This post is a bit of an experiment. I tried recording the piece I wrote in the last post and mixed it with some music. Any feedback you would have would be appreciated. Is the music too much? Does it suit the story?
You can read the text version of this story by clicking here.
The piece of music is by a band called Scatter the Mud. The album is called In the Mud (pronounced "mood") and the track is A Bad Day for Brittany / Flying Plate / Whelan's Reel.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Summer Nostalgia
**This is reposted from my livejournal and Facebook Notes. I've been getting lots of great feedback on it, so I thought I'd post it here. You can listen to a reading of this piece with music by clicking here. **
I was just listening to CBC's Definitely Not the Opera where the host, Sook-Yin Lee, asked "If you could take back something from your youth, what would it be?" (the show was about nostalgia).
So I dusted off those rusty memory boxes, cracked them open with much squeaking and clouds of dust, and padded through pictures, trading cards, and Star Wars action figures until I found a set of keys. House keys, to be exact. One key for a deadbolt, the other for the door. They are discolored green and brown, worn with age, but they slid easily in the the locks of Little House where I spent many happy, youthful days in the summers past.
Every couple of weekends, my family would drive out to the town of St. Malachie, near Frampton. This was a wee pocket of Irish and Scottish families where four generations of my father's side of the family lived after arriving from Ireland via Grosse Isle. Living alongside the Tremblays and the Langlois' were the proud Irish family names like Hickey, Murphy, O'Rourke, O'Farrell, O'Grady, and Beatty.
The Little House was owned by The Aunties, who were my grandfather's sisters. At any one time, Madeleine, Bertha, and Dot could be found bustling in the kitchen, serving tea, and catching up on the news and gossip about the far-flung members of my hoary-old Irish family. It was a tiny, two-storey house with a rickety porch and fake brown-brick panels covering the exterior walls, some half-cracked and hanging on by rusty nails and much love.
As the wooden screen door SMACK-Smack-smecked shut, it announced to the room of people that new company had arrived with the promise of news and more good conversation. Bertha would be up in a flash for a hug and a kiss, with Dot dashing down the creaky stairs, and Madeleine wiping her hands on her apron as she pulled another fresh strawberry pie from the oven. I was a shy, awkward boy in those days, but I knew to shake hands with everyone in the room and grin on cue when they ruffled my hair or commented on how tall I was. I would run my hands along the textured, dark flowers that rambled across the upholstered couches like muted wildfire. I would pick at the flaking paint on the walls until I became aware of people watching, then laughing as I tried to be nonchalant about my low-grade destruction habits.
I tried to enjoy the adult conversation, but it centred about the local news, politics, the damn Tories, and whose gall-bladder needed removing. I would eventually wander away from the living room to talk to Madeleine and maybe get a slice of her mystical strawberry pie (it frustrated my mother to no end that she could never quite duplicate that pie perfectly). She would shoo me away, promising me a slice after lunch, or send me into the basement for something she needed.
I both dreaded and loved the basement of that house. It was dark, old, and musty. I could still hear the endless conversations above, but they were muffled and distant, disconnected voices that were strange, yet familiar. I always feared basements: although I was always curious to discover the treasures that were lost in storage, I feared the creatures that might be guarding them, their eyes tracing my every move and dreaming of how delicious my muffled screams would be. I would start out bravely searching for what Madeleine needed, but tear up the stairs in a mad panic once I found it. She would then shoo me out of the house again, laughing off the sinister possibilities of toothed potentialities in her basement.
The property was tiny: just enough space for a few cars to park in the matted grass, a small wooden shed, and a couple of picnic tables. The tall grass and weeds behind the house was so thick, I wondered if I would ever find my way back to the house if I wandered into it. I spent many summers rummaging in the wooden shed, searching for a way that I could explore the jungles behind the Little House and discover their secrets.
The second floor of the Little House was filled with beds. Ornate metal bedframes, squeaky bed springs supporting squishy mattresses and soft linens that invited lazy afternoon naps. The doubled-paned wood-framed windows welcomed warm sunbeams that inched across the pages of a favourite book as I spent afternoons lost in worlds of dragons, bold knights, and the odd papercut. Even the air seemed filled with dusty denizens that were only revealed with warm sunlight as they drifted from room to room, ghosts that could only be temporarily exorcised by an expertly-wielded feather duster.
When I wasn't exploring the Little House, sipping tea, and stealing extra slices of strawberry pie, I was visiting with my cousin Andrew, who lived only a few houses away. He seemed to regard every inch of the country-side with a lackadaisical attitude that bewildered my city-based sensibilities. Whenever I visited, we read comic books and we swung in the hammock, ducking away from the occasional crab apple that would be shook loose from the constant swaying. We went fishing, explored the back woods, and debated the mystery of girls, their wildish ways, and how cool it would be if we had the nerve to prove how cool we were. We put too much ketchup on our hotdogs while we watched scrap metal wrench and fly at the local demolition derby. We dodged the angry francophone kids who despised our English-speaking ways and warned us that we should go home or else. Mostly, we assured our parents that we were keeping out of trouble and rarely got into as much destruction as they always feared we would.
And then it would be Sunday, with the sun setting in the distance. My Dad would drive up to my cousin's house to pick me up and we'd be off to the city again. I would watch the old houses disappear in a cloud of dust, wonder if the old Targ video game in Hotel Paradis had changed as we drove past, and wait to see the familiar white and green bridges that connected the South shore of Charny to the North shore of Quebec city.
Those days are precious to me. Now that I've written this, I need to go back and visit, even though the Little House has been empty for many years and lists dangerously in the wind. Maybe I can get Bertha or Dot to lend me a key and I can unlock my past one more time.
I was just listening to CBC's Definitely Not the Opera where the host, Sook-Yin Lee, asked "If you could take back something from your youth, what would it be?" (the show was about nostalgia).
So I dusted off those rusty memory boxes, cracked them open with much squeaking and clouds of dust, and padded through pictures, trading cards, and Star Wars action figures until I found a set of keys. House keys, to be exact. One key for a deadbolt, the other for the door. They are discolored green and brown, worn with age, but they slid easily in the the locks of Little House where I spent many happy, youthful days in the summers past.
Every couple of weekends, my family would drive out to the town of St. Malachie, near Frampton. This was a wee pocket of Irish and Scottish families where four generations of my father's side of the family lived after arriving from Ireland via Grosse Isle. Living alongside the Tremblays and the Langlois' were the proud Irish family names like Hickey, Murphy, O'Rourke, O'Farrell, O'Grady, and Beatty.
The Little House was owned by The Aunties, who were my grandfather's sisters. At any one time, Madeleine, Bertha, and Dot could be found bustling in the kitchen, serving tea, and catching up on the news and gossip about the far-flung members of my hoary-old Irish family. It was a tiny, two-storey house with a rickety porch and fake brown-brick panels covering the exterior walls, some half-cracked and hanging on by rusty nails and much love.
As the wooden screen door SMACK-Smack-smecked shut, it announced to the room of people that new company had arrived with the promise of news and more good conversation. Bertha would be up in a flash for a hug and a kiss, with Dot dashing down the creaky stairs, and Madeleine wiping her hands on her apron as she pulled another fresh strawberry pie from the oven. I was a shy, awkward boy in those days, but I knew to shake hands with everyone in the room and grin on cue when they ruffled my hair or commented on how tall I was. I would run my hands along the textured, dark flowers that rambled across the upholstered couches like muted wildfire. I would pick at the flaking paint on the walls until I became aware of people watching, then laughing as I tried to be nonchalant about my low-grade destruction habits.
I tried to enjoy the adult conversation, but it centred about the local news, politics, the damn Tories, and whose gall-bladder needed removing. I would eventually wander away from the living room to talk to Madeleine and maybe get a slice of her mystical strawberry pie (it frustrated my mother to no end that she could never quite duplicate that pie perfectly). She would shoo me away, promising me a slice after lunch, or send me into the basement for something she needed.
I both dreaded and loved the basement of that house. It was dark, old, and musty. I could still hear the endless conversations above, but they were muffled and distant, disconnected voices that were strange, yet familiar. I always feared basements: although I was always curious to discover the treasures that were lost in storage, I feared the creatures that might be guarding them, their eyes tracing my every move and dreaming of how delicious my muffled screams would be. I would start out bravely searching for what Madeleine needed, but tear up the stairs in a mad panic once I found it. She would then shoo me out of the house again, laughing off the sinister possibilities of toothed potentialities in her basement.
The property was tiny: just enough space for a few cars to park in the matted grass, a small wooden shed, and a couple of picnic tables. The tall grass and weeds behind the house was so thick, I wondered if I would ever find my way back to the house if I wandered into it. I spent many summers rummaging in the wooden shed, searching for a way that I could explore the jungles behind the Little House and discover their secrets.
The second floor of the Little House was filled with beds. Ornate metal bedframes, squeaky bed springs supporting squishy mattresses and soft linens that invited lazy afternoon naps. The doubled-paned wood-framed windows welcomed warm sunbeams that inched across the pages of a favourite book as I spent afternoons lost in worlds of dragons, bold knights, and the odd papercut. Even the air seemed filled with dusty denizens that were only revealed with warm sunlight as they drifted from room to room, ghosts that could only be temporarily exorcised by an expertly-wielded feather duster.
When I wasn't exploring the Little House, sipping tea, and stealing extra slices of strawberry pie, I was visiting with my cousin Andrew, who lived only a few houses away. He seemed to regard every inch of the country-side with a lackadaisical attitude that bewildered my city-based sensibilities. Whenever I visited, we read comic books and we swung in the hammock, ducking away from the occasional crab apple that would be shook loose from the constant swaying. We went fishing, explored the back woods, and debated the mystery of girls, their wildish ways, and how cool it would be if we had the nerve to prove how cool we were. We put too much ketchup on our hotdogs while we watched scrap metal wrench and fly at the local demolition derby. We dodged the angry francophone kids who despised our English-speaking ways and warned us that we should go home or else. Mostly, we assured our parents that we were keeping out of trouble and rarely got into as much destruction as they always feared we would.
And then it would be Sunday, with the sun setting in the distance. My Dad would drive up to my cousin's house to pick me up and we'd be off to the city again. I would watch the old houses disappear in a cloud of dust, wonder if the old Targ video game in Hotel Paradis had changed as we drove past, and wait to see the familiar white and green bridges that connected the South shore of Charny to the North shore of Quebec city.
Those days are precious to me. Now that I've written this, I need to go back and visit, even though the Little House has been empty for many years and lists dangerously in the wind. Maybe I can get Bertha or Dot to lend me a key and I can unlock my past one more time.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
No Substitutes
I'm realizing that there is no substitute for a live audience when it comes to recording a storytelling performance. I've tried to recreate that energy in my mind when recording a story at home and I keep being dissatisfied with the results. The story is fine, the pacing is good, the volume is steady, but the performances are just flat. Argh.
It's getting to the point that I'm thinking about inviting people to my house and recording a private house concert, just so I can tap into the magic of a live performance. I'd done some storytelling this summer, but the performances were done in spaces where I could not have recorded them (firepits mostly).
I need to start my self-promotion again as an artist, sending a fax to the schools and placing ads in family-based magazines. I've been chatting with a couple of cafe owners in NDG about putting on some shows in the Fall: there's definite interest there, but still waiting for the commitment.
Wait... where have I heard that before... ? *grin*
With October's creepy-crawlies around the corner, I should be able to get a few gigs going soon, and my microphone will be there to record them all. In the meantime, I'll go through the files and see if I can find something to offer for September.
Thanks for staying with me on this. I hope to reward you with a new story soon.
It's getting to the point that I'm thinking about inviting people to my house and recording a private house concert, just so I can tap into the magic of a live performance. I'd done some storytelling this summer, but the performances were done in spaces where I could not have recorded them (firepits mostly).
I need to start my self-promotion again as an artist, sending a fax to the schools and placing ads in family-based magazines. I've been chatting with a couple of cafe owners in NDG about putting on some shows in the Fall: there's definite interest there, but still waiting for the commitment.
Wait... where have I heard that before... ? *grin*
With October's creepy-crawlies around the corner, I should be able to get a few gigs going soon, and my microphone will be there to record them all. In the meantime, I'll go through the files and see if I can find something to offer for September.
Thanks for staying with me on this. I hope to reward you with a new story soon.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Leonard Cohen visits a friend in Verdun
This is a story told by Montreal poet Leonard Cohen sometime in the early 1960s. I heard it while listening to the NFB documentary on Leonard Cohen called Ladies and Gentlemen... Mr. Leonard Cohen.
I realize that posting this story may bend the original focus of this storyblog (I was supposed to be posting stories told by me, myself, and I), but I do think it stays in line with its spirit: celebrating good stories in all their forms.
If you want to hear the story, I may post it later at the end of this post. Enjoy!
==============
The other time I was in quarters such as these was when I visited the Verdun Mental Hospital in Montreal. I was visiting a friend. He was on a top floor and I asked him, while he was still lucid, where I could get a coffee. He said downstairs, which was one of those famous last words.
I commenced the decent of several similar stone corridors and I found myself in a kind of arena, which was surrounded by closed doors. It had been a hot afternoon and I removed my jacket as I have been moved to do. I left it with my friend who, though mentally ill, was no thief. I suspect he wasn't even mentally ill: he was doing this instead of college.
I stood watching the four or five doors, wondering about all the possibilities except for the one that occurred.
A door opened and two large men in white uniforms walked out. And they said "Where are you supposed to be now?"
I said, "In the cafeteria."
They nodded to each other. "WHERE are you supposed to be now?"
"IN THE CAFETERIA!"
Well, as their questions continued, my answers continued. And although they started out innocently enough, now began to sound as though I were protesting too much. In fact, after being interrogated three or four more times, I was shouting and pushing them aside, causing them to run after me down the corridor.
It was only after a guard identified me that I was able to go back to the room of my friend, who had eaten my jacket.
-- Leonard Cohen
Ladies and Gentlemen... Mr. Leonard Cohen
National Film Board
http://www.nfb.ca/film/ladies_and_gentlemen_mr_leonard_cohen/
I realize that posting this story may bend the original focus of this storyblog (I was supposed to be posting stories told by me, myself, and I), but I do think it stays in line with its spirit: celebrating good stories in all their forms.
If you want to hear the story, I may post it later at the end of this post. Enjoy!
==============
The other time I was in quarters such as these was when I visited the Verdun Mental Hospital in Montreal. I was visiting a friend. He was on a top floor and I asked him, while he was still lucid, where I could get a coffee. He said downstairs, which was one of those famous last words.
I commenced the decent of several similar stone corridors and I found myself in a kind of arena, which was surrounded by closed doors. It had been a hot afternoon and I removed my jacket as I have been moved to do. I left it with my friend who, though mentally ill, was no thief. I suspect he wasn't even mentally ill: he was doing this instead of college.
I stood watching the four or five doors, wondering about all the possibilities except for the one that occurred.
A door opened and two large men in white uniforms walked out. And they said "Where are you supposed to be now?"
I said, "In the cafeteria."
They nodded to each other. "WHERE are you supposed to be now?"
"IN THE CAFETERIA!"
Well, as their questions continued, my answers continued. And although they started out innocently enough, now began to sound as though I were protesting too much. In fact, after being interrogated three or four more times, I was shouting and pushing them aside, causing them to run after me down the corridor.
It was only after a guard identified me that I was able to go back to the room of my friend, who had eaten my jacket.
-- Leonard Cohen
Ladies and Gentlemen... Mr. Leonard Cohen
National Film Board
http://www.nfb.ca/film/ladies_and_gentlemen_mr_leonard_cohen/
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Jurgen goes to Heaven
Jurgen goes to Heaven,
but he can't get in because he's already there.
Why is he already there?
It's because his grandmother is already there.
And Heaven would not be Heaven
If Jurgen was not already there.
About which, no more.
but he can't get in because he's already there.
Why is he already there?
It's because his grandmother is already there.
And Heaven would not be Heaven
If Jurgen was not already there.
About which, no more.
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Silence of Summer
I'm sorry to say I haven't posted very much this summer (only one post in June and already July with nothing to show for it). Just like the storytelling community in Montreal, summer seems to force us to rest.
Storytelling really is a fall-winter activity, best suited to fireplaces and intimate spaces. In summer, people want to be out there and experiencing stuff. The only exception to this seems to be the summer camp campfire. I've performed at a couple of summer camps and they are fun, especially when you show up out of the gloom of the night to tell a tale, maybe in a mask and cloak, and then disappear, existing only for the story.
I've picked up a couple of new books and I've been searching for that new story to learn. I also promised a charming lady that, for the price of a kiss, I was to write a new story based on a celtic legend. I'm still searching for a celtic tale that suits me, so I should have something soon.
Thanks for your patience and I hope you're enjoying the summer!
Storytelling really is a fall-winter activity, best suited to fireplaces and intimate spaces. In summer, people want to be out there and experiencing stuff. The only exception to this seems to be the summer camp campfire. I've performed at a couple of summer camps and they are fun, especially when you show up out of the gloom of the night to tell a tale, maybe in a mask and cloak, and then disappear, existing only for the story.
I've picked up a couple of new books and I've been searching for that new story to learn. I also promised a charming lady that, for the price of a kiss, I was to write a new story based on a celtic legend. I'm still searching for a celtic tale that suits me, so I should have something soon.
Thanks for your patience and I hope you're enjoying the summer!
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
June Story: Black Fly
This song was recorded in 2007 in Montreal in an excellent cafe/bakery called Le Gryphon D'Or (specifically at the corner of Monkland and Royal). I can't remember why I wasn't there, but Sarah, Dylan, and Jack were definitely in attendance (I will be posting their stories later this summer), as well as the rest of Jack's band The What Four (or the Four Hoarsemen, or The Golden Oldies, or Groupe Du Jour -- They can't decide on a name).
The song was written and orginally recorded by the late, great Wade Hemsworth and was animated by the NFB (specifically Christopher Hinton) in 1991 (watch the animated version at the NFB website). Whenever Jack turns up at an event or a storytelling evening with his guitar, I always ask him to play it.
So since June tends to be black fly month, I present to you Black Fly by Wade Hemsworth and performed by The What Four.
Black Fly (2:49 minutes)
The song was written and orginally recorded by the late, great Wade Hemsworth and was animated by the NFB (specifically Christopher Hinton) in 1991 (watch the animated version at the NFB website). Whenever Jack turns up at an event or a storytelling evening with his guitar, I always ask him to play it.
So since June tends to be black fly month, I present to you Black Fly by Wade Hemsworth and performed by The What Four.
Black Fly (2:49 minutes)
Monday, June 1, 2009
June Story: Jack's Tall Tale
This is a story that is included on my book/CD You Don't Know Jack, but it was recorded earlier this year at Our Lady of Pompeii Elementary School in Montreal.
This is one of the first stories I learned, certainly the first Jack story I learned. As the story nears its end, there's a part that is so outrageous, the audience often cries out their incredulity at the tale, which gives me no end of satisfaction.
What I love about this story is how Jack, once he decides what he's going to do, refuses to give up. Even when his first story fails to trick the King, he tries it again from a different angle. All the Jacks that I know, and even those I've only heard about, have this unyielding desire to continue to push forward. It's a quality to which we all need to aspire.
Jack's Tall Tale (15:46 minutes)
This is one of the first stories I learned, certainly the first Jack story I learned. As the story nears its end, there's a part that is so outrageous, the audience often cries out their incredulity at the tale, which gives me no end of satisfaction.
What I love about this story is how Jack, once he decides what he's going to do, refuses to give up. Even when his first story fails to trick the King, he tries it again from a different angle. All the Jacks that I know, and even those I've only heard about, have this unyielding desire to continue to push forward. It's a quality to which we all need to aspire.
Jack's Tall Tale (15:46 minutes)
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Truth and Story have a Contest
Exceptionally, I am posting the text for this story from Jewish tradition that I will record in the coming days. Stay tuned!
==
Once upon a time, there were two exceedingly beautiful women who lived together in small house at the end of a village. One day, the two women were having a discussion, that became a debate, and then turned into an argument. They could not decide which of the two of them was the most beautiful and which one would be the most accepted by the villagers.
When the argument became too heated, they decided to settle it by having a contest. The contest was that each woman, one at a time, would walk through the village and see which one had the most friends.
Truth was the first to try as she walked out of the house and down the village street. The villagers who were tending to their gardens and chatting to each other along the road noticed Truth walking towards them. Slowly, they began easing back into their houses until there was no one on the road, no one in their gardens, and finally no one in sight. Even the people who were seen in their windows pulled the shutters tight. By the time Truth reached the end of the road, there were very few people left outside.
When Truth reached the end of the road, she realized that she was going to lose this contest. "What can I do to make myself even more attractive?" she wondered. She realized there was only one solution left to her, so she removed her robe until she stood there completely naked.
She turned and walked back to her house thinking that the people would surely flock to her now. But in actual fact, the opposite occurred. What few people that were left outside fled back to their house, closed their shutters, and locked their doors. Truth walked that whole path back to her house completely alone.
When Truth walked back into her house, she was greeted by her friend, Story. Story grasped her hands and asked "So? How did it go?"
"I can't believe it," cried Truth. "There was no one there! Everyone hid themselves away from me!"
So Story said, "Here. Let me try." She put on her finest robes and jewelry and left the house, walking down to the village. As she walked down the village street, the doors and the shutters flew open and the people came out in droves, smiling and chatting with each other happily. As Story walked down the village street, the people streamed behind her. When Story turned and walked back through the village, all the people gathered together in the centre of the village and celebrated her visit.
When she returned to her house, she found Truth sitting there, quite humbled. "You win," she said. "It's obvious to me now that Story is more powerful than Truth."
But Story took Truth's hand and said "It's not that Story is more powerful. It's just that nobody likes the Truth, and especially they don't like the Naked Truth. If you want to get your point across to your listeners, what you need is the mantle of Story."
Story removed her robes and her jewelry, adorned Truth with them, and sent her out into the village. This time, the people opened their doors and windows and flocked towards Truth because now they were open to what she had to say.
==
Once upon a time, there were two exceedingly beautiful women who lived together in small house at the end of a village. One day, the two women were having a discussion, that became a debate, and then turned into an argument. They could not decide which of the two of them was the most beautiful and which one would be the most accepted by the villagers.
When the argument became too heated, they decided to settle it by having a contest. The contest was that each woman, one at a time, would walk through the village and see which one had the most friends.
Truth was the first to try as she walked out of the house and down the village street. The villagers who were tending to their gardens and chatting to each other along the road noticed Truth walking towards them. Slowly, they began easing back into their houses until there was no one on the road, no one in their gardens, and finally no one in sight. Even the people who were seen in their windows pulled the shutters tight. By the time Truth reached the end of the road, there were very few people left outside.
When Truth reached the end of the road, she realized that she was going to lose this contest. "What can I do to make myself even more attractive?" she wondered. She realized there was only one solution left to her, so she removed her robe until she stood there completely naked.
She turned and walked back to her house thinking that the people would surely flock to her now. But in actual fact, the opposite occurred. What few people that were left outside fled back to their house, closed their shutters, and locked their doors. Truth walked that whole path back to her house completely alone.
When Truth walked back into her house, she was greeted by her friend, Story. Story grasped her hands and asked "So? How did it go?"
"I can't believe it," cried Truth. "There was no one there! Everyone hid themselves away from me!"
So Story said, "Here. Let me try." She put on her finest robes and jewelry and left the house, walking down to the village. As she walked down the village street, the doors and the shutters flew open and the people came out in droves, smiling and chatting with each other happily. As Story walked down the village street, the people streamed behind her. When Story turned and walked back through the village, all the people gathered together in the centre of the village and celebrated her visit.
When she returned to her house, she found Truth sitting there, quite humbled. "You win," she said. "It's obvious to me now that Story is more powerful than Truth."
But Story took Truth's hand and said "It's not that Story is more powerful. It's just that nobody likes the Truth, and especially they don't like the Naked Truth. If you want to get your point across to your listeners, what you need is the mantle of Story."
Story removed her robes and her jewelry, adorned Truth with them, and sent her out into the village. This time, the people opened their doors and windows and flocked towards Truth because now they were open to what she had to say.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Birthday Story: The Hall of Wonders
Today is my birthday: I'm 40 years young today on International Star Wars day. May the 4th be with you!
So to mark this special day, I've decided to post one of my favorite stories. I first heard this tale on The Moonlit Road as told by its author Thomas E. Fuller. I'm very excited to say that I received official permission from the late Mr. Fuller's press agent to retell this story as much as I like as long as I give credit to the author (which I do already).
Serendipitously, the permission letter is dated May 4th 2009. I love it when a plan comes together.
I recorded this story in studio today; when I visited Gerald McShane Elementary school in April, I had told this story as well, but the recording was corrupted slightly. I would rather record a live story with an audience, but this studio recording came out not too badly. Special audio effects were provided by Rikki Lacoste.
So to mark this special day, I've decided to post one of my favorite stories. I first heard this tale on The Moonlit Road as told by its author Thomas E. Fuller. I'm very excited to say that I received official permission from the late Mr. Fuller's press agent to retell this story as much as I like as long as I give credit to the author (which I do already).
Serendipitously, the permission letter is dated May 4th 2009. I love it when a plan comes together.
I recorded this story in studio today; when I visited Gerald McShane Elementary school in April, I had told this story as well, but the recording was corrupted slightly. I would rather record a live story with an audience, but this studio recording came out not too badly. Special audio effects were provided by Rikki Lacoste.
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