ONCE UPON A TIME: THE COW AND THE TURTLE AND THE FROG ON THE HILL

The cow, the turtle, and the frog on the hill  

Laying together, talking to Eden only

And not her Mommy!

Gleena has to be careful because the frog might get her.

Watch out!  The cow might bite!

(by two-year old Eden)

“So that is her story, inspired by the stumps at the top of the hill,” her Mommy, Natika, says, “where the cows were let out to roam the trails.” The picture at this blog header is the mise-en-scene, on a mountain trail in British Columbia, Canada, the exact setting where all this cow and turtle and frog action takes place.  Eden and Gleena and Natika hike this trail every day!

And why would Eden, who is just two years old, be telling such a story?  She tells such a story because storytelling is in her nature, central to all of our human existence.  Common in every culture is the symbiotic entertaining exchange between story teller and story listener.  Storytelling has a constant social value; storytelling is an expression of feeling; storytelling is a constant reminder and affirmation that we are not alone in our struggles. 

Sharing stories brings people together and gives perspectives to our lives.  In storytelling and listening we commune with one another and also with the characters involved; and in so doing, we relate these characters to our present and existing conditions.

According to William Glasser (creator of Reality Therapy), each of us has a story to tell.

One of my clients, Calvin, (not his real name) just recently told me the story of how he ended up in the psychiatric ward.  One hot August night the rain began, and not resisting the urge, he stripped off his clothes and ran naked into the middle of the street.  He howled at the gibbours moon until the police arrested him.

Each week I tell a stories in my blog entries – one of which you are reading right now.  My stories are always about busking.  In my stories, I present myself as a certified buskologist, a self-proclaimed status of authority on busking.  In my stories, I am this busker who moils and thrums daily on the summer sidewalks; whereas, anyone who follows my blog knows that I am really a faux busker, having the not-so-secret urge to become a brutto tempo busker.

This past week in every Canadian paper was a headline on storyteller, Marc Nadon.  Marc Nadon, our newly appointed Supreme Court Justice, told the story that he was drafted by the Detroit Red Wings (National Hockey League) when he was 14 years old, and that he chose to give up hockey to pursue a higher education.  This story, researched by every sports writer in hockey, quickly proved to be a lie.

All stories have themes. Nadon’s story is a theme of sacrifice.  He presented that he could have been a professional hockey player, but instead took one for the team (Canada) and became a lawyer, and now a Supreme Court Justice.  Simply, Nadon’s story is that of a bloviate, a story of deception.  In that one line, Marc Nadon expressed that he chose to be a liar and not a hockey player.

My busker themes are always that my busker alterity is really one of altruistic enterprise, when in fact, I just really love busking.

Calvin’s story theme is that of a delusional superpower.  Calvin was convinced he could transmogrify from human to werewolf with a few simple howls under the midnight moon.  Calvin has been in the psychiatric ward several times over the past few years, most times because of his delusional symptoms of Schizophrenia.

Eden’s story has, simply, the theme of innocence.  Eden, herself, represents the fountainhead of storydom, for in psychological development, this is the age where her story and all of our stories begin.  Eden’s story is one of enjoyment, and contentment, and her love of nature and all things surrounding her.

Yes, each of us has a story to tell; in fact, many stories to tell.
Our stories start when we start -- Our stories end when we end.

CHAUCERIAN PARADE

En route to KINGSWARD and slinging my guitar, I passed the usual canaille, with all their hats out and upturned, begging for money.  (KINGSWARD is where I busk after every Saskatchewan Roughrider home football game.  KINGSWARD is so named because my long-time best friend, GARY KING, suggested that this be my buskspot after each game.  The KING in KINGSWARD is obvious; the SWARD, just another of my puns.)

Anyway … en route to KINGSWARD beneath a grey and smalt sky, my hiking boots crunching the grassy floor of fallen vermilion and jasper leaves in Victoria Park, did I pass the outdoor vendors battening down the hatches in the brisk and bitter wind.  Walking up Albert Street to the tunnel beneath the train track I did pass the canaille, wailing with hand outstretched. And just around the first corner, thirty-one steps heading west toward the east exit gate of the football stadium, I did set up my buskspot at KINGSWARD.

That game day at KINGSWARD, three inebriated marching members deserve mention in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE for this busking week.

• The bongo player who grabbed Baron’s bongos and wouldn’t quit pounding upon them until he fell over and stumbled away.

• The sidewalk singer who uploaded lyrics to a few of his favorite songs, and between cacophonous belts and cigarette puffs, would holler and intimately insist to others in the exiting parade to give me money or else.

• The not-so-mobile scantily clad nubile who slowly and sultry danced to the hoots and whistles of the other marchers.

And to close ...  
A devine and mesmeric little girl and her ever faithful dog 
were sat on a mountainside sward and ...