“Oh,” said her mama, changing her voice to sound like an old woman, “I’m not doing too well. I’m so hungry. Would you happen to have anything I could eat?”
The little girl thought about the pear, but she remembered what her mama had said, so she lied, “I’m sorry, Granny, but I don’t have a thing.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you have just some little something wrapped up in your apron? I’m so hungry, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to reach my home. I had to stop here just to rest.”
The girl thought about the pear, and she thought about what her mama had said. She didn’t know what to do. Finally, she decided the right thing was to give away the pear. “After all,” she thought, “it’s almost rotten anyway, so Mama probably would not be very pleased with it anyhow. And no person should have to go hungry. It will be best if I just tell Mama there weren’t any pears, and there really weren’t any on the trees—I found this one on the ground.”
So, she handed the pear to the old woman. The old woman thanked her, and the girl walked on toward home.
The moment the girl disappeared around the edge of the barn, the mama threw off her old woman disguise and hurried home, taking a shortcut to get ahead of her daughter.
When the daughter reached home, her mother asked, “Where are the pears?”
“Oh, Mama,” the girl said, “I looked at every pear tree and couldn’t find a single pear in any of them.”
“Are you sure you didn’t find any pears?”
“Not a one,” said the girl.
“Not even on the ground?” asked her mother.
The girl hesitated. She did not want to lie to her mother, but she was afraid to tell her the truth.
“You gave away the pears, didn’t you? After I told you not to, you up and gave away our pears.”
The girl couldn’t help herself. She told the truth. “Oh, Mama, I really didn’t find any pears on the trees, but I found one pear on the ground. It was nearly rotten. Then on my way home, I met an old woman. She was so hungry, I gave her the pear. It was nearly rotten anyway, Mama, so I didn’t think you’d want it. And the woman was so hungry.”
The mama stared at her daughter and shook her head. Then she said, “Go out to the porch and bring in the chopping block.”
“Why, Mama?”
“Because I told you to, and I’m your mama.”
The girl went out and she brought the chopping block inside. “Now then,” said her mama, “go get the axe.”
“Why, Mama?”
“Because I said so, and I’m your mama, that’s why. Now, go get the axe.”
So, the girl brought the axe inside. Then the mama said, “Go upstairs to your bed and get your pillow.”
The girl did as asked. When she returned with her pillow, her mother said, “Now, set the pillow on the chopping block and lay your head down.”
“No, Mama, you’re going to chop my head off.”
“I wouldn’t hurt you. I’m your mama. Now lay your head down.”
“No, Mama, no! You’ll kill me!”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not going to kill you. I’m your mama. I wouldn’t hurt you. I love you. You’re my little girl.”
So, the girl laid her head on the pillow, and her mother took up the axe and chopped her head off. Then the mother buried her daughter’s head and body in the garden.
That evening, when the father and son came home from their work in the fields, the father noticed his daughter’s absence, “Where’s my little girl?”
“Oh, one of her cousins came by and invited her to visit, so she’s gone over there.”
“Well, will she be back in time for supper?”
“Oh no, it was one of your relatives that lives far away. She’s gone off to visit for a long time. It’ll probably be six weeks before she’s back.”
“Six weeks? Why didn’t she come to the fields to tell us good-bye?”
“Oh, you know how she is when her cousins come around. She was so excited about going to visit with them, she didn’t even think about taking time to say good-bye.”
The father didn’t think that sounded like something his little girl would do, but her mother spent more time with her than he did, so he figured she must know what she was talking about. Later that night, the father, mother, and brother ate their supper and went on to bed.
The next morning, the mother said to her son, “Run out to the garden and dig up a few potatoes. I’ll fix us some fried potatoes for our breakfast.”
The little boy went to the garden. He walked over to the row of potatoes, squatted down, and thrust his hands into the hill to feel for some potatoes. And then he heard singing:
Brother, Brother,
don’t pull my curly hair.
Mommy killed me
over one little ripen pear.
He jumped up from the potatoes and ran back to the house.
“Daddy,” he said, “I’m having some trouble with the potatoes. I need you to come help me.”
The father and brother went out to the garden. When the daddy reached into the potato hill, he heard:
Daddy, Daddy
don’t pull my curly hair.
Mommy killed me
over one little ripen pear.
The father and brother walked back to the house, where the father said to his wife. “There’s something wrong in the garden. You need to come out here and help dig the potatoes.”
The mother walked out, and the moment she reached the potatoes, she heard:
Mommy, Mommy
don’t pull my curly hair.
You know you killed me
over one little ripen pear.
The mother looked at her husband and son, and she could tell they had heard the song too. Together the father and brother dug in the potato hill, and they found the little girl’s head. The father looked at his wife, “What did you do to her?”
Before the mother could finish her story, he took up the axe and chopped her head off.
The father and brother buried the little girl on one side of the garden and buried the mother on the other. From the little girl’s grave a rose bush grew, but from the mother’s grave all that ever grew were briars.
COMMENTARY
ATU Tale Type 780B The Speaking Hair.1
Leonard Roberts collected ten versions of this tale.2 It was told by both children and adults.
Table 1 shows information from different versions.
In some of Roberts’s collected versions, the little girl sings; in others she chants. The tune I use in my retelling is not based on any tunes in the collected versions because I worked on a song for my retelling using manuscripts from Roberts’s collection, before listening to the field recordings. Figure 1 shows the tune I use:
It is not elaborate. I intentionally wanted a tune a child could believably sing in a mournful, pleading way, as well as a tune I could readily sing. Yes, I’m capable of what I call “singing pretty.”3 However, when characters sing in a story, it jars my ear if they suddenly burst into song with a sound akin to that of a trained singer when all their dialogue within the story has sounded conversational.
When I tell this story, I also picture, quite specifically, the orchard I remember from my childhood. It was down a hill behind the barn that had been my great-grandparents’ barn. Our house was located on adjoining property, and to reach the orchard from our house I walked up a hill into the woodlot, down a road, past what had been their house (what our family calls “the old house”). From the old house I would have walked up a slight hill to their barn, walked around the barn, and then down a hill to the orchard. I can also picture the shortcut route someone could have taken—from the barn, walking behind the old house toward a different barn, and then through an open field—to beat me back to our house if they really wanted. I can also picture how I would likely not have seen the person traveling quickly by that route because of the old house, and the hills, trees, and other vegetation of the woodlot. So, why does this matter?
And if it is so important, why don’t I explain it in my telling of the story?
Table 1. “Little Ripen Pear” Comparison Chart
It matters because until I can truly picture a story, I cannot tell it. Making the setting concrete by picturing the land where I grew up is one method for helping myself see the story. I know if I can see the story, and take time to see it as I’m telling it, my listeners will be able to see it too. Will they see the exact same picture I see? Absolutely not. Instead they will create their own images of the tale, using their imaginations to picture the setting, costume the characters, and bring the story to life in their minds. As storytellers are fond of saying: Put ten listeners and one storyteller in a room, and when the teller tells a story, eleven different stories will be heard.4
Yes, I suppose it could be possible to tell stories with such minutely detailed descriptive language that the listeners’ images would be identical, or nearly identical. However, doing that would rob storytelling of what I see as its greatest strength. I don’t view my life’s work as telling stories. Instead I see my work as strengthening imaginations. After all, the ability to imagine forms the foundation of all planning, hoping, dreaming, goal setting, and inventing we humans do. Because humans love narrative,5 storytelling provides an excellent vehicle for exercising imaginations. When I tell stories, I do not want to control my listeners’ imaginations; instead I strive to leave plenty of room for the listener to imagine the specific details, thus providing a refreshing imagination workout—even through stories as inherently creepy (okay, possibly beyond creepy, even downright disturbing) as “Little Ripen Pear.”
FLANNEL MOUTH
There once lived a woman who was so difficult to get along with no one even knew her name. Everyone just called her Flannel Mouth. Ornery as Flannel Mouth was, people still sought her out because of her fine weaving. Back in Flannel Mouth’s day, if you wanted cloth you had to weave it yourself or find someone who would weave for you. Flannel Mouth traded her weaving skills for everything she needed to support herself and her small child.
One winter day, when the snow lay deep, Flannel Mouth was so busy weaving she didn’t notice when the fire in her hearth died out. But her little child noticed. Her little child grew cold and began to whimper.
“Hush,” said Flannel Mouth, and she kept on weaving.
But the child couldn’t hush. The child was cold. The whimpers grew to cries.
“I said hush,” Flannel Mouth warned.
But the child couldn’t hush. The child cried and cried from the cold. Flannel Mouth stopped weaving. She turned toward her child. “I told you to hush.”
When the child kept on crying, Flannel Mouth stood up. She walked over and picked up her child. She shook her child. She slapped her child. She killed her child. Flannel Mouth walked outside and pushed her child’s body into a snowdrift. Then she returned to her weaving.
That night, the moment Flannel Mouth’s head touched her pillow, she heard the sound of a child crying. Night after night, every time she tried to sleep, she heard a child crying. “This house is haunted,” she thought. “I’ve got to move away from here.”
One day Flannel Mouth went to see a woman she wove for often. This woman had a large house, so Flannel Mouth told her, “My house just does not suit me anymore. I was wondering if I could move in with you. I’d do all your family’s weaving in exchange for food and a place to sleep. For anything else I need, I’ll take in more weaving.”
The woman replied, “Well, Flannel Mouth, that would be fine, but what about your child? Where is your child?”
“My child? . . . well, there was a lady came through not long ago. Saddest lady I ever met. She stayed with me awhile. I learned she was sad because she didn’t have a child. So, I gave her my child. It made me feel good to make somebody so happy.”
“Well then, Flannel Mouth, you go on home and start packing. We’ll bring the wagon up in a couple of days and move you here.”
So Flannel Mouth moved, but when her head hit her pillow at night, she still heard the sound of a child crying. Night after night, Flannel Mouth barely slept. One day she was so tired she walked over to her bed and lay down in the daytime. That was when she discovered if she slept in the day she would not hear the sound of a child crying.
After that, Flannel Mouth lit torches and worked all night, then slept all day. Worked all night, and slept all day. All was going well for Flannel Mouth, but all was not going well for the rest of the household.
One day, the woman of the house told Flannel Mouth, “You need to work during the day when we work and sleep at night when we sleep. I cannot spend time keeping my children quiet all day so they won’t disturb your sleep. Besides, children are not supposed to be quiet. They are supposed to play.”
“That wasn’t our deal,” insisted Flannel Mouth. “We never agreed to anything about when I worked and when I slept. That wasn’t our deal.”
The woman of the house thought a bit, and then she said, “I have an idea. We have a small cabin up the hill behind the house a ways. It’s one room, just big enough for your loom, a small bed, and a chair. Not big, but it is weathertight. There’s a little porch on the front. The windows are small and high up, but since you’d be sleeping during the day . . .”
“Suits me fine,” agreed Flannel Mouth. She moved into the little cabin. She worked all night, slept all day, and disturbed no one.
One night Flannel Mouth sat at her loom weaving when the door of the cabin opened all by itself. Flannel Mouth looked over, thinking the wind had somehow opened the door, but into the doorway walked two big, hairy legs.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” she asked.
From the doorway, a deep voice answered, “I’m just two big, hairy legs.”
Then two little child legs walked across the porch, into the doorway, and stood beside the big, hairy legs. Again, Flannel Mouth asked, “Who are you, and what do you want?”
A little child’s voice whimpered, “It’s cold in the snow.”
Flannel Mouth sat at her loom and stared at the doorway. She saw a big, hairy body come in supported by huge hands attached to long, hairy arms. The hands climbed up those big, hairy legs and the big, hairy body settled itself on top. “Who are you, and what do you want?” she called.
“I’m just a big, hairy body, sitting atop two big, hairy legs,” the deep voice answered.
A little child’s body came in. Little child hands climbed up the child legs and set the body on top. “Who are you, and what do you want?” Flannel Mouth insisted.
“It’s cold in the snow,” the child’s voice cried, “I’ve been so cold in the snow.”
Flannel Mouth didn’t know what to do. She just sat and watched the doorway. She saw a big, hairy head roll in. The big, hairy body bent down, picked up the big, hairy head, and placed it on its shoulders. Flannel Mouth could see the head had fiery red eyes. She was so frightened, she couldn’t speak.
A little child’s head rolled in. The little child body bent down, picked up the head, and placed it on its shoulders. “Who are you,” shouted Flannel Mouth, “and what do you want?”
A little child’s voice answered, “It’s cold in the snow, Mama, I’ve been so cold in the snow.”
Then the hairy creature raised its arm, pointed one claw-tipped finger at Flannel Mouth, and roared, “Woman, I have come to deliver your punishment.”
Flannel Mouth thought: “I’m seeing things. That’s all this is. There’s nothing over in that doorway. My mind is playing tricks on me. All I need to do is run right through that open door. I’m just seeing things.”
She ran for the door. When she drew near, the big, hairy creature wrapped its huge, hairy arms around her, sank its claws into her back, and pulled her close. It picked her up, turned, and walked across the porch and off through the snow. Everywhere the creature stepped, the snow melted all the way to the ground and smoke rose from the footprints. A little child’s voice could be heard calling after them, �
�I’m not cold anymore, Mama, I’m not cold anymore.”
COMMENTARY
This is my retelling of a story Nora Morgan Lewis used to tell her children and nieces and nephews.1 I’ve been unable to determine whether it is a tale she invented or one that she heard growing up. It has the feel of a folktale. There are many stories of murdered people returning for revenge. But I’ve never run across any other versions of this particular tale.
In the summer of 2003, I met Jack Lewis, son of Nora Morgan Lewis, at Berea College in Berea, Kentucky. I also met some of Nora’s other children and nieces and nephews. They were visiting Berea College because they were related to Jane Muncy, who Leonard Roberts had collected several stories from in 1949 and 1955 during Muncy’s childhood and teen years. I was one of a group who had gathered in Berea to study the Leonard Roberts Collection in a project directed by folklorist Carl Lindahl, of the University of Houston, Texas, in association with Indiana University, Bloomington, Indiana.
At a reception I talked with Mrs. Lewis’s relatives, and when they mentioned their mother had told stories, I asked about her storytelling. The story they all seemed to most remember was “Flannel Mouth.” It was a tale that frightened them as children, but they had loved to hear it anyway. One of Nora Morgan Lewis’s relatives laughingly commented that Lewis may have told “Flannel Mouth” as a form of child control because she told it when all the cousins were together, the children all sleeping in the same room at family gatherings. The story was told at bedtime, and after hearing it the children huddled close to each other, and not a single one of them wanted to get up for any reason whatsoever!2
When she was getting on in years and in poor health, Nora Morgan Lewis wrote down the stories she had so enjoyed telling. Her family members told me no one in the family had carried on her storytelling at the time she wrote her tales, but she thought they might want the stories someday, and she wanted them to outlive her. In the summer of 2003, her family donated copies of her stories to the Southern Appalachian Archives, thus assuring her stories would indeed be available to a wider audience. Nora’s son, Jack, wrote of her stories, “I believe it was my mother’s most profound desire to have them made into book form.”3 I’m honored to participate in making her desire reality.
Kentucky Folktales Page 5
