot of people in Arizona will remember vividly the Christmas season of 1967. It will stand out as one of those times when we all began to won-der just what it was that made us crazy enough to be in the cow business in the first place. It all began when the snow started falling ‘long about mid December and continued to accumulate at an alarming rate. For those who were living in town at the time, about all we had to worry over was our roof caving in, trying to get our car out of the drive, and when you would be able to get to the stores. It was interesting to see just what kind of creative effect it was going to take to make a nutritional meal out of a box of cake mix and a bottle of A1 steak sauce, since that was all that was left in the cupboard. (Town folks aren’t known for keeping lots of staples on hand such as flour, beans and canned milk.) Along about that time, I was beginning to worry about my folks and their cows. They were on the Triangle M Ranch out of Mayer. Thankfully we had a friend in Mayer who ran the county road-grader and he plowed their road which made it possible for them to get to a phone and call for feed assistance for their cattle, and to let us know they were alive and ok. By the time our family had gathered at the ranch for the Christmas holiday, there was a delivery of the hay needed to feed our cattle. What a beautiful sight to behold as we watched the plane make several passes up and down the flat scattering tons of hay to the cattle snowed into that pasture. As it made the last pass, our shouts of joy and thanks were suddenly silenced as the very last bale tumbled from the plane and smashed into the power pole, shattering it into a jillion pieces. Needless to say, we spent our holiday dining on ranch-raised beef from the freezer instead of turkey from the grocery store, and ate by the light of a kerosene lamp. Yet, our hearts were filled with thanks and joy that we were all together and healthy.

These stories are from It’s a Cowboy Christmas by Sally Harper Bates, a compilation of recipes, stories, and poems about Christ-mas on ranches in the southwest. It is rare to find stories about Arizona at Christmas, but there are a few of these little gems found in the pages of this book. The following appears as a dedication in the front of the book:

“Christmas was a celebration of what we already had been given, not anticipation of what we would get.” Shawn Cameron

Santa Visits Paulden, Arizona by Dorothy Maxwell

Monk Maxwell was just a ‘button’ when his Dad, Virgil, ordered his first saddle from a well known saddle maker whose shop was located in Prescott. As the saddle progressed, it was placed in the window for passers-by to admire. Just before Christmas, Virgil took the taps off a saddle at the ranch and sent them to be mounted on the saddle. Monk had walked by that store window and admired the sad-dle several times. When he saw the familiar taps hanging on the saddle, his little mind began to cogitate, and he was questioning the existence of a Santa Claus pretty seriously. When he asked his Dad about the old elf’s reality, Virgil smiled and said “It’s all in what you believe.” That was ok for a while, but the puzzling question still found its way through the mind of a little boy. Virgil and Dorothy frequently spent a portion of Christmas time with family nearby, so their own gift giving and opening took place on Christmas Eve. Monk was probably never so thrilled as that Christmas when his first saddle was under the tree. It would be hard to find words to express the delight of a boy whose only dream was to be a cowboy like his Dad. How-ever questions still raged in his mind about the existence of the old elf and his methods of delivery. Christmas morning, bright and early, they climbed into the pickup and headed for the home of family nearby to spend the day. As they were driving through Paulden, just at the break of day, Monk began to jump up and down on the seat of the pickup screaming, “There he is Dad, there he is.” When Virgil realized what Monk had seen he slammed on the brakes nearly sending Monk and Dorothy though the windshield. In his soft drawl, Virgil replied, “Dam’d if it isn’t.” There, next to the public telephone at the end of a building, stood Santa Claus in all his glory! Red suit, hat , cowboy boots and all. Over his back was tossed a bag that was filled with what appeared to be boxes and gifts. To this day, no one knows for Sure who it was, where he came from, or what he was doing in Paulden at that hour of the day. It has remained a mystery that is better left unsolved.

High Desert Potato and Bacon Soup Serves 6

3 large potatoes, peeled and cubed 1 medium onion, peeled and cubed 1 quart water Salt and pepper to taste 5 strips of bacon 1½ cups bread crumbs from stale bread ½ cup cream (evaporated milk will do)

Cook the potatoes and onion in water until soft. “Mash” them a little bit to release more flavor, but do not drain. Add salt and pepper to taste. Cut the bacon into small pieces and fry until crisp and brown. Remove the bacon from the fat to drain. Add the bread crumbs to the fat and stir and toast until brown. Add the cooked bacon ad browned bread crumbs to the potato and onion soup and reheat, adding more seasonings if you wish.

This recipe is from The Cowgirl’s Cookbook, by Jill Charlotte Standford

Many women out on the plains and deserts had to “make do” with what was at hand and come up with satisfying meals. All the in-gredients in this soup are “to hand” and it is very satisfying! This recipe comes from a shepherd’s daughter who spent the first six years of her life in a covered wagon following a vast herd of sheep over the hills of the High Desert of Central Oregon.

Christmas is the keeping-place for memories of our innocence. Joan Mills

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Christmas Stew by Scott Westlake From It’s a Cowboy Christmas by Sally Harper Bates

T’was the night before Christmas and all through the camp, not a creature was stirring c’ept John the camp cook. He was buildin’ a pot of stew for the boys’ Christmas Eve dinner. Between stir-rin’ the pot and add’n a little of this and a lot of that, he was reading a few words from the Good Book. He’d been readin’ the part where the virgin Mary gave birth to a little child in a man-ger, out in the cold where nobody cared about them, and he felt a little like that right about now his’self. The boys came in from feedin’ the horses and settled in with their boots kicked off, playin’ a game of cards. The smell was pretty rank, but none of them paid no mind ‘cuz that’s just what it smells like in a a cow-camp most of the time. John, better known as Coosie, lit the coal oil lamp and set it on the table for the boys as the sun set and the room grew dim. He didn’t want mo mis-read cards bein’ mistaken for cheatin’. It was a little dark over in the kitchen corner of the bunkhouse, but he’d made stew so many times he didn’t need to see what he was doin’ just as long as he could find the pot and the spoon. He reached into the cupboard and grabbed a couple of cans of vegetables off the shelf and pried ‘em open with an old dilapi-dated can opener. He poured the contents into the pot and stirred for a minute then poked another stick of wood in the burner. He set the utensils on the counter beside the stew pot, threw some paper napkins on the table around the card players, checked to be sure there was salt and pepper, some sugar for the coffee, and about that time the stew was good and hot. He threw a plate of fresh hot biscuits on the table and said “You boys come and get the stew ’fore I decide it ain’t fit to eat.” Then he set himself down at the end of the table, figurin’ to take his meal with the crew on that special night. They boys served themselves up a helping of stew, pulled a biscuit from the bowl and began shov-elin’ their evening meal into hungry stomachs. It didn’t take but about two bites before everybody in the room stopped eating and looked at John like he’d lost his mind. He’d stopped short of his own second bite and was looking into the spoon with a puzzled expression when Jeffry grinned and said “I never see’d stew made with fruit cocktail afore.” John glanced at the can in the trash beside the stove and sure enough, it was glaring back at him with blazing letters that read “Del Monte Fruit Cocktail.” “Don’t be makin’ a big deal out’a this” he said. “I just didn’t want you boys to have wash up an extra bowl after supper, so I put the whole meal in one pot. You got your dessert already . . . Merry Christmas.” Too hungry to argue, nothing else in sight to eat, they fin-ished the stew.

. . Freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin—inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintery night . . . John Geddes, A Familiar Rain

The perfect thing for Holiday mornings. Using Dulce de Leche is just the thing for us here in Arizona.

Dulce de Leche coffee drink courtesy of Ree Drummond, the Pioneer Woman

The brewed coffee is sweetened with Dulce de Leche, a product sold in the Hispanic aisle of supermarkets in either solid blocks or more of a liquid form resembling sweet-ened, condensed milk. Then the coffee mix-ture is combined with Kahlua and topped

with sweet whipped cream—and then a sprinkling of chocolate!

4 cups Strongly Brewed Good Coffee 6 ounces, Dulce De Leche (*see Note below) 6 Tablespoons Kahlua, More If Preferred 1 cup Heavy Cream 2 Tablespoons Sugar

6 Tablespoons Chocolate, Grated

Add Dulce de Leche (either solid or liquid form) to the very hot coffee in a kettle or pot; stir until completely dissolved and combined. (If using solid Dulce, cut into pieces for easier melt-ing.) Keep coffee hot. Add 1 to 1½ tablespoons Kahlua to each coffee cup. (You may add whiskey or brandy as well, if desired) Pour the coffee/dulce de leche mixture into each glass. Top with a heaping tablespoon whipped cream and grated chocolate of your choice.

Absolutely sinful!

*Dulce de Leche is sold in the Hispanic aisle of supermarkets, or in Hispanic specialty mar-kets. It is sold in solid 15 ounce blocks, or in cans or bottles in more of a liquid form. You can also find recipes for making your own Dulce de Leche using sweetened condensed milk.

} These two items are used to make whipped cream. You could use Reddi-Wip instead!

Christmas Out Here © 2007, David Althouse

Christmas Eve out here is, to me, complete, Not many green Christmas trees, but lots o’ mesquite;

No, not many reindeer choose this as home, But mulies and antelope stay here to roam;

There ain’t twinklin’ lights like fill cities at night, Just a billion stars that shine down bright;

I won’t hear carolers singin’ in a park, Just the yappin’ o’ coyotes fillin’ up the dark;

There’ll be no crowded malls to give me holiday cheer, I’ve got great crowds o’ doggies that need me right here;

And I probably won’t see the fallin’ o’ snow, But that was probably true o’ Bethlehem a long time ago.

“Santa is like a queen bee. All the elves are his drones, who exist to feed him royal jelly, which I guess would be milk and cookies. If an elf escapes and eats royal cookies, it will turn into another Santa. That’s what all those mall Santas are. They’re trying to start their own festive colonies.” Thomm Quackenbush, Flies to Wanton Boys

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The Ill-tempered Snowman

It was dawn on an icy-cold Christmas morning. The sun was emerging from over the horizon and standing on the top of a hill was the snowman. He had been there for about three weeks and was looking the worse for wear. There was a stick underneath his arm. If he had originally had a hat and scarf, it had long since been stolen. One of the stones that had been his eyes had fallen off, so he only had one eye. The carrot that was placed in the middle of his face to repre-sent his nose was now rotten and had become black and shriv-eled, and the small stick that was his mouth had slipped down slightly at one end, so that his mouth was crooked – he was not a pretty sight! And he was cold! Oh was he cold! The wind at the top of the hill was relentless and he had almost become solid ice! He gazed straight forward with his one eye and watched as the sun rose a little higher in the sky. “That looks as though it might be warm”, he thought to himself. The large red golden ball did indeed look as though it might be warm. “I think I’ll just go a little nearer and see if it is!” He carefully picked up one foot and shook away the loose snow. Then he did the same with the other and clumsily began to walk down the hill, clump, clump, clumpety clump, clumpety, clumpety clump. As he made his way down the hill, the snowman noticed an old woman gathering sticks for her fire. She was wearing a big red woolen shawl. “Ooh! That looks warm,” he thought. He went over to the old lady and said, “Give me that shawl!” “I will not!” replied the old lady. “I made this for myself many years ago to keep me warm on a cold day like today!” “Cold?… Cold? You don’t know the meaning of the word!” said the snowman. “Do YOU have a pillar of solid ice running down the centre of YOUR body?” “No, I haven’t” said the old lady. “Well I DO!” responded the snowman, nastily. “So give me that shawl, or I’ll hit you on the head with my stick!” Well the old lady didn’t want to be hit on the head, so reluc-tantly, she handed the shawl to the snowman. And without so much as a ”Please may I?” or even the hint of a “Thank you very much!” the snowman took the shawl and wrapped it tightly around his shoulders. With that, he set off once again down the hill, Clump, clump, clumpety clump, clumpety, clumpety, clump. Followed (at a safe distance!) by the old lady. A little further down the hill, the snowman came upon a young boy who was making snowballs and throwing them at a tree. The snowman noticed that the boy was wearing a pair of bright red woolen gloves. “Ooh! They look warm!” thought the snowman. “Give me those gloves!” he demanded. “I will not!” the boy replied, “My mother knitted them for me. They keep my hands warm on a cold day!” “Cold?…Cold? What do you know about cold? Bellowed the snowman. Are YOU covered with snow from head to foot?” “No”, said the boy “I’m not.” “Well I AM! The snowman shouted back. “And if you don’t give me your gloves right now, I’ll hit you on the head with my stick!” Well the boy didn’t want to be hit on the head so he reluc-tantly took off his gloves and handed them to the snowman. And without so much as a “Please may I?” or even the hint of a “Thank you very much!” the snowman took the gloves and put them on his hands. He drew the old lady’s shawl more tightly around his shoulders and set off again down the hill, with a clump, clump, clumpety clump, clumpety, clumpety clump! Fol-lowed (at a safe distance!) by the old lady and the young boy.

When he got nearer the foot of the hill, he noticed an

old farmer sitting on a bench, tying up his bootlace. The farmer was wearing a bright red woolly hat. “Ooh! That looks warm,” thought the snowman, when he saw the woolly hat. “Give me that woolly

hat!” he demanded of the farmer. “I will not!” answered the farmer. “My wife knitted it for me to keep my head warm on a cold day!” “Cold? ….Cold? What do YOU know about cold?” the snowman angrily replied. Do icicles drip from the end of YOUR nose?” “No” said the farmer, “They don’t.” “Well they DO from mine!” said the snowman, “And if you don’t give me your hat, I will hit you on the head with my stick!” Well the farmer didn’t want to be hit on the head and so he also handed over his warm, woolly hat. And without so much as a “Please may I?” or even the hint of a “Thank you very much!” the snowman pulled the hat down over where his ears would have been (if he’d had any!), pulled his gloves further onto his hands, wrapped the shawl even tighter around his shoulders and contin-ued to the bottom of the hill, with a clump, clump, clumpety clump, clumpety, clumpety clump! Followed (at a safe distance!) by the old lady, the young boy and the old farmer. When he arrived at the foot of the hill, the snowman saw a village. At the edge of the village was the schoolhouse and stand-ing in the doorway of the schoolhouse was the schoolmaster – wearing a pair of bright red velvet slippers! “Ooh! They look warm!” thought the snowman. He clumped up to the schoolmaster and rudely demanded, “Give me those slippers!” “Certainly!” replied the schoolmaster, “But if take them off here I’ll get my feet wet. Why don’t you come inside where it’s warm?” The snowman went into the schoolhouse and the schoolmaster led him into his living quarters. There was a big fire burning in the grate. “Now then,” said the schoolmaster, pull-ing a chair towards the fire, “Why don’t you sit here and warm your feet while I go and take my slippers off.” The snowman sat in the chair and the schoolmaster pushed him even closer to the fire and left the room. By this time, the old lady, the young boy and the old farmer had arrived outside the schoolhouse and were peering in through the window. The schoolmaster returned and said to the snowman, “I’ll give you my slippers shortly but I was just about to make some hot soup, I’ll bring you some,” He pushed the chair even closer to the fire and then noticed the old lady and her companions looking in though the window. “Come in” he said to them, you look colder than the snowman, would you like some soup?” The three came in. They looked over towards the fireplace. All they could see was a chair and on the floor beneath the chair, a very wet shawl, a wet pair of gloves and a wet woolly hat, all floating in a great pool of water! The schoolmaster picked up the wet clothing, wrung out the water and placed the items on a clothes-horse. “There,” he said, “We’ll hang them here to dry.” He picked up a mop and mopped up the water that had been the snowman. There was also a small, black stone and a piece of stick, which he threw on to the fire. The larger stick he used to poke the fire. “That’s the snowman sorted,” said the schoolmaster. “Serves him right! Now, who’s for soup?”

Adapted from 'The Snow-Man' by Mabel Marlowe (Oxford Book of Christmas Stories -1986)

Once there was an old woman who made mittens from good wool yarn. She made fine warm mittens. Right into the mittens she could knit a boy on a sled, a girl on skates, two yellow ducks, or anything else you could name. All the mothers and fathers for miles around ordered mittens for their children

from Granny Glittens. The needles would flash and knit yarn pictures in the old lady’s kitchen from morning till night. Granny Glittens made mittens because she liked to make mit-tens. And she made mittens to sell. Those mittens paid for the coal to keep Granny’s little house warm. They paid for the egg for Granny’s breakfast. They paid for the milk for Granny’s black cat. Now, of course, Granny Glittens was very busy just before Christmas. Every child wanted a new pair of Granny’s mittens for Christmas. Then the needles flashed in the morning and in the evening and in the middle of the day. But just before Christmas, everything went wrong. Oh, Granny Gittens had orders and orders for mittens. She had so many orders that she kept saying to herself, “Perhaps I can buy a fine new stove for my kitchen.” Yes, the orders came in. It was the yarn that was wrong. Granny Glittens had to send to the city for yarn. She or-dered red yarn and brown yarn, and green yarn and yellow yarn and black yarn. But the store sent white yarn – balls and balls of white yarn. Nothing but white yarn! With the yarn came a letter:

Dear Granny Glittens: We do not have red yarn or brown yarn or green yarn or yellow yarn or black yarn. All we have is white yarn. We have asked the other stores. They do not have red yarn or brown yarn or green yarn or yellow yarn or black yarn. Al they have is white yarn. So we are sending you white yarn. We are sorry.

THE STORE

“Oh, oh, oh!” said Granny Glittens. “Nobody wants white mittens. What shall I do?” The black cat came into the kitchen. Granny said to him, “I must think. Oh, I must think.” So she thought and thought and thought. Supper time came. Granny was still thinking. At last the

black cat began to cry for milk. “Poor cat!” she said. “It is dark. You are hungry, and so am I. I will think some more later. She poured some milk for the cat. Then she opened her cup-board to see what she could find for herself. Red peppermints, green wintergreen, brown chocolate, black licorice, and yellow lemon drops! They were the colors she needed for her mittens. “Do you think –“ she asked the cat. “Well, the only way to find out is to find out.” She got out five pans from the cupboard. And she put them all on the stove. Then she put the peppermints in one, the winter-green in another, the chocolate in the third, the licorice in the next, and the lemon drops in the last. Granny Glittens stirred the five pans very carefully with five spoons. Then she put a ball of white yarn into the peppermints. The

yarn turned a beautiful red! She put a ball of yarn in each pan and stirred more carefully than ever. When each ball was the right color, she took it out and put in another. It was late that night, and everyone else had been sleeping for hours and hours, before Granny Glittens had all the red and green and brown and yellow and black yarn she needed.

“Oh, my goodness!” she said to the cat. “I am tired. And I am so hungry. I could eat this yarn! I forgot all about my sup-per.” Just for fun, and to show the cat how hungry she was, Granny Glittens bit off a small piece of red yarn. It tasted good! Granny tasted the other colors too. Granny Glittens smiled and smiled. And the next morning the knitting needles flashed and turned. The new mittens were wonderful. Not only did they have yellow ducks and fir trees and dancing bears and snow men with black hats. The children could eat the yellow ducks and fir trees and dancing bears and snow men with black hats! Granny Glittens sold so many mittens that she bought a lovely shiny-new stove for her kitchen. And of course, she was knitting mittens all year round. Be-cause as soon as ever a father or mother bought a child a pair of mittens the child said they were the best present he ever had - and they ate them! Can you believe it?

Granny Glittens and Her Amazing Mittens - A Story You Will Not Believe By Gertrude Crampton

Collected in The Tall Book of Christmas ©1954 by Western Publishing Company, Inc. (originally from Playmate, 1944)

Gift Idea for storytellers! Make Mitten Shaped Cookies as a gift & at-tach a copy of the story above! Mitten-shaped cookie cutters can be found many places. Wilton Mitten cookie cutters can be had at Target for 99¢ each.

Western themed cookies There are sets of cookie cutters with a western or cowboy theme, and the fol-lowing story (or one of your own) would be the perfect thing to include with these cookies on a gift plate!

Note that the bandanas are just rectangles frosted with a pais-ley pattern!

Snowman cookies can ac-company the previous story or the words to Frosty the Snowman. You may already have a snowman cutter!

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Set at left includes a coyote, a cactus & a horse

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The original cause of the trouble was about twenty years in growing. At the end of that time it was worth it. Had you lived anywhere within fifty miles of Sundown Ranch you would have heard of it. It possessed a quantity of jet-black hair, a pair of extremely frank, deep-brown eyes and a laugh that rippled across the prairie like the sound of a hidden brook. The name of it was Rosita McMullen; and she was the daughter of old man McMullen of the Sundown Sheep Ranch. There came riding on red roan steeds - or, to be more explicit, on a paint and a flea-bitten sorrel - two wooers. One was Madison Lane, and the other was the Frio Kid, but at that time they did not call him the Frio Kid, for he had not earned the honours of spe-cial nomenclature - His name was simply Johnny McRoy. It must not be supposed that these two were the sum of the agreeable Rosita's admirers. The bronchos of a dozen others champed their bits at the long hitching rack of the Sundown Ranch. Many were the sheeps' - eves that were cast in those sa-vannas that did not belong to the flocks of Dan McMullen. But of all the cavaliers, Madison Lane and Johnny McRoy galloped far ahead, wherefore they are to be chronicled. Madison Lane, a young cattleman from the Nueces country, won the race. He and Rosita were married one Christmas day. Armed, hilarious, vociferous, magnanimous, the cowmen and the sheepmen, laying aside their hereditary hatred, joined forces to celebrate the occasion. Sundown Ranch was sonorous with the cracking of jokes and sixshooters, the shine of buckles and bright eyes, the outspoken congratulations of the herders of kine. But while the wedding feast was at its liveliest there de-scended upon it Johnny McRoy, bitten by jealousy, like one pos-sessed. "I'll give you a Christmas present," he yelled, shrilly, at the door, with his .45 in his hand. Even then he had some reputation as an offhand shot. His first bullet cut a neat under-bite in Madison Lane's right ear. The barrel of his gun moved an inch. The next shot would have been the bride's had not Carson, a sheepman, possessed a mind with triggers somewhat well oiled and in repair. The guns of the wedding party had been hung, in their belts, upon nails in the wall when they sat at table, as a concession to good taste. But Carson, with great promptness, hurled his plate of roast venison and frijoles at McRoy, spoiling his aim. The second bullet, then, only shattered the white petals of a Spanish dagger flower sus-pended two feet above Rosita's head. The guests spurned their chairs and jumped for their weapons. It was considered an improper act to shoot the bride and groom at a wedding. In about six seconds there were twenty or so bullets due to be whizzing in the direction of Mr. McRoy. "I'll shoot better next time," yelled Johnny; "and there'll be a next time." He backed rapidly out the door. Carson, the sheepman, spurred on to attempt further exploits by the success of his plate-throwing, was first to reach the door. McRoy's bullet from the darkness laid him low. The cattlemen then swept out upon him, calling for venge-ance, for, while the slaughter of a sheepman has not always lacked condonement, it was a decided misdemeanour in this

instance. Carson was innocent; he was no accomplice at the mat-rimonial proceedings; nor had any one heard him quote the line "Christmas comes but once a year" to the guests. But the sortie failed in its vengeance. McRoy was on his horse and away, shouting back curses and threats as he galloped into the concealing chaparral. That night was the birthnight of the Frio Kid. He became the "bad man" of that portion of the State. The rejection of his suit by Miss McMullen turned him to a dangerous man. When officers went after him for the shooting of Carson, he killed two of them, and entered upon the life of an outlaw. He became a marvelous shot with either hand. He would turn up in towns and settlements, raise a quarrel at the slightest opportunity, pick off his man and laugh at the officers of the law. He was so cool, so deadly, so rapid, so inhumanly blood-thirsty that none but faint attempts were ever made to capture him. When he was at last shot and killed by a little one-armed Mexican who was nearly dead him-self from fright, the Frio Kid had the deaths of eighteen men on his head. About half of these were killed in fair duels depending upon the quickness of the draw. The other half were men whom be assassinated from absolute wantonness and cruelty. Many tales are told along the border of his impudent courage and daring. But he was not one of the breed of desperadoes who have seasons of generosity and even of softness. They say he never had mercy on the object of his anger. Yet at this and every Christmastide it is well to give each one credit, if it can be done, for whatever speck of good he may have possessed. If the Frio Kid ever did a kindly act or felt a throb of generosity in his heart it was once at such a time and season, and this is the way it hap-pened. One who has been crossed in love should never breathe the odour from the blossoms of the ratama tree. It stirs the memory to a dangerous degree. One December in the Frio country there was a ratama tree in full bloom, for the winter had been as warm as springtime. That way rode the Frio Kid and his satellite a co-murderer, Mexican Frank. The kid reined in his mustang, and sat in his saddle, thoughtful and grim, with dangerously narrowing eyes. The rich, sweet scent touched him somewhere beneath his ice and iron. "I don't know what I've been thinking about, Mex," he re-marked in his usual mild drawl, "to have forgot all about a Christ-mas present I got to give. I'm going to ride over to-morrow night and shoot Madison Lane in his own house. He got my girl - Rosita would have had me if he hadn't cut into the game. I won-der why I happened to overlook it up to now?" "Ah, shucks, Kid," said Mexican, "don't talk foolishness. You know you can't get within a mile of Mad Lane's house to-morrow night. I seen old man Allen day before yesterday, and he says Mad is going to have Christmas doings at his house. You remem-ber how you shot up the festivities when Mad was married, and about the threats you made? Don't you suppose Mad Lane'll kind of keep his eye open for a certain Mr. Kid? You plumb make me tired, Kid, with such remarks." “I’m going,” repeated the Frio Kid, without heat, “to go to Madison Lane’s Christmas doings, and kill him. I ought to have done it a long time ago. Why, Mex, just two weeks ago I dreamed me and Rosita was married instead of her and him, and

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A Chaparral Christmas Gift by O. Henry O. Henry's A Chaparral Christmas Gift is an off-beat Christmas story, a real shoot 'em up Western story featuring the Frio Kid who became a dangerous man after un-successfully courting Miss Rosita McMullen. Made for quite a memorable Christmas wedding. Rosita's been nerv-ous every Christmas since. Is the Kid capable of an act of kindness? (from americanliterature.com)

Continued on page 10

A Chaparral Christmas Gift continued from page 9

we was living in a house, and I could see her smiling at me, and - oh! H - - l, Mex, he got her; and I'll get him - yes, sir, on Christ-mas Eve he got her, and then's when I'll get him." "There's other ways of committing suicide," advised Mexican. "Why don't you go and surrender to the sheriff?" "I'll get him," said the Kid. Christmas Eve fell as balmy as April. Perhaps there was a hint of far-away frostiness in the air, but it tingles like seltzer, per-fumed faintly with late prairie blossoms and the mesquite grass. When night came the five or six rooms of the ranch house were brightly lit. In one room was a Christmas tree, for the Lanes had a boy of three, and a dozen or more guests were expected from the nearer ranches. At nightfall Madison Lane called aside Jim Belcher and three other cowboys employed on his ranch. "Now, boys," said Lane, "keep your eyes open. Walk around the house and watch the road well. All of you know the 'Frio Kid,' as they call him now, and if you see him, open fire on him without asking any questions. I'm not afraid of his coming around, but Rosita is. She's been afraid he'd come in on us every Christmas since we were married." The guests had arrived in buckboards and on horseback, and were making themselves comfortable inside. The evening went along pleasantly. The guests enjoyed and praised Rosita's excellent supper, and afterward the men scattered in groups about the rooms or on the broad "gallery," smoking and chatting. The Christmas tree, of course, delighted the youngsters, and above all were they pleased when Santa Claus himself in mag-nificent white beard and furs appeared and began to distribute the toys. "It's my papa," announced Billy Sampson, aged six. "I've seen him wear 'em before." Berkly, a sheepman, an old friend of Lane, stopped Rosita as she was passing by him on the gallery, where he was sitting smoking.

"Well, Mrs. Lane," said he, "I suppose by this Christmas you've gotten over being afraid of that fellow McRoy, haven't you? Madison and I have talked about it, you know." "Very nearly," said Rosita, smiling, "but I am still nervous sometimes. I shall never forget that awful time when he came so near to killing us." "He's the most cold-hearted villain in the world," said Berkly. "The citizens all along the border ought to turn out and hunt him down like a wolf." "He has committed awful crimes," said Rosita, but - I - don't - know. I think there is a spot of good somewhere in everybody. He was not always bad - that I know." Rosita turned into the hallway between the rooms. Santa Claus, in muffling whiskers and furs, was just coming through. "I heard what you said through the window, Mrs. Lane," he said. "I was just going down in my pocket for a Christmas present for your husband. But I've left one for you, instead. It's in the room to your right." "Oh, thank you, kind Santa Claus," said Rosita, brightly. Rosita went into the room, while Santa Claus stepped into the cooler air of the yard. She found no one in the room but Madison. "Where is my present that Santa said he left for me in here?" she asked. "Haven't seen anything in the way of a present," said her hus-band, laughing, "unless he could have meant me." The next day Gabriel Radd, the foreman of the X0 Ranch, dropped into the post-office at Loma Alta. "Well, the Frio Kid's got his dose of lead at last," he remarked to the postmaster. "That so? How'd it happen?" "One of old Sanchez's Mexican sheep herders did it! -- think of it! the Frio Kid killed by a sheep herder! The Greaser saw him riding along past his camp about twelve o'clock last night, and was so skeered that he up with a Winchester and let him have it. Funniest part of it was that the Kid was dressed all up with white Angora- skin whiskers and a regular Santy Claus rig-out from head to foot. Think of the Frio Kid playing Santy!"

Who knew Arizona had an Official Western Film Historian?! Living the dream: Western film historian finds special value in career By Melissa Fittro

Taking the stage with a red guitar strapped around his shoulder and a cowboy hat atop his head, the Arizona Official Western Film Histo-rian transformed an intimate dinner party into an evening reminiscing about old Western movies.

With humor, facts and a slew of stories, Mesa resident Charlie LeSueur put on a presentation about the Western “good guys” at the Cartwright Sonoran House nestled in the small town of Cave Creek on a July evening. As the sun set in the desert, Mr. LeSueur and his audience engaged in a unique conversation about TV and film stars dating back to the ‘40s and ‘50s. Dubbed the official film historian by the state of Arizona, Mr. LeSueur grew up watching westerns with his father during and after dinner. “It really all goes back to when I was a kid,” said Mr. LeSueur in a July 5 phone interview. “My dad was the influ-ence on me as far as Westerns go.” When it was time for dinner, Mr. LeSueur’s father created a solution so they wouldn’t have to miss a single minute of their favorite movie. “We had a TV in the family room, and next to that was the informal dining room. My dad had installed a lazy

Susan that had a smaller TV on it, behind the bigger TV.” When it came to the big screen – Mr. LeSueur generally went to see John Wayne movies in the theaters. “That’s what we talked about and what my parents talked about,” he said. “I didn’t know anything about school but I knew a lot about westerns.” Mr. LeSueur started his TV career in the 1970s with his own locally broadcast show out of Utah, “Hotel Balderdash.” Similar to Arizona’s own “Wallace and Ladmo,” “Hotel Balderdash” included three hosts who performed antics and slapstick comedy in between children’s cartoons. Fate played a major role in Mr. LeSueur’s career. After walk-ing into the broadcast station on the same day another show had been cancelled – “Hotel Balderdash” was on the air three months later. Rising to be No. 1 overall for all age-markets, “Hotel Bal-derdash” ran for 12 years before fizzling out. Married with four children, Mr. LeSueur returned to his hometown of Mesa in 1985 and began working with an advertis-ing agency in the early 1980s. Over the years, Mr. LeSueur grew his interest of western stars by attending film festivals for his agency. Eventually he began shooting footage for the festivals and then slowly started doing panels and interviews.

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One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speak-ing of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six. All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen. It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was snow-ing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my mem-ory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes. The wise cats never appeared. We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muf-fling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or, if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar cat. But soon the voice grew louder. "Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong. And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was an-nouncing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room. Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and smacking at the smoke with a slipper. "Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong. "There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas." There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his slipper as though he were conducting. "Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and ran out of the house to the telephone box. "Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires." But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. No-body could have had a noisier Christmas Eve. And when the fire-men turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt, Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and

dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?" Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bare-back, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea." "But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawl-ing out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards." "Were there postmen then, too?" "With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells." "You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?" "I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them." "I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells." "There were church bells, too." "Inside them?" "No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bish-ops and storks. And they rang their tidings over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our fence." "Get back to the postmen" "They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the doors with blue knuckles ...." "Ours has got a black knocker...." "And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out." "And then the presents?" "And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold post-man, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on fishmonger's slabs. "He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's hump, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was gone." "Get back to the Presents." "There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a sub-stance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the ga-loshes; blinding tam-o'-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pic-tureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned;

A Child's Christmas In Wales - Poem by Dylan Thomas

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A Child’s Christmas In Wales continued from page 11

and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why." "Go on the Useless Presents." "Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a paint-ing book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who, if they could not fight, could al-ways run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall. And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And then it was breakfast under the balloons." "Were there Uncles like in our house?" "There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle and sugar fags, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, re-turning them to their mouths, coughing, then holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to break, like faded cups and saucers." Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowl-ing green and back, as he would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing, no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, un-speaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite, to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling smoke clouds of their inextin-guishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pud-ding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of a black eye, cocky as a bull-finch, leering all to himself. I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high, so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their

cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled win-dows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whim-pered at the sideboard and had some elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In the rich and heavy after-noon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar. Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements. "I bet people will think there's been hippos." "What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?" "I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him under the ear and he'd wag his tail." "What would you do if you saw two hippos?" Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr. Daniel's house. "Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box." "Let's write things in the snow." "Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn." Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?" The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills, and vast dew-lapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recov-ered Uncles would be jolly; and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with rum, because it was only once a year. Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gas-light bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I re-member that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and un-pleasant and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them? Hark the Herald?" "No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occu-pied by nobody we knew. We stood close together, near the dark

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A Childs’s Christmas In Wales continued from page 12

door. Good King Wenceslas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small, dry voice, like the voice of some-one who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town. "Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said. "Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading. "Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that. Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom win-dow, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

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Living The Dream continued from page 10

He appeared in hundreds of commercials, radio shows and TV shows such as “Chrome Highway,” “Hoover’s Place,” “At Home in Arizona” and “Dining Out in Arizona.” “In 1997, I was asking some of the celebrities questions and they’re saying ‘I forgot about this and forgot about that’ and ‘why don’t you write a book?’” recalled Mr. LeSueur. Nearly two decades later, he penned “Riding the Hollywood Trail” and “Riding the Hollywood Trail II,” and is working on a third. Mr. LeSueur’s career has blossomed over the years and he now travels around the country hosting events. “I’ve just had a great time writing my books and going around the country,” he said. “I’m really living this life of living this dream.” In addition to different events scheduled around Arizona and the country, he is also a Fellow at Western Spirit: Scottsdale’s Museum of the West. One of the special things about Mr. LeSueur’s presentation is that he invites historical people – who he now has a personal relationship with – to his events at the museum, said special assistant to the museum director, Kat Mac-Donald during a June 29 phone interview. “He did one story, talking about the history of the actual person and then told the audience that the man was there in attendance,” said Ms. Mac-Donald. “He had him come up and speak as well.” The personal friendships made throughout the years have been the best reward, said Mr. LeSueur. “I think everything com-bined over the past quarter century has culminated into one thing that has happened now,” he said. “I’d watch all these people growing up, and now they’re my friends.” “After watching for 20 years as a kid, now the next 25 years I’ve become friends with these people. It’s a dream come true. That would be the thing I treasure the most.”

News Services Editor for the Scottsdale Independent, Melissa Fittro can be contacted at 623-445-2746, e-mailed at mfittro@newszap.com or can be followed on Twitter

Isn’t this cake a hoot? I love the crazy decorations, and although the cake recipe is included below, any cake or cake mix could be used because the way it is deco-rated is what makes it! Ah

Peppermint Cake

1 recipe Chocolate Chip Cake 1 recipe White Vanilla Frosting Candy: crushed red starlight mints; candy canes of assorted sizes and shapes

Make the Chocolate Chip Cake according to recipe (below). Trim domed tops of two of the layers. Place one trimmed layer on a cake stand or serving platter and top with 2/3 cup White Vanilla Frosting. Repeat two more times, using domed layer on top. Frost top and sides with remaining frosting. Decorate along the edge and a little down the sides with crushed starlight mints. Insert candy canes into the top of the cake.

Chocolate chip Cake

Cooking spray 1 (4-oz.) bar semisweet chocolate broken into pieces 3 1/3 c. cake flour, spooned and leveled 1 1/2 tbsp. baking powder 3/4 tsp. Kosher salt 1 3/4 c. milk 2 tbsp. fresh lemon juice 1 tbsp. pure vanilla extract 3/4 c. (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature 2 1/4 c. sugar 6 large egg whites

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease 3 (8") round cake pans and line with parchment paper. Pulse chocolate in a food proces-sor until finely chopped, 12 to 14 times. Whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt in a bowl. Stir together milk, lemon juice, and vanilla in a separate bowl. Beat butter and sugar with an electric mixer on medium speed until light and fluffy, 1 to 2 minutes. Add egg whites, one at a time, beating to incorporate after each addition. Reduce mixer speed to low and beat in flour mixture and milk mixture alternately, starting and ending with the flour mix-ture, just until incorporated. Stir in the chopped chocolate. Divide batter among prepared pans; smooth tops. Bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, 25 to 28 minutes. Cool in pans on wire racks, 10 minutes, then invert onto racks to cool completely.

White Vanilla Frosting

2 c. (4 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature 6 c. sifted confectioners' sugar 1 tsp. pure vanilla extract Pinch kosher salt

Beat butter with an electric mixer on medium speed until creamy, 1 to 2 minutes. Add sugar, 1/2 cup at a time, beating well and scraping down sides of bowl after each addition. Beat in vanilla and salt.

Courtesy of Country Living magazine

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, December 1st 7:00pm - 9:30pm

True stories from members about themselves and their lives, based on the "theme of the month." ADMISSION: $8

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

Yarnball Storytelling Open Mic Every Wednesday at 8:00 pm. Lawn Gnome Publishing

905 N. 5th St., Phoenix Free if you sign up to tell. Stories about 5 to 6 minutes. Themes are suggested, but any story is ok. Store closes at 10:00 pm.

Lawn Gnome sells new and used books and is located in the newly renovated Roosevelt area. They have an ex-tensive events calendar that features music, poetry, writ-ing, and storytelling.

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.

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

Check out their web site at themoth.org/radio.

Page 11

Storyfind Saturday, December 3, 2016 1:00pm - 4:00pm

Monthly Storytelling Reception/Workshop There will be different themes and focus each month. Presented by the SMCC Storytelling Institute Open to the public Free Admission Contact: Liz Warren Phone: 602-243-8026

South Mountain Community College PAC 740 7050 S. 24th Street Phoenix AZ 85042

Journeys Storytelling Night at the Whole Life Center

Friday, December 2, 2016 7:00pm - 9:00pm

Come the personal Hero's Journey of many of our own Valley Storytellers. Tales of quests and challenges and overcoming

seemingly insurmountable odds.

Smith Hall Fee: $10

Whole Life Center at Shadow Rock 12861 N. 8th Avenue

Phoenix AZ 85029

Arizona Storytellers - Holiday Spectacular Holiday show presented twice on consecutive nights Wednesday, December 21, 2016 7:00pm - 9:00pm

and Thursday, December 22, 2016 7:00pm - 9:00pm

Join azcentral.com and The Arizona Republic in the Frank Lloyd Wright Ballroom at the Arizona Biltmore, a Waldorf Astoria

resort, for a night of stories about Christmas, Hanukkah, and all the wintertime adventures we carry in our hearts.

This night is best for children who understand the complexities of the holidays.

General Admission tickets ($12) include hot chocolate and fabulous holiday cookies as our gift to you.

Full cash bar. (No dinner)

Supporter Seating tickets ($30) include hot chocolate and holiday cookies, plus priority seating in rows 2-4, a souvenir Arizona Storytellers Project glass from local maker Refresh Glass, and a holiday card with two free tickets to any 2017 show. Self-park is free and is to the West of the property in the con-vention area. Valet is free, but tips are customary.

Megan Finnerty, director of the Storytellers Brand Studio Alexus Rhone, associate producer with the Storytellers Brand Studio Featured Storytellers (both nights): Charlie Steak, playwright and actor Kindra Hall, storyteller and narrative coach at kindrahall.com Alexus Rhone, associate producer with the Storytellers Brand Studio Elizabeth Wunsch, community teller Calvin Worthen, education consultant and host on radiophoenix.org Liz Warren, director at the South Mountain Community College Storytelling Institute

Become a subscriber: All Arizona Republic and azcentral subscribers receive a complimentary, gourmet brownie from Fairytale Brownies at check-in. Click here to learn about other great subscriber perks. Accessibility Note: If you require ASL Interpretation Ser-vices for this event or a future Storytellers event, or if you re-quire accommodations related to mobility or seating, contact Alexus Rhone at arhone@gannett.com. More Info: https://tickets.azcentral.com/e/arizona-storytellers-holiday-storytelling-thurs-de

Arizona Biltmore 2400 E Missouri Ave

Phoenix AZ 85016

At one time, most of my friends could hear the bell, but as the years passed it grew silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas she could no longer hear its sweet sound. Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe. Chris Van Allsburg, the Polar Express

The nutcracker sits under the holiday tree, a guardian of childhood stories. Feed him walnuts and he will crack open a tale. Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of inspiration

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

For information contact westsidestorytellers@yahoo.com

Name (s) ______________________________________________________________________ Contact info: E-mail__________________________________________________ Phone: _________________________

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)

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

The next meeting will be December 3rd

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.

The next meeting will be December 10th

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 The next meeting will be December 3rd

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

Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful. Norman Vincent Peale

P is for Purpose Storytelling tips courtesy of Sean Buvala, Director, Storyteller.net - stop by weekly to see what’s new!

Why are you telling the story you are telling? What is the pur-pose? Fans of "The Matrix" movies will remember this "purpose" question well. In these science-fiction movies, every character, from human to machines to computer program, has to understand their purpose. "We're all here to do what we're all here to do," says a character named The Oracle. In oral storytelling, having clarity regarding your purpose for telling is a good idea. Are you telling that Grimm tale to entertain or to educate? Is your business story told to encourage a response from the listener or to thank the listener for being a part of your organization? Understanding the purpose of the story changes how you pre-sent the story. Oral storytelling is immediate. You can change the inflection, pacing and focus of your story as you tell it. When a story is placed into a video format, the ability to change the pur-pose of the story is lost. Before you start planning your next storytelling, think care-fully. "What am I here to do?" Then, direct your story to empha-size your purpose. Be aware, however, that a live audience (the only kind you can have as a storyteller) may have their own ideas about the story and what it means for them. Purpose is not just for the sto-ryteller, it's for the audience, too. Have you spent enough time evaluating the needs of your audience, their purpose for being there, before you begin speaking? P could also be for "Prima Dona," that is, the storyteller who believes that an audience should be cooperative and appreciative of your story simply because you are speaking it. Avoid thinking that your purpose, your graceful presence, is the only thing that counts in storytelling. Knowing your purpose will move your storytelling event forward. Be ready to adjust course as needed.

But he jumped too low, and the long fur of his beautiful flow-ing tail got singed by the rainbow fires of the aurora. To this day the reindeer has no tail to speak of. But he is too busy pulling the Important Sleigh to notice what is lost. And he certainly doesn’t complain. What's your excuse?” Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration