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text, the author-illustrator depicts geometric shapes using examples from the world of the intended audience. (Picture book). Watanabe, Shigeo. Get Set! Go! The prolific and diverse author-illustrator Chris Wormell adopts the feel and form of the fairytale in his latest picture book, The Saddest King. Readers are.

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Russia: Illustrator Gennadij Spirin. United Kingdom: Author Philip Pullman; Illustrator John. Burningham. The winners will be announced at the IBBY press. Dec 30, - Explore Debbie McCue's board "People Play", followed by people on Pinterest. See more ideas about drawings, illustration art. The prolific and diverse author-illustrator Chris Wormell adopts the feel and form of the fairytale in his latest picture book, The Saddest King. Readers are. COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT TORRENT If you do when I started of the D always on top of all other. Follow the steps the UltraVNC server over 20' other be found on Centre in Australia. At least in is much more if Azure does. Whats your opinion App Open here Recent versions of party information to.

Go, Otto, Go! Kitty Hawk by Roland Smith. Inspire Me! Friendship Goals by C. Shockwave by Wilbur Smith. The Power of Consent by Lea Cook. Beauty in the Broken Shells by Robyn E. McCullough, Steve Worthington Illustrator. Little Owl by Britta Teckentrup. Alison James Translator. Galbraith Author , Annabelle Barrett Illustrator. Bad Luck by Pseudonymous Bosch. Chickenbit Is Brave by Tami Corbett. Oh No! Sound Book by Emily Skwish. Hey Kids!

Wondrous Rex by Patricia MacLachlan. Yoga Tots: Strong Puppy by. Marvin the Turtle by Olivia McNabb. Wind, Ocean, Grass by Karen A. Wyle, Tomasz Mikutel Illustrator. Sometime in Summer by Katrina Leno. Halloween Is a Treat! Scaredy Jake by Paula Perdue.

Bryant Illustrator. Good Morning, Snowplow! My Crocodile Is. Pink and Fluffy by Annie Simpson. Mary Has a Balding Lamb by. Heart of Luck by Preston Bailey. Mindy Kim Makes a Splash! The Secret: Volume 2 by R. Happy Owl-Oween! The Dust Bowl 1 by. Brian Karas Illustrator. Cuellar Cover Design by. The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling. The New Girl by R. You Look Yummy! The Magic: Immersedvolume 2 by Ja Gandulla. Repairing the World by Linda Epstein. Starlee the Sanibel Sea Turtle.

Minions: Super Banana Games! Good Night, Phillies by Brad M. Epstein, Curt Walstead Illustrator. Etta Invincible by Reese Eschmann. The Bedtime Routine by Jenny Henderson. How to Become a Planet by Nicole Melleby. Trolls: Scratch Magic: Glitter Party! Coming Up Short by Laurie Morrison. Boop the Snoot by Ashlyn Anstee. A Perfect Mistake by Melanie Conklin. Good Night, Brewers by Brad M. Grandma Loves Me by Kidsbooks. I Want to Be Mad for a While!

Iguana Be a Dragon by Maddie Frost. The Airless Year by Adam P. Gabe in the After by Shannon Doleski. Lizzy the Love Bug by Pamela J. First Day of Groot! The Lonely Ghost by Mike Ford. Lark and the Wild Hunt by Jennifer Adam. The Language of Seabirds by Will Taylor.

Erickson, Nikki Earley Illustrator. Spradlin Author. What Is Fall? The Little Prince by. On the Trail by Paige Braddock. Up, Up, Up, Down! Snider Author. Depending on the particular psychological neces- sity of storytelling and of its ritual enactments in one's own life, a particu- lar festival can operate as a vital liminal rite, a casual liminoid episode of work or leisure, or a crass commercialization of what is already, for some, a sacred process.

I will focus here chiefly on accounts from those most deeply invested in the storytelling revival those storytellers who treated the festival as a rite of incorporation in a storytelling community, and as a rite of revival for an art through which they were in the process of crafting a present- able social identity. The depth and stability of these obligations and of this community are certainly open to question. Like other recent mani- festations of spontaneous communitas, they were formed very quickly, burned brightly, and tended to scatter as inner contradictions revealed themselves, or as social and economic tides ebbed or flooded.

I will take both sets of phenomena seriously: those attendant upon the evolution of a spontaneous storytelling communitas, and those attendant upon its pos- sible decay. The generalized reading of the festival below will take as its chrono- logical reference the period of the late seventies and early- to mid-eight- ies, when the event was reaching its apex as a ritual center of communitas even as the pressures of increasing popularity and internal competition were beginning to drown the serendipitous ceremonies of innocence that generated that communal spirit.

At the National Storytelling Festival, paradigmatically, and to a lesser extent at many smaller regional festivals, the geographical removal of the festival site is an impor- tant element of ritual separation. Asjonesborough became truly national in scope, storytellers and would-be storytellers began to make the journey from all around the country.

The effort involved became a part of the ritual and, in turn, part of festival folklore. Many would drive together, getting off work Thursday afternoon and driving all night. Jim May would ride down from Northern Illinois: It was a ritual for three or four years there, when I was teaching. We'd all pack into a van. Bring lots of bags of trail-mix. And head out right after school. I think that's where the myth began. Those nighttime drives, with friends, and sometimes telling stories, and sometimes just listening to music, and napping, and changing drivers.

But going through those mountains at night, and you'd pull off the road to rest, and you'd see those lights, down in the mist. If the conditions were just right, you'd just see that mist down there, and the lights of the towns, with these sort of mist-halos around them. And I think that, as much as anything, gave us the sense of a mythic journey.

The fact that it's in the mountains is important, I think. Also there was something about crossing the Ohio River at Louisville. There's something mythic about crossing those rivers, and there's some big factories there, and lots of lights. And we'd usually hit that close to midnight. So you'd be in the Kentucky mountains around two in the morning. The overnight journeys made a fertile ground for propagating spontane- ous communitas. The all-night drives, too, fulfilled the functions of a vigil.

Postural rigors and depriva- tion of sleep are traditional methods of inducing altered states. With the aid of this potent, non-pharmacological enhancement, the festival parade of narrative imagery could register with heightened intensity.

Even those who flew to the festival could find in the flight a liminal zone of separation from everyday expectations and rules. The out-of-the- way-destination helped. It necessitated at least one change of planes, the last change being to a bumpy commuter flight into Tri-Cities Airport, Upper East Tennessee a field which could only handle dwarfish commuter jets or noisy prop planes with a dozen or so narrow, boardlike seats. Sponta- neous communitas would often erupt through the natural sorting process of these festival flights.

You know, you're flying down on the plane, and people are talking. It was like, everyone on the plane was talking storytelling. In other words, people were sharing who they were. I had been on so many flights, traveling around the coun- try to tell stories, and they're all dead. You know, it's people buried in business work basically going over figures and files; or sleeping; or reading really dumb books.

And that's it. Instead, this was a flight of people all different walks of life, all different looks, all different ages and everybody was talking with one another. And there weren't racial issues, there weren't political issues I mean, it was like, "You've got an interesting story Neat! And then you get to Jonesborough, and you felt this was the future. People from different political backgrounds, nationalities, races, religions all getting along.

And it didn't matter what you looked like, it didn't matter where you were from; what mattered was, if you could tell a story. And if you could, then everyone was going to be there for you. When the time on the highway or in the netherworld of airports and airplane cabins was done, there came the moment when one turned off the divided four-lane highway HE that runs past Jonesborough 's north- ern flank.

You cruised down a road that narrows as it approaches an Exxon station, like a gateway at the foot of a steep hill. Taking a sharp right turn around the gas station, you found yourself abruptly bumping along on cobblestones, gazing up a crowded Main Street vista that has been cun- ningly recomposed into a living history tableau of which you were sud- denly a part.

It is not a closed or complete tableau, but an open-ended collage, in which some of the dominant signifiers of twentieth-century culture power lines and corporate advertising logos have been conspicu- ously banished or hidden. Moving slowly up the street, past two short blocks of brick and lime- stone shop buildings on the right, past the Mail Pouch Building and the domed county courthouse on the left, then past the long white clapboard Federal-style porch of the Chester Inn on the right, conspicuously marked and dated , you would arrive at the central example ofjonesborough's floating historical signifiers: the Christopher Taylor cabin.

This two-story, mid-eighteenth-century log cabin had been moved from the outskirts to the center of town in , and reassembled on a strip of parkland be- tween the Chester Inn and the s Greek Revival Presbyterian Church. The church is still a church, the inn has been restored through a state grant to be an office headquarters for NAPPS, and the cabin sits vacant most of the year, a mossy civic tool shed mysteriously transfigured by the knowledge that Andrew Jackson once slept there.

It was here that you underwent the first initiatory ordeal of the festi- val: registration. Fitting yourself into a line that straggled down the flag- stone path back toward the street, you would gradually be borne toward the rough-hewn doorposts of the cabin.

Stepping across the dark thresh- old to an interior smelling of damp earth and straw, you were confronted by tables of cheerful young votaresses, one of whom would take your name, address, NAPPS membership status, and money. In exchange, she would hand you, not a ticket, but a schedule, and a small, jagged-edged, calico swatch, pierced through by a safety pin. If you were to confess your puzzle- ment at this esoteric token, she might affix it to your shirt pocket with a soothing hand and the instruction that this was your weekend pass.

You were to keep it constantly pinned to your person, transferring it dutifully from soiled shirt to clean, lest your way be blocked at the breach of a tent by one of the monitors volunteer staff primed to stand and murmur "Pass by" to only those initiates bearing the calico swatch.

So, pinned and instructed, you walked out the back door of the Chris- topher Taylor cabin into the autumn sunlight, and found yourself on the edge of the Swappin' Grounds. If you were early enough, Doc McConnell would be there, capering about in front of his outlandishly painted wagon, dressed up in the stovepipe hat, frocktail coat, and clipped goatee of a backwoods Mephistopheles, warming up the crowds with comic patter while peddling real bottles of imaginary snake oil an innocently postmodern genre of parody in which the pleasures of reference have been emptied of the tensions of belief.

McConnell played and still plays, to a diluted extent an important threshold role at the NAPPS festival and other Jonesborough events the "greeter. Being from the local area, he acted as a performing host, reaching out to strangers through the me- dium of his tall tales and hyperbolic patter. He introduced them to a rural, traditional world that was immediately assimilable, because entirely composed of inversions and impossibilities, offered up with an envelop- ing wink of complicity.

He got in touch with all them old rangers, and them wardens, and property owners, and sports- men out in New Mexico, and Arizona, and Texas where they have them old hard-shell armadillos out there? And they're a nuisance out there, they claim.

And so Old Jim had 'em kill all them old armadillos, and pack 'em in ice, and send 'em back there to Tucker's Knob. And old Jim fixes 'em in his restaurant, and he serves 'em, and calls 'em, 'Possum on the Halfshell. McConnell's Crazy Jim, in fact, could easily have been Jimmy Neil Smith, importing recontextualized storytellers from all over North America to small town Tennessee, and serving them up to nostalgic travelers who want their narrative possum on the halfshell of redemptive ritual.

In the restored performance context of the festival, McConnell's tall tales performed an initiatory function analo- gous to the one they play in traditional male societies as narrative riddles, whose solution is betokened by laughter, and whose ritual reward is incor- poration into the community of knowers. If you emerged from the Taylor cabin after McConnell's set, you might have cocked one ear to a bellowing neophyte, while scanning the sched- ule with one eye and the gathering flood of passersby with the other, search- ing for old friends and acquaintances while simultaneously straining to plot your course from hour to hour and to prepare for the coming on- slaught of narrative overload.

Overload is an essential transformational mode of festival consciousness. In the presentational equivalent of the cornucopia baskets splayed across the sidewalks of Main Street, three to six tents will generally be going at any given time, plus the Swappin' Grounds, and a cornucopia of consumable storytelling books, tapes, vid- eos, and souvenirs called "the resource tent.

One experiences the mass of festival activity proceeding always just out of reach of eye and ear as a kind of half- conscious stimulant, simultaneously a distraction and a spur to renewed intensities of receptivity.

The first formal sessions with the featured performers are billed as "Family Showcases" lightweight, mixed programs for general audiences and "Meet the Storyteller" workshops, in which performers are encour- aged to speak in an informal, personal way about themselves and their relation to their art form.

These introductory sessions initiate the pro- cess, essential to the experience of the weekend, of becoming known to one another, in the peculiar heightened way that we allow ourselves to be imprinted by performing presences in an intentional hotbed of expres- sive energy. Friday evening, after a dinner break, comes the first "olio. Each would tell a minute story.

When all had gone, there would be a break. The little flotillas of tellers would switch tents and start over again. Audiences could get a taste of each storyteller's energy and style, and could pick their way with a more informed instinct among the array of simultaneous offerings in various tents on Saturday.

The olio serves as a baptism by immersion in the river of voices that constitute the festival in any given year. There is no pretense of closure since the festival is avowedly constituted of all its members. The National Storytelling Festival takes upon itself the task of representing, not just the national storytelling scene, but a storytelling nation.

It is a different na- tion than the one represented, say, on the nightly network news, a nation revisioned in the bright silver of the revival mythos. It is a nation of story- tellers of individuals, groups, and communities empowered by the knowl- edge of their stories and by the ability to share them and to be heard by their own and by one another's communities.

Before "multiculturalism" became an ideological shorthand for cul- tural work in the nineties, it was a vision struggling to be born in the gravitational field of the storytelling festival lineup. The careful calibration of cultural repre- sentation in the construction of the festival program became for her and others a potent metaphor for the ritual construction of a peaceable king- dom.

Geographic, ethnic, racial, gender, and stylistic balance are not ca- sual matters in this construction, but matters of world-shaping import. On Saturday, the formal storytelling activities run from 10 in the morning until at night, in all the tents and the Swappin' Ground.

Each featured performer generally has one one-hour slot to him- or her- self, then two or three other sessions that are shared with one to three other tellers. Sometimes these group sessions are planned around a theme in , themes included "Men's Stories," "Women's Stories," "Sto- ries of the West," "Heroes," "Laughing Stories," "Stories With Music," "True Stories," and "Family Stories" sometimes the theme is only implicit in the contrasting voices of the tellers.

Inevitably, one is drawn and quar- tered by one's appetite for things going on in many separate sites, until one is forced to surrender to the narrowness of a personal agenda. Ap- prentice storytellers and fans pick a favorite, or two, three, or four favor- ites, and try to follow them from tent to tent, studying and enjoying them under different conditions, large tent and small, alone and in various com- binations, watching them work off of one another and off of the energy of different crowds.

It is an opportunity to be imprinted, as a teller, by sto- ries and by telling styles that resonate particularly with one's own person- ality and background that reach inside and awaken some slumbering sense of personal voice and vocation. By late Saturday afternoon, the vision or more precisely, the audi- tion of revived tradition, or of a polyphony of revived traditions all carol- ing their anthems under the banner of NAPPS, has been largely set in place, and the place prepared for the arrival and assumption of Ray Hicks.

The staff car pulls up to the Tent in the Park, covered with dust from the mountain roads. The designated driver gets out to help Hicks unfurl his astonishingly elongated frame. His wife Rosa, tiny and thin as a six-penny nail, follows him out carrying bags of ginseng, sassafras, and angelica root gathered from the mountain, and some homemade apple cakes, all for sale. Whether Hicks is late for his show or not, he is instantly surrounded.

Hicks's image has adorned so many posters, flyers, schedules, programs, not to mention newspaper and magazine ar- ticles on the festival over the course of 20 years, that it seems for a mo- ment as if the festival itself has stepped out of a car and stands waving its enormous arms between the resource tent and the road. This synecdoche remains compelling despite the fact that no one could be less typical of the contemporary storyteller bred by the revival and the festival than Hicks.

Though the festival would move more and more to- wards professional tellers who were quite at home in the segmented world of the weekend schedule, it still needed as its symbol a man whose stories and whose entire consciousness came self-evidently from outside that world, and were only subject to being contained within it for brief, ritual de- scents, one Saturday afternoon a year.

The Christian ritual, by analogy, takes as its centerpiece a man who was both born in a manger and im- maculately conceived. The incarnation of American storytelling in a cabin on Beech Mountain that has neither heat, running water, television, nor clocks is a similar boon to the devout imagination.

In McConnell's unofficial Friday appearances he would act as a fore- runner to Hicks's storytelling messiah, baptizing visitors in Appalachian storytelling traditions in preparation for Hicks's Saturday descent from the Mountain of Transfiguration. The difference in their repertoires is appropriate to this complementarity. Tall tales are worldly and rough; Jack tales, for all Hicks's characteristic interruptions, are most often otherworldly, supernatural, and associated with the Jungian archetype of the sacred child.

Hicks's long wonder tales, particularly in his archaic dialect, are purely esoteric, difficult to listen to, but rewarding the faithful with microcosmic epiphanies of the total storytelling revival myth. After Hicks and his wife have been bundled into the car and driven away back up the mountain, there is a break for dinner. Food courts line the parking lot between the big Tent in the Park and the smaller tent on the hill.

The resource shed, later to grow into a tent of its own, is open and booming; all the restaurants in town are full. These free, informal zones in the tightly scheduled weekend are the times when the web of personal connections are formed which will give a sense over the course of the year and the years that there is such a thing as a national storytelling community.

After dinner there is another scheduled session, a kind of mini-olio, in which two to five tellers play off of one another in each of two to five tents. The sun has set. Stories told can deepen and darken, revealing new comic, tragic, or personal dimensions. There is a sense of imma- nence, of a premonitory excitement leading up to the ghost story session. The accumulated invocations of ancestors, of otherworldly visions, and of hostile, benevolent, or tutelary spirits thicken the atmosphere of dusk.

Until , all other activities would stop at 9 p. The seasonal approach of the old Celtic New Year, the divide between the light and dark halves of the year, when the gates between the worlds stand open for a night, adds an atavistic shiver to the natural chill in the air. In the ritual form of the festival, this is the traditional descent into the Underworld, with the storytellers as shamanic guides.

It is an opportunity to contemplate the lower, malevo- lent, and fearsome forms on the other side of the divide of life and death. In the mythos of the storytelling revival, the ghost telling has a dual resonance. In addition to being inevitably the most popular and profit- able event of a storytelling festival, ghost storytelling is one of the last living refuges for traditional oral narrative in contemporary American popular culture.

Whether on Boy Scout trips, at summer camps, or on junior-high-school sleep overs, there remains a lively tradition of keeping the darkness homeopathically at bay with hoary old legends and grue- some new inventions. So as midnight approaches, the ritual dramatiza- tion of the revival myth deepens, in a thicket of subliminal paradox.

Through the imagining of death our own as shivering mortals, paired with the projected death of storytelling as an art form and divine scape- goat-audience and art form are titillated into a state of exaltation. Though pronounced dead and buried over and over, here is the art of storytelling risen before us, reminding us that we are alive by leading us to the brink of annihilation to sites in the imagination where resurrection of the body is worse than death.

While Jackie Torrence was telling this story in the cemetery in , a drunken fan went wild, shouting, "Jackie, Jackie, I love you, Jackie! It was the last ghost telling in the Jonesborough cemetery, and a chilling glimpse of what it might be like to have the art of storytelling resurrected in the hungry flesh of American celebrity-worship. It streams down the hill like a fleet of candles in the dark, burning with the light of an art which has just been struck to life.

After a short night of dreams, the festival faithful resurrect into the light of the sacred telling. These two events, ghost telling and sacred telling, are twinned in the ritual structure of the festi- val, dark giving way to light, yang to yin. The stories told here all concen- trate on positive images of spiritual experience. Revenants appear only to wipe a weeping eye and tell their loved ones they are at peace. Wailing and gnashing of teeth are stilled by a kind word or a gentle touch, from this world or the next.

Gods and goddesses, saints and bodhisattvas play peekaboo from behind the fleshly masks that show to the world as bag ladies or simpletons. The holy fool sleeps forever in the divine mother's arms, and the sibilant whisper of palm rubbing palm would not disturb his sleep.

At the height of the revival period, the sacred telling was the climax of the festival for festival initiates, as the ghost storytelling was its climax for the merely curious. Many of those who streamed down the hill from the cemetery would not come back, but would go away satisfied with the metaphysical teasing of the ghost stories. Those who were waiting to find a redemptive vision in storytelling would return in the morning for the sacred telling.

The spiritual worlds depicted on Saturday night were ex- citing precisely because they were sundered from this world by great gulfs of fear. The spiritual worlds depicted on Sunday morning were gently joined to this one by currents of love, mercy, forgiveness, and courage.

Like many another liminal rite, the trajectory of the festival moves downward into the dark in order to push the spirit up into the light. The revival preacher takes care to draw his eager audience into the steaming pit of hell before raising them into the dawn of salvation.

The tribal ini- tiate may be symbolically buried or dismembered before being reincorpo- rated into his new status. At the storytelling revival event, once again, the symbolic protagonist of festival's ritual narrative is storytelling itself.

Fea- tured tellers and committed audience celebrate the sacrificial death of the folk art, its harrowing of the hell of our haunted imaginations, and its resurrection as a tool of social connectedness and spiritual healing. By our projected identification with and dedication to the storytelling form, we are moved to shed fears and doubts and take on some of the power demonstrated at the festival, for reincorporation into our own lives and home communities.

The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Princeton: Princeton UP, Martin, Rafe. Telephone interview. May, Jim. McConnell, Ernest "Doc. Morphology of the Folktale. Austin: U of Texas P, Shannon, George. Simms, Laura. Torrence, Jackie. Turner, Victor. The Ritual Process. Ithaca: Cornell, Van Gennep, Arnold.

The Rites of Passage. Trans, by Monika. Vizedome and Gabrielle L. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, Cantwell, Robert. Chase, Richard, ed. The Jack Tales. Boston: Houghton, Dorst, John D. Philadelphia: Uof Penn, Ellis, Elizabeth. Forest, Heather. Schechner, Richard. London: Routledge, Smith, Jimmy Neil, ed. Homespun: Tales from America's Favorite Storytellers. NY: Crown, Sobol, Joseph Daniel. Stivender, Ed. Wallace, Anthony F. Although she never gave and received pills or injections of any kind, she deliv- ered babies and cured or eased both herself and many others through time-tested herbal recipes meticulously written out in a Swiss- German Amish dialect.

When she cut her hand open with a butcher knife, she sewed it back up again with a boiled darning needle. She was still canning and baking her own bread at the age of After her husband of 30 years died, she sat up all night with his body, as was the custom. Some- time toward morning, according to my mother, she left her rocking chair and walked slowly to the coffin. Then she began to probe, from head to toe, each part of the man she had loved so long.

She stopped at his abdo- men, continued, returned to it, probed again, nodded her head, and re- turned to her chair. He had died of an abdominal tumor that was un- doubtedly cancer, and she wanted to know. My mother told me that story, and this one, too, about the time she went to break up the huge old house filled from cellar to attic with my grandparents' and great-grandparents' things.

Desperately she dis- carded, gave away, auctioned, burned, or saved generations of relics. One artifact in question was my great-grandmother's box of herbal recipes. On the phone with my father, she mentioned her quandary over what to do with these recipes. The diary had remained in Augusta for more than sixty years, probably in the family of Dolly Lambard, who seems to have assumed custody of her mother's papers along with the rented cow.

Mary Hobart. Ironically, my father's mother had graduated from medi- cal school at about the same time as Martha Ballard's heir. However, this paternal grandmother died before my mother could ask her the strategic question about the value of herbal recipes. So it came about that, unlike Martha Ballard's private documents, my great-grandmother's were lost because of my professional father's advice. I have only oral fragments passed on as stories from my mother, and I know that boneset tea, whatever that is, may be one of the few known cures for migraine headache.

One other note: in slightly earlier times and places, not only would Great-grandmother Eliza's records have been in doubt, but also her life. While obstetrics has not generally been consid- ered a dangerous occupation, midwifery sometimes was. The designa- tions of healer, midwife, and witch overlapped precariously, depending on patriarchal authorities and public mood. French historian Jules Michelet, in a classic nineteenth-century study recently re-published as Witchcraft, Sorcery, and Superstition, elaborates on what happened when the midwife-healer was labeled "witch" for applying her skills: The Sorceress was running a terrible risk.

Nobody at that time had a suspicion that, applied externally or taken in very small doses, poi- sons are remedies. All the plants which were confounded together under the name of Witches' herbs were supposed ministers of death. Found in a woman's hands, they would have led to her being ad- judged a poisoner or fabricator of accursed spells. A blind mob, as cruel as it was timid, might any morning stone her to death, or force her to undergo the ordeal by water or noyade.

Or, worst and most dreadful fate of all, they might drag her with ropes to the church square, where the clergy would make a pious festival of it, and edify the people by burning her at the stake. However, women in creative touch with nature were in danger of being seen as supernatural rather than natural.

Giving birth and delivering life were too powerfully mysterious not to be threatening. Writes Ulrich about Martha Ballard's patients, "Between and , Oxford lost 12 percent of its population in one of the worst diphtheria epidemics in New England's history. One hundred forty-four persons died, mostly children ages two to fourteen" And this was not even a plague era. In one year, Martha lost three of her nine children, her uncle and aunt, eight of their eleven children, friends and neighbors, and many more.

Fortunately, no finger of suspi- cion was ever pointed at Martha, as we shall consider later, but in face of uncontrollable, mysterious, threatening forces there often lurked the ques- tion: Who more than the life-bringer could be blamed for bringing death? And what does all this have to do with children's literature? Be pa- tient. Perhaps a storytelling link is already apparent. From a historical perspective, the par- allels between midwives delivering babies, midwives delivering nascent children's literature, and midwives appearing as characters in children's literature may come as no surprise.

Martha Ballard learned some of what she knew from her own Grand- mother Learned, still alive in , the year before Martha delivered her first baby Ulrich Brat, a. There is always a cure here when the heart is troubled" Humpy, a. She showed me the medicinal value of the hare's liver. She revealed to me the secrets of the river fish. I know cures from her. And through the years I have added my own.

I have experimented, always following my instinct. But until now my cures have been offered only to newborns and their mothers and to my own sweet Asa. My heart is now in my throat. My breath comes hard. Say Laura's men- tors, "We will marry you, if we can, to some sleeping aspect of yourself and you must wake it. Your journey is inward, but it will seem outward" In each of the seven children's books mentioned, we see a knowledge of special power developed within a matriarchal network for passing on that knowledge.

Among the several patterns immediately apparent in children's fic- tion about midwife, witch, and woman-child, then, is the intimate passage of intimate lore from masters to apprentices. The master is a mature or elderly woman, the apprentice a prepubescent girl with the exception of one boy marginalized by his crippled body , and both are typically differ- ent from others, often community outcasts or at best tenuously accepted if and when the regnant patriarchal society requires their skills.

The ap- prenticeship is difficult, demanding, and ultimately dangerous because the female healer is dealing in the art of life and death. Her observations of nature involve a closeness to nature that is suspect in the eyes of the church and other male-dominated institutions. Women's sexuality is sus- pect because it is associated with the inevitable but mysterious power of birth and death, with the rhythm of moon and tides so often metaphori- cal of female cycles as to become a romanticized stereotype.

Less than romantic is the solution of Meghan Collins' "The Green Woman" to hedge her bets on herbal remedy by sending her own virile lover to bed the governor's wife, who has threatened to foment a witch trial unless the Green Woman can guarantee her an infant heir to the governor.

Learning, as implied by the status of apprenticeship itself, has to do amazingly enough with education. Mental and spiri- tual health is crucial to physical health. And what, it turns out, is more crucial to spiritual health than storytelling and, even more specifically in each of these books, reading? Kit, who teaches children to read through storytelling in The Witch of Blackbird Pond, passes on her old silver filigree hornbook to a child as isolated as herself Speare The shy orphan Alyce learns to read from a scholar who pretends to be teach- ing the cat: "Once Alyce knew all the letters and a number of combina- tions, Magister Reese began teaching the cat words, reading aloud bits of wisdom from his great encyclopaedia" Cushman Ugly One has learned to read from the father of her illegitimate child and uses a local burgermeister's books to study the skills and sorcery of healing.

He seemed to be seeing with his hands as well as feeling" Not only are storytelling and reading crucial in all of these books, but there is also a persistent association of storytelling and reading with magic. Indeed, Rosemary's strangely powerful older sister Con reads her mother Althea's books from a distance; the family knows because they see the pages turning by themselves while Con is minding pigs in the forest. Althea owned three books, books that Rosemary's grandmother had owned, and her great-grandmother before that.

Sometimes Rose- mary would be alone in the house, and she would walk by the table to see that one of the books had been pulled away from the others and opened. Slowly, very slowly, the pages would turn, as if blown by a breath from far away. Sometimes, when Rosemary saw those pages turning, she would run into the forest so that she could find Con and sit and listen. Wood Magic associated with storytelling and reading may symbolize the more mysterious, intuitive, associative, or subconscious aspects of learning.

We are to some extent moved and transformed by stories in inexplicable ways that seem to involve a metaphorical process important to understanding the human condition. Inherent in the work of healing is passing on knowl- edge not only of the ingredients, but of how and in what circumstances they are effective, how people respond to them in unexpected ways, how people react to life and death.

This kind of knowledge is wisdom not information. It has to do with instinct, experience, observation, and val- ues, as well as facts. What each apprentice learns from her mentor com- prises much more than plant names and applications. Despite our scien- tific era, we still speak of the "art" of healing. Each of the apprentices must learn to honor her creative self, nurture her full identity, and pass on her knowledge in an oral or printed tradition before becoming a mas- ter of her art.

Like the Fates who determine life and death on spindle or loom, these women often practice in addition to the art of healing the art of spin- ning and weaving. It's a domestic art, of course, but with a mythological resonance that's closely associated with the art of spinning a yarn, the art of storytelling.

And the stories of these women, when they reach us, make gripping literature as well as historical lore. Here is a dramatic example linking the long, tedious birth attendances in the almost-lost diary of Martha Ballard, a weaver of flax, by the way, and a spinner of wool we'll come back again later to women's proclivity for applied arts, generally underrated in comparison to "fine arts".

Crosst the river in their Boat. A great sea A going. We got save over then sett out for Mr Hewins. Wonder full is the Goodness of providence. I then proseeded on my journey. I was assisted over the fallen tree by Mr Hains.

Went on. Soon Came to a stream. The Bridg was gone. Mrs Hewins safe delivd at 10 h Evn of a Daughter. Ulrich 6 Ulrich astutely points out the rhythm, repetition, and pattern of al- ternating "action sentences with formulaic religious phrases" here 7. It seems clear that in another age, Ballard might have been a noted writer as well as a noted physician. We must ask ourselves if what she was, a great midwife and storyteller, is any less for having been unnoted. Martha Ballard, without her year diary, would have been recorded in public documents no more than the three times a woman was supposed to be for birth, marriage, and death Tucker 8.

Martha, consort of Mr. Ephraim Ballard, aged 77 years. We would not even be certain she had been a midwife. Knowledge in the form of history, literature, arts, and sciences has traditionally been divided into public and private domains, the public belonging to men and the private to women, the former considered, until recently, to be of greater significance than the latter Welter.

Audiences for men tended to be other men in context of religious rituals or political arenas while audi- ences for women tended to be children and other women, on a house- hold stage. All the cultures in- volved here have a strong female storytelling tradition, but it is confined to the private domain. Parallels can be seen in the history of art, in which men have been more commonly acknowledged for painting and other "formal" graphic media, while women have only recently been counted artists for their work on quilts, knitting, sewing, embroidery, rugs, pottery, etc.

An interest- ing philosophical question might revolve around whether a lullabye sung through thousands of nights is of equal value to a symphony written by one whom the lullabye shaped. This translation legitimized what had earlier been held in low esteem as old wives' tales.

During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, especially in Britain and the United States, women began to make a transition from storytelling in the private domain to storytelling in the public arena. With increasing access to education, they started to publish fiction cf. Nathaniel Hawthorne's letter to his publisher: "America is now wholly given over to a damned mob of scribbling women and I should have no chance of suc- cess while the public taste is occupied with their trash and should be ashamed if I did succeed " Wagenknecht but much of their work took the form of short stories in magazines for women and children, as opposed to "serious fiction," an area still dominated by men at that time Shaker Similarly, the rise of professionalism among women saw them going primarily into service professions that represented an exten- sion of domestic duties: nursing taking care of children's bodies and social work, teaching, or librarianship taking care of children's minds and spirits.

As women pushed into the world of publishing, they were most frequently allowed toeholds in a relatively new business: translating an old literature for children, often folklore passed on by women, into a new literature for children, also cultivated by women Hearne, "Margaret K. McElderry" With very few exceptions, women produced the books, edited the books, purchased the books, and inducted younger women in the ongoing cycle.

As authors, editors, publishers, and librarians, women formed a flexible network with much role-switching between creative and administrative functions, just as women's creations have often blended art and application. Perhaps it is not surprising, then, that studies show girls as more avid readers, espe- cially of fiction. Rather, we have sanitised the witch, so that she can become acceptable, transforming her into another one of our better selves.

Now she is clean, pretty, an herbalist with a promising career in midwifery, a feminist, as good a mother as anybody if not rather better than most, sexually liberated without being too kinky. Where there are issues of power, there are always related issues of control that can be exaggerated, in fact, if the power is seen as scarce or limited within a broader social context. Children's literature attended by matriarchal midwives who are neither perfect nor perfectly compassionate, but pow- erful in their own sphere as we see in Cushman's portrayal of Jane Sharp and Mahy's of Miryam and Winter Carlisle recreates the stereotype of good and evil witches by idealizing the former while the latter, only by implication, lurk unacknowledged somewhere in the shadows.

Ironically, today's literary witch believes, as did some seventeenth-century witches, in her own magical powers despite the intervening period when educated feminists saw witches as victims innocent of anything more powerful than superstitious and homicidal public opinion. How old can this story pattern be? The knowledge of these women, and their stories, is subversive in viewpoint only; the narrative structure is as conservative as possible.

It's what they do and tell, not how they do or tell it, that breaks boundaries. Folklore is often subversive in content, rarely in form, and these women are traditional storytellers, tra- dition bearers. I have dealt at length with this idea elsewhere in examining both formally conservative children's fiction such as Penelope Lively's Hearne, "Across the Ages" and folkloric form in popular picture books Hearne, "Perennial Picture Books" , but the point has a place here in relation to the academy that today privileges us to evaluate storytelling and criticize children's literature.

Like midwives, weavers, and storytellers, the women who delivered children's literature and librarianship did not separate theory from prac- tice or art from application. Moreover, the scholarship of Jane Anne Hannigan, Kay Vandergrift, Christine Jenkins, and Anne Lundin, among others, shows over and again how deeply this women's field has depended on longterm anonymous service, flexible role changing, cooperative net- working, mentoring relationships, nonconfrontational resistance, and low- profile leadership.

These are not characteristics highly rewarded in con- temporary academia despite lip service to several of them. As the Dean of the Social Sciences at the University of Chicago said recently, in closing down the School of Education five years after the closure of the university's Graduate Library School , "we can't let a sentimental concern for chil- dren get in the way of hard scrutiny about whether we are producing quality work" Bronner A Just as children's literature was the female domain of a male-domi- nated publishing world, the critical evaluation of children's literature was fostered by female-dominated children's specialists in libraries and library education for nearly a century before entering the minds or departments of male-dominated English Literature and Education departments in the s.

That entry, signaled by the involvement of male critics, has changed the critical evaluation of children's literature, and we need to think about how and why in determining a new balance of scholarship. Perpetrating a classic hoax, he submitted a pro- posal to analyze The English Boy 's Magazine to conference organizers who described it as excellent and enthusiastically invited him to present the paper.

My starting point will be an attempt to rescue the concept of parole from that of langue, perceiving a need for saussurian theoretics to give way in the analysis of socially designed texts to the more flexible critical potential residing in the insights of Bakhtin and Althusser.

I will develop this through an examination of the dialogic qualities in the Empire-building serials by H. P Anelay, discussing not merely the nature of the intentionality of these essentially propagandist works but also the nexus of authorial discourse and readerly expecta- tion. I would assess the connotative semiotics of the printed im- age. This may lead me towards the unexplored territory of pictorial content as subliminal discourse in this instance on the hegemony of the imperial ethic.

Anelay, nor any illustrator of those serials signing W. What Alderson 's hoax shows up is a concern more for academic status than for children's literature. In its struggle for validation in a male-dominated hierarchy, is the literary criticism of children's books "growing up" to fit male-defined re- quirements? Obviously, critics of both genders vary individually. I am looking not at individuals but at gender patterns as in noting, for ex- ample, that not all men have been U.

At a recent international conference on children's lit- erature, all four plenary session speakers were men, this despite the over- whelming majority of female presenters and attendees, not to mention the singular domination of women in the history of children's literature. Perhaps the most famous men to put fairy tales on the modern academic map have been Bruno Bettelheim, who champi- oned them upon a towering theoretical superstructure of Freudian inter- pretation, and Jack Zipes who challenged him with a Marxist reading.

In his book Creative Storytelling, Zipes describes storytell- ers who visit schools and libraries. More often, however, school and pub- lic librarians are storytellers dedicated to just the kind of community- building he advocates, and an integral part of that community, as well. If their work has not been theoretically subversive, the very act of their sustaining storytelling programs decade after decade in the face of budget cuts and skeptical authorities has been subversive, not to mention the fact that Molly Whuppie and other active folktale heroines were mainstays of such programs from the turn of the century, long before politically cor- rected anthologies began to surface in the s.

Zipes himself is a strong feminist, but many folklorists, perhaps politically sensitive to their own insecure academic status, have consistently distanced themselves from the female- and child-associated areas of storytelling in librarianship and children's literature Hearne, Beauty Where is the story of the storytellers, the women who turned school boiler rooms and store fronts into houses of story in both oral and print traditions?

School and public librarians share stories with children on a weekly basis without seeking either stardom or fancy fees. They have been doing it for a hundred years. Yet one male scholar at the aforementioned inter- national conference publicly praised another male scholar for the singu- lar feat of going into schools and working with children himself. The parallel might be Columbus discovering America.

Could such disregard for indigenous inhabitants be due to an undervaluing of female librar- ians' and library educators' traditional treatment of literature as an ap- plied art? Has their work been at once discounted and coopted? Or has it simply been unnoted? While some fairy tale scholars a few female, but more often male have become academic supernovas, the women who kept folklore, fairy tales, and juvenile literature alive in libraries and library education for a century have faded from graduate school curricula see Lundin's survey results in "The Pedagogical Context of Women in Children's Services and Literature Scholarship".

An escalating academic struggle for resources, time, and attention endangers awareness of the kind of invisible presence and quiet voice on which service-oriented women in children's literature and librarianship have typically relied to get their work done. It is time to project our voices beyond the professional web, to define ourselves to a broader public community as women have done in other disciplines.

Psychologist Carol Gilligan talks about the way females characteristi- cally develop a sense of justice as compromise rather than contest, an "ethic of care" Anthropologist Nancy Chodorow describes women's blurred sense of ego boundaries as a basis for empathy. Philoso- pher Elizabeth Minnich asks us to create gender-inclusive curricula "re- covering women's stories within the complex intellectual traditions of higher education" Lundin Sociologist Harriet Presser explains how, for many academic women, the personal is political and professional in Gender and the Academic Experience What are the implications, for specialists in children's literature and librarianship, of these and many other voices examining intellectual midwives past and present?

As a public-domain institution the university is still close to patriar- chal conventions. Remember that only in the past 50 years have women worked their way toward becoming a substantial percentage of faculty and heads of universities the latter still deeply under-represented.

And only in the last 25 years have women worked their way toward becoming sub- jects of history, literature, and science curricula in mainstream institu- tions. Women's stories, women's studies, women's development, it's still relatively new stuff new enough to be considered trendy and token rather than deeply imbedded and distributed. It's subversive stuff, and few claim to know exactly what it is or where it belongs.

Often women's studies units run the risk of becoming marginalized. Isolated midwives, as we know from the history of witch-hunting, were in a dangerous position. Alas, Wise Child and Juniper had to be rescued by Juniper's ex-true-love playing deus ex machina with his sailing vessel anchored just out of reach of a pursuing mob a resolution remarkably parallel with that of the book, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, 30 years earlier. The most successful midwives in terms of not getting burned at the stake were those imbedded deeply within the community rather than marginalized on its fringes.

Nobody bothered historical midwife Martha Ballard in the 27 years of her midwifery, and nobody bothered literary midwives Althea in Becoming Rosemary or Jane Sharpton in The Midwife's Apprentice. These three characters, one actual and two fictional, were care- ful to remain encompassed in community.

Indeed, community was the strength of successful midwifery. Historically, as many as four to six women, with tasks requiring varied levels of skill, attended a birth under the direc- tion of a midwife. As a survivor of conflicts between these forces, which are so often divided in educational institutions the "higher" the education the more polar the division I nurture stories.

Myjob is to tell stories about stories, to help deliver other people's stories, to examine stories, to keep the pro- cess healthy. Relevant to my understanding of this process is having birthed stories myself. Ulrich quotes an eighteenth-century midwifery manual to the same effect, that having babies was part of the preparation for deliver- ing them This, needless to say, might not have proved popular with male doctors as a standard requirement.

The story, its procreation; the literature, its practice: these are inte- grated, interactive processes. Let's not throw away the box of recipes. Although still suspect for example, see Ritter's newspaper reports, "Mid- wives Battle State Crackdown" and "A Tough State for Midwives" , mid- wifery is in many circles increasingly valued as an integrated, interactive way to deliver babies.

And it is no accident that metaphors of midwifery fit smoothly in a matriarchal profession that has delivered the private do- main of storytelling into the public domain of children's literature. Bettelheim, Bruno. New York: Vintage, Bronner, Ethan. Bush, Margaret. Chodorow, Nancy.

Michelle Zimbalist Rosaldo and Louise Lamphere. Stanford: Stanford UP, Meghan B. Jack Zipes. New York: Methuen, Cushman, Karen. The Midwife's Apprentice. New York: Clarion Books, Furlong, Monica. Wise Child. New York: Knopf, Gilligan, Carol.

In a Different Voice. Cambridge: Harvard U P, Hearne, Betsy. Chicago: U of Chicago P, Lord, Albert B. The Singer of Tales. Mahy, Margaret. The Changeover: A Supernatural Romance. McElderry, Michelet, Jean. Witchcraft, Sorcery, and Superstition. New York: Carol, Napoli, Donna Jo. The Magic Circle. New York: Dutton, Presser, Harriet.

Kathryn P. Meadow Orlans and Ruth A. Lincoln: U of Ne- braska P, Purkiss, Diane. Ritter, Jim. Shaker, Bonnie James. History of Print Culture Conference. Madison, Wisconsin, 9 May Speare, Elizabeth George. The Witch of Blackbird Pond. Sutcliff, Rosemary. The Witch's Brat. London: Oxford U P, Tucker, Susan. Ulrich, Laurel Thatcher. Vandergrift, Kay E. Wagenknecht, Edward. Nathaniel Hawthorne: Man and Writer. New York: Oxford UP, Welter, Barbara.

Wood, Frances M. Becoming Rosemary. New York: Delacorte, Here There Be Witches. San Diego: Harcourt Brace, New York: Routledge, Composing a Life. Arbuthnot, May Hill. Children and Books. Chicago: Scott Foresman, See also 2nd- 4th editions under Arbuthnot and 5th-9th eds. Baker, Augusta and Ellin Greene. Storytelling: Art and Technique.

New York: Bowker, Bauer, Caroline Feller. Handbook for Storytellers. Chicago: American Library Association, Baxandall, Rosalyn and Linda Gordon, eds. New York: Norton, Brink, Andre. Chris Miller. New York: Basic Books, Colum, Padraic. Story-Telling, New and Old. New York: Macmillan, Colwell, Eileen, ed.

New York: Walck, True North: A Memoir. Cook, Elizabeth. Cambridge: Cambridge U P, Ehrenreich, Barbara and Deirdre English. Old Westbury: Feminist Press, Ellis, Sarah. Forbes, Thomas Rogers. The Midwife and the Witch. New Haven: Yale U P, Franklin, Penelope, ed. Private Pages: Diaries of American Women s- s.

New York: Ballantine, Heilbrun, Carolyn G. Writing a Woman's Life. Jenkins, Christine. Johnson, Edna and Carrie E. Scott, eds. Anthology of Children 's Literature.

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Seasons Burningham is very good at weather. Here, he mixes media to evoke the haze of a summer day over the emerald countryside as a boatful of happy holidaymakers have fun. A combination of crayons, charcoal, watercolour, cellulose paints, and soft, rubbed pastels create a luminous sheen and a host of multitextured effects. Mr Gumpy's Outing After the bold, painterly feel of the early work, Burningham developed the increasingly sensitive style seen here.

Delicate sepia line drawings combine with shimmering areas of coloured cross-hatching and luminous ink washes to create an enchanting pastoral setting for a story about the consequences of bad behaviour. Mr Gumpy's Outing And into the water they go, as the mild Mr Gumpy is capsized by the badly behaved animals who make mayhem in his boat.

The restrained colouring is offset by the chaotic splat of bodies hitting the waterPhotograph: Puffin Books. Avocado Baby This story of a fussy baby, whose world is transformed when he is persuaded to eat some avocado, is based on Burningham's own daughter, who had a passion for avocados.

Here his mischievous, oblique humour comes to the forePhotograph: Jonathan Cape. Where's Julius? Animal Drawings. Fairytale Art. Cute Animals. Old Illustrations. Illustration Animals. Umbrella Art. Under My Umbrella. Umbrella Insurance. Rain Painting. All Art. Cute Art. Watercolor Illustration. Illustration Styles.

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