The storyteller's cottage is somewhere in between those sorts of accommodations: a two-story affair, very well appointed, clean and comfortable. Everything a traveler might need. Kitchenette. Cookware. Glasses and silverware, air conditioning. Right on Main Street extended.
I've broken out my injured Taylor 12-string and my sitar, finally, after 950 miles of driving from New Hampshire, after my sound check with Todd at the International Storytelling Center downtown, after a drive to Erwin, along the river.
Last night I stayed in a Comfort Inn on Roan Avenue near Johnson City, and made the mistake of parking my truck beneath the balcony so that I could easily load in all my instruments. Brought them all for this trip. The Celtic harp. Three 12-strings. The electric guitar and all its rock'n'roll accoutrements. Even my sitar. As I loaded them in, I heard from the open door of the room on the balcony above me the loud carping and cursings of a young couple. Later I deduced that these two are related to the weary gentleman who presides over the sad hotel, and probably live there.
They obviously haven't been married long, but already both of them seem tired of it. He cursed and she cursed back in a shrill ululation, well practiced, like a Palestinian woman who mourns every day. I closed my door and stayed in my room.
The next morning I discovered, covering the rear bumper of my truck, black tufts of haircut droppings and clumps of cigarette ash. I wiped them off, thinking to myself that he was lucky she hadn't stabbed him with those scissors, and feeling utterly disgusted. Whatever else--dandruff, scrofula--was on my bumper, I didn't want to know, so I wiped it all off with one of the thin facecloths
from the room. I lit out of there early.
But the storyteller's cottage is just fine as accommodations go. My home for a week while I'm down here as the Storyteller-in-Residence. It's late August. I'm on TV tomorrow, then off to my first of five daily performances. Should be fun. I've been down here before. For the Festival. Nearby at ETSU for a week-long graduate course for storytellers. But never for quite so intensive a series of performances.
And The Iliad: Book I is ready. So I need to decide whether I'll test it out on the nice folks down here, or save it for the college kids. It all depends on how the audiences feel, really. Whether they're with me or not. If they're with me, I just might debut this story here. If not, I'll smile and fall back on my repertory, and it will still be the best work of which I'm capable. Doesn't matter, other than that it would be good to get a first telling under my belt before September 8th, when I'm performing the tale for the freshman class at a college in New Hampshire. It's a rugged, very adult, very elemental and political story, The Iliad. I like it. Still, it all depends on the audiences.
Tomorrow I'll start out with The Storm Breeder. Good opening story for a town that loves ghost stories. I'll give a little introduction about how the hills of Tennessee remind me of the hills of New Hampshire. How when I first moved to New Hampshire, I cast about for some local folklore and found Peter Rugg: The Missing Man of Boston in B.A. Botkin's New England Folklore, then found it again in a local pamphlet. I'll never forget the story about the attorney who was listening to my recording of it in his car and drove off the road.
Then, since when I was down here in the past I never brought my Celtic harp, I'll tell The Elf of Springtime. Sweet story indeed. I'll finish with Electric Jack, my tribute to Lynrd Skynrd. They ought to enjoy that. And that will be the first show. We'll see how they react.
