Life, the Universe and Everything

“Be it known that I, Milton Bradley, of Springfield, in the county of Hampden and Commonwealth of Massachusetts, have invented a new Social Game… The game, as here arranged, is called ‘the checkered game of life,’ and, in addition to the amusement and excitement of the game, it is intended to forcibly impress upon the minds of youth the great moral principles of virtue and vice.” United States Patent Office Patent # 53,561

Milton Bradley “invented” the Checkered Game of Life in 1860 after dropping out of Harvard and going into business for himself. He bought a printing press.  His first big venture was a lithograph of a clean-shaven Abraham Lincoln. When Honest Abe grew a beard, it didn’t sell.  A friend invited Milton over one night for a board game to lift his spirits. He decided to print one up.  45,000 copies sold the first year.

In the Checkered Game of Life, you start out in Infancy, and the first person to get to Happy Old Age with 100 points wins.  Union soldiers took a pocket version into the battlefield with them during the Civil War. Happy Old Age looked pretty good on the battlefield. I do not know what Confederate soldiers played.

CheckeredGameofLifeHappy Old Age was worth 50 points. Getting there was half the game – the other half was how you got there.  Avoid gambling, which leads to ruin; intemperance, which leads to poverty; idleness, which leads to disgrace; and crime, which leads to prison.  You don’t get any points for those, and prison makes you lose a turn.   Cupid will get you to Matrimony, but Matrimony doesn’t get you any points.  Perseverence leads to success, and that’s worth five points; school leads to college, another five points; honesty leads to happiness, also worth five points; politics will lead you to Congress, five points; Influence leads to Fat Office, which is five points too; and a Government Contract leads to Wealth, which is worth ten points. The Government Contract square used to be a Speculation square, but that was a little too much like gambling.

In the Checkered Game of Life, there is a square called Truth. Truth is not a destination, nor does it lead you anywhere.  If you land on the Suicide square, you’re out of the game. Yeah. There’s a Suicide square.

On the 100th anniversary of the Milton Bradley Company, The Game of Life was redesigned. That’s the one I played.  You start out with a gender, a convertible, and $2500.   Then you choose between business and college. College takes longer, but it is worth it, because you will always get paid more than a businessman, even if you don’t have a job. This might have surprised Milton Bradley.

il_570xN.452062963_gzbgGetting Married gets  you presents. Cash presents.   When you land in one of the spaces where a child is born, you add a blue or pink peg to your car.  Children don’t cost you anything, so have as many as you like. Every time you add a child you get to collect $500 from each of your opponents. “If you get more than four children just crowd them in as you do in real life.” Direct quote.

On the Day of Reckoning – do not confuse this with Judgment Day – you cash in your insurance policies and stocks, and trade in your kids for money – each of them is worth $24,000 -  and pay back all your promissory notes.  No one cares whether you reach Happy Old Age. The destination is Millionaire Acres, and the player with the most money wins.

In the Game of Life I played, bankruptcy was the worst thing that can happen to you. There was no Suicide square. There was no Truth square either. But there was  Art Linkletter.

How many of you even know who Art Linkletter was?  Ah, kids don’t know the darndest things.  A TV and radio personality, people. Consult your Wikipedia. Art Linkletter “heartily endorsed” the Game of Life. His signature was on all the money, and his picture was on the $100,000 bill.  Milton Bradley’s picture was only on the $50,000 bill.

But hey. Art Linkletter finished college.  Didn’t use the degree because radio – and then TV – paid better,  but he finished college.  That trumped the fact that he worked here as an illegal immigrant until 1942. If you’re Canadian, and Art Linkletter, you can apparently pay a $500 fee and correct this. You can write your autobiography – Confessions of a Happy Man – at 48 and become a Disney Legend. You can have five children – “just crowd them in, as you do in real life” – land in Millionaire Acres and live to the Happy Old Age of 97 and a half, married to the same woman for almost 75 years.  Milton Bradley would have liked him.  If it hadn’t been for the child who landed on the Suicide square, and the child who landed on the Car Crash square, and the child who landed on the Cancer square – he’d probably tell you he won both games.

- Told at the SlamMN May 2013 for the theme “Game”

Leave a Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Graveyard Shift

You can move into some situations faster than you can move out of them.

In February my car hit a patch of black ice at 50 mph.  It spun around, hit a guardrail, ricocheted like a pinball into the opposite guardrail. This took maybe fifteen seconds. I got out of the car. The passenger side door was bashed in; the only corner of the car not previously crunched now matched the rest.  The grill was gone, one headlight was out.  My tongue was bleeding.

The safety patrol pulled up, lights flashing. “Did I hit anyone?”

“No,” he said. “Get back in the car, before someone hits you.”

When the police arrive, I realize the radio is still on. I had peeled out to an episode of To the Best of Our Knowledge - “The Twisted Worlds of Phillip K. Dick.” A public radio voice tells me “Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.” I turn the damn thing off.

I was able to drive home. But in the morning the passenger side door was still bashed in; all four corners of the car were crunched. The grill was gone, one headlight was out, a turn signal hung limp from red and black wires, twisted together like licorice. I winched up the front bumper with a cargo strap.

I couldn’t afford repairs. I couldn’t afford a new car. I tried disbelieving this. It did not go away.   But something else appeared. A white 1993 Toyota Tercel, free, from my friend John Berquist.  “It’s rusty, and it’s not good for long trips – but as a tool-about town car, it’d be just fine.” Only one problem. It’s a manual transmission.   “Relax,” he says. “I can teach you in half an hour.”

Which he does. Though a half hour isn’t really long enough to get good. The car is  twenty years old. The shift knob has been palmed so much that the diagram showing where the gears are has rotated 90 degrees.

“You do it by feel anyway,” John says.

What I feel a lot is the car, stalling. Especially in stop-start traffic.  Nor can I always get it into reverse. That’s how I end up, one drizzly Saturday in March,  at the Lakewood Cemetery. Plenty of roads, very little traffic, no one I can kill, they’re already dead.  Great place to practice. I pass the Garden of Memories Sundial, the Mars Mausoleum, the Eustis Obelisk. Pay my respects to the Andersons and the Gundersons and the Lobergs and the Carlsons and the Atwoods, stopping at each monument,  then starting up again.  I roll my window down and smell old snow and wet earth. Nobody rolls their eyes when I stall. No eyes to roll. The dead can afford to be generous.

You can move into some situations faster than you can move out of them.  Coming up over a hill, I realize too late that a graveside service is in progress below. Cars with funeral flags are double parked along the road.  The hearse is in front, dark and dignified. I spot a BMW, a Lexus, an Escalade. Everyone at this funeral has a tastefully appointed, appropriately mournful, expensive new car. And now my rusty little white refrigerator on wheels is stuck among them.  The One Percent stand under golf umbrellas, and pay a minister to say comforting words so they can plant their dead in the ground and leave.  “I am the Resurrection and the Life; He who believes in me will never die.” My engine stalls.  I feel stupid, and embarrassed, conspicuous, and inordinately resentful of the rich. If I get flustered and screw up this funeral procession, it will be their fault.

After about twenty minutes people finally start heading to their cars.  I try not to meet any eyes. At last we begin crawling down the hill. I stop and start and stop again, each SUV a family monument.

One person is left at the graveside, a young woman with a red nose and blotchy face.  She is wearing a ridiculous orange coat; her black high heels have pinned her into the muck; the rest of her hovers above ground. She stares right through me; I’m not even there at all. That’s when I see how small a casket it is – what a pale, pearly, rose-petal pink.

You can move into some situations a lot faster than you can move out of them.  And some, sweet Jesus – rich or poor, believer or no – you cannot move out of at all.

[Told at Story SlamMN (Theme: "Move"), Kieran's Irish Pub, April 2013]

Leave a Comment

April 3, 2013 · 4:35 am

Arr!

At work today I was told it is Talk Like a Pirate Day, so we were all to set our Facebook language to English (pirate) and go to
http://www.piratequiz.com/
to generate our pirate names. I work in public radio, where the definition of “cutthroat” is a justifiably peeved email if you accidentally throw out somebody else’s food when it’s your month to clean the refrigerator (Aar!), and I’m not sure I’ll be able to work productively in this raucous atmosphere. Occasionally someone in their cubicle will chuckle. What next – maniacal laughter?

At any rate, here is my new identity for the day:

My pirate name is:
Black Mary Bonney

Like anyone confronted with the harshness of robbery on the high seas, you can be pessimistic at times. You can be a little bit unpredictable, but a pirate’s life is far from full of certainties, so that fits in pretty well. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.

I am supposed to be finishing up a draft for a proposal on coverage of the conflict in the South Sudan today, but it’s a landlocked country, and my eyes keep straying over the map to Somalia. Focus, Black Mary. Focus.

Leave a Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Of Slams and Evil Folktales

As I explained in the post before last, in addition to tweeting on my own behalf, I currently tweet for Northstar Storytelling League.  It is an organization which may soon be changing its name – being often confused with the regional storytelling organization, Northlands Storytelling Network, and sometimes even with the National Storytelling Network.  Both are worthwhile organizations that I also belong to. But for some reason, there are just too many storytelling organizations whose names begin with N.  At any rate, as of the date of this blog post, our Twitter account is still @NorthstarStory, as is the Facebook page, and I encourage you to follow both if you want to know about storytelling in the Twin Cities.

On the Twitter account, I try to provide and repost content that is of interest to storytellers everywhere, and one of the ways I try to do this is by having a folktale theme for the week. Right now I am using the themes provided for the year by Story SlamMN – because no one has given me any better ideas, and because it’s a good way of preparing my mind for a story.  Their themes are monthly, however, not weekly – so I need suggestions for further topics.  And I’ll take them anywhere – in the comments here, on the Twitter feed, on the Facebook page – from anyone who is interested in folktales or storytelling.

Last month the SlamMN theme was “cash,” and I did my version of a folktale from India called The Farmer and the Money-Lender. It didn’t score particularly high; partly, I suspect, because the judges were not convinced that a folktale was sufficiently “original” as material, and partly because I was not able to get it under five minutes.  I actually bracketed the story with personal material, and at some point I’ll post it and you can compare it to the source and decide for yourselves what constitutes an “original” treatment of a folktale.

Fortunately, the hostess with the mostest at Story SlamMN, the beauteous Allison Broeren (who is both on the Northstar board and a member of the Rockstar Storytellers, bless her amazing heart, lets people finish even if they are over time. This is not always the case in other slams, where they kill you off with kindness (literally hugging you off the stage) or audience applause that makes it crystal clear you are done.  I try not to abuse this with rambles and unprepared material, but the truth is this is one of the best venues in town for trying out new material right now – better, IMHO, than an Open Mic where there is no theme (though Allison hosts one of those as well, Word Ninjas, on behalf of the Rockstars, the second Tuesday of each month, if that’s your persuasion) and it’s where my friends show up.  So there I go.

The theme for next month’s Slam is “Evil” (as in money is the root of all…) and here are the evil folktales I found online.  By the way, Northstar has a great venue in Minneapolis for people who like to share folktales run by another Northstar member, Dorothy Cleveland, called Folktales Rising.  It meets the fourth Tuesday of the month – Tuesday seems to be a popular storytelling night in the Twin Cities – at the Book House in Dinkytown,  It’s a very casual story sharing circle, and you should show up some time, to tell or just to listen. I shall perhaps try out an evil tale there myself.

To conclude, here are a week’s worth of @NorthstarStory tweets on folktales about evil:

  • The Villas’ Spring: A Jugoslav #folktale about good and evil:
    http://ow.ly/dqCx2
  • Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil: folktales of Aarne-Thompson-Uther type 243A
    http://ow.ly/dueO4
  • Concerning the fate of Essido and his evil companions: a Nigerian #folktale:
    http://ow.ly/dqD6k
  • The Smith and the Demon: A Russian #folktale in which evil gets a little respect:
    http://ow.ly/dqDvO
  • ONE-EYED LIKHO: another Russian #folktale in which a blacksmith encounters evil. Shades of Polyphemus.
    http://ow.ly/dqDVw

Do you have a link to a folktale you like about evil? Please leave it in the comments! Book links are OK, but links to online content are preferred. If a folktale about money comes to mind, you can leave the link here.

And if you have ideas for other folktale themes you’d like to see explored, you can leave them here, tweet @NorthstarStory, or suggest them on my Facebook page (where my blog is cross-posted) or on Northstar’s page.

Leave a Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Adventure in the Mini-Apple

In 1978, I graduated from St. Bonaventure University in upstate New York. And in the fall I moved out to Minneapolis so that I could go to graduate school at the University of Minnesota.  I was twenty-two. I wanted adventure.

I had decided on the University of Minnesota for three reasons. One,  they gave me a Bush Fellowship.  Two, it was the farthest school from home  that had accepted me.  Three, I wanted to be Mary Tyler Moore.  I wanted to live in the attic of a historic house in Kenwood with an eccentric Scandinavian caretaker and a wisecracking Jewish girlfriend.  I wanted to throw my hat up in the air at the IDS building. I wanted to ditch the boyfriend who had never appreciated me. I wanted to make it after all.

I could not afford to live in in Kenwood.  I could not even afford to live in the classy new high rise Mary moved into after the historic house in Kenwood.  I’m talking about Riverside Plaza. Cedar Square.  Over half of Cedar Square is now subsidized housing, but in 1978, a year after Mary Tyler Moore went off the air, I could not afford to live there.

Instead I got a studio apartment on Clinton, a block off Franklin. It had a Murphy bed – do they still have those? – and a gas stove, which I had never seen before.  I had never shopped in a co-op before.  I had never cooked fresh broccoli.  I had never seen – or tried to decipher – a bus schedule. I was from a very small town.  The Mini Apple was as much urban adventure as I could handle.

The caretaker for my apartment was a man, and he wasn’t Scandinavian. His name was Mike. He was a recovering alcoholic whose hands shook with palsy – a nice but frail old guy I guessed was in his seventies.  “He’s the right guy for the job,” the landlord  told me.  “There’s never any trouble on my properties.”  When Mike handed me the keys he said I had a neighbor down the hall about my own age – she and I should have a lot in common.  Her name was Brenda.

“Is she a student?” I asked.

“Could be.” Mike said.

I thought I’d introduce myself in the hall, coming or going, sometime over the weekend, but Brenda never seemed to leave her apartment.  That first week of September was hot and humid – in the nineties all week.  She must have an air conditioner. Lucky her. I insisted on cooking anyway, because that’s what Mary would have done. It wasn’t till the oven went out and I couldn’t figure out how to relight the pilot that I actually met Brenda. And figured out what she did for a living – or had, that is, until she’d gotten knocked up.

I thought she was maybe five months pregnant, but she told me seven. Her face was pasty, Pillsbury-doughboy like pasty, and her hair was a frizzy, dirty blonde. There were exactly two pieces of furniture in the dark room, not including the TV – a bare mattress and a wooden chair. A man was on the mattress and a man was on the chair, and there was a damp smell and a rerun on the TV.  No a/c. The man on the chair had a tattoo on his arm I had seen somewhere else. On an underpass or something. I explained that my pilot light had gone out. “Leroy can fix that for you, can’t you Leroy?” said my neighbor.  Leroy had the tattoo.

“You got a boyfriend?” Leroy asked me on our way down the hall.

“Yes,” I lied. “Yes, I do.”

After that I kept my own pilot lit. And I didn’t see Brenda for another month and a half.  Actually even then I didn’t see her. I heard her.  It was the second week in October.  There was another woman staying with her. And someone came banging on the door about ten that night, superhuman high on something, and very pissed off.

“Open this door you bitch! You open that door and give her up or I swear I’ll knock this fucking door down!”

“Get out of here Leroy.  She wants to keep her other eye.”

He began to slam on the door, hard, with his shoulder.  It was a pretty solid door.  But he was slamming pretty hard. What if this is all just bluff?  If I call the police, I thought, I might make the landlord mad.  There’s never any trouble on his properties.  But if I call the caretaker – my God, what if it’s not a bluff? What’s that old guy going to do?

So I hesitated. Probably no more than a minute – though it felt like a long time. Long enough to think of Kitty Genovese. Long enough for the door to give way.

There were screams, and more yelling – “You come home bitch. You get you the fuck on home. ”  A  push, and a shove, and the crazy rattle of someone tumbling down the back stairs.  Then I heard Mike’s voice, low and steady.  You’d never guess a man whose hands shook like that could have such a steady voice.

Leave the ladies alone. And get out of here before I call the police.

And Leroy left.

The landlord moved Brenda out at the end of the month. In his own truck.  He was  helpful, but firm. There wasn’t ever any trouble on his properties. I wish I could say what happened to her friend, but I don’t know.  It was Brenda who was pushed down the stairs.  Outside of a few bruises, she was OK. The baby was born two weeks early.  Mike went over for a visit.

“She’s got spunk,” Mike said. “She’s gonna make it after all.”

Told at the Grand Story Slam at Kieran’s, July 17, 2012.

Leave a Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Folktales about Money

In addition to tweeting on my own behalf @prnancarrow, I currently am responsible for tweeting for the organization whose board I’ve been on, on and off, for a decade: Northstar Storytelling League.  Their account is @NorthstarStory (which is also the same name as their Facebook page, and it is a good one to follow if you want to know about storytelling in the Twin Cities.  Lately we’ve also been trying to provide and repost content that is of interest to storytellers everywhere, and one of the things I am experimenting with is a folktale theme for the week.

Right now I am using the themes provided for the year by Story SlamMN – because no one has given me any better ideas, and because it’s a good way of preparing my mind for a story.  Generally speaking, slams are not the best place to tell folktales – although Massmouth in Boston is experimenting with one, and I am really looking forward to hearing how it turns out. We have a great venue in Minneapolis for people who like to share folktales run by another Northstar member, Dorothy Cleveland called Folktales Rising, and I like to try out material and refine it there.  But I also like to expose more people to folk and fairy tales. It is fun to debunk their Disney myths, watch their jaws drop, make them think. The old ways were wise ways, and as the Grimm Brothers well knew, folk and fairy tales were not for children.

So occasionally in this blog I will repost a list of tweets for the week. It’s a good way of gathering together those folktales on a particular theme.  This is also a great place for you to add a link to a folktale you like on a particular theme that I’ve missed.  Book links are OK, but links to online content are preferred.

And here are last week’s @NorthstarStory tweets on folktales about money:

  • This week’s #folktale theme is money. Here’s a tale from India: The farmer and the money-lender. ow.ly/deTZd
  • #Folktale for today: The rabbit grows a crop of money. ow.ly/df3e9
  • The week’s theme is money. The #folktale of the day is from China: The Gold Colt and the Fire Dragon Shirt ow.ly/df3p2
  • Can’t have a week where the #folktale theme is money without Midas: ow.ly/df3Z2. And a few more humans w/ animal ears to boot.
  • If money only came this easily: Peter Ox, a #folktale from Denmark: ow.ly/df4ia
  • The Miserly Old Woman, a #folktale from India, concludes our week’s series of folktales about money: ow.ly/df4rf #storySat

If you have other stories to add, please do so! I will actually be telling a variation of the first story – within a personal context – at SlamMN! tonight.  The theme is CASH, but you can pay with a card. Would love to see you there.

Leave a Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

On Whining in Performance Memoir

“Whiny” is a qualifier no  artist wants attached to her work.  And yet some folk are predisposed to dislike memoir precisely because they equate it – and anything confessional – with whiny, self-absorbed, narcissistic prose. Though it has not always been this way, as Ben Yagoda’s Memoir: A History makes abundantly clear.

There are more than enough talented writers of creative nonfiction out there to debunk the myth that contemporary memoir is inherently whiny, at least in the minds of anyone who cares to pay attention – but there are also enough of us using memoir as a discovery process, as a way of making sense of difficult experiences in our lives, to perpetuate it. And although innate talent goes some way to distinguish one from the other, I don’t think it is the most important factor.

Because discovery is an ongoing process, and even the most talented and skilled have to work that process.  Few of us get to bypass self-pity altogether; most of us have to pass through it before we can drop that story line,  get beyond it to a narrative whose beauty and power calls attention to itself, not to us. We will write badly before we write well, and we will not always know without feedback – sometimes painful feedback – when we’ve moved from one realm to the next.

Writers of memoir often assume they do not need theater training to perform their  work because it is in their own voice and they “just have to be natural.” But developing performance skills requires ongoing practice, in public, which opens us up to the possibility of failing in public as well. What is moving on the page can be delivered poorly on the stage even if I wrote it myself – perhaps  because I wrote it myself.  A whiny tone in performance can often be corrected by attention to pacing and inflection. This is why there are story coaches, and directors. Few people can see themselves well enough to do this work alone.

And while I recognize that many minor humiliations in life are just nature’s way of telling us not to take ourselves too seriously, I’m all for minimizing unnecessary suffering, for a performer as well as her audience. So I take help where I can get it. You should too.

Leave a Comment

Filed under Uncategorized