judygailkrasnow.com

Performers all have their stories of great shows, nightmare ones, so-so programs, and experiences with audience at hand. In all of my years of performing, I experienced a first on October 24, 2007.

In the past, like every performance artist I know, a dusty stage, an oncoming or existing cold, a passing mosquito which happens to fly into your mouth just as you are breathing in, and other such causes can elicit a coughing fit. Your voice raises several octaves or disappears into an ethereal realm as you turn for the water bottle you have cleverly hidden under a prop. Your stage partner, a seasoned actor, takes over your lines. This has happened to me. It has happened to those with whom I perform. It makes the audience a bit uncomfortable, but the show goes on as you and your colleague have experienced this before and know how to handle it smoothly.

On the 24^th, however, it wasn’t a cough that crept upon me suddenly. Carrie Sue Ayvar and I were telling a tandem tale about Brother Monday, the Great Florida Alligator Conjure Man. There he was, marching across the Blue Sink Lake toward Old Judy, the medicine woman, whose lying, bragging tongue forced Brother Monday to teach her a lesson.

“Old Judy, one bad word against one conjurer is a bad word against all and harms the good we try so hard to do.”

The rhythm on the paddle drum in my hand inspired the audience to clap along as I continued, “And he was followed by a hoard of alligators, following him like an army follows its leader. And they were bellowing.”

Carrie and I began chanting, “Alli Alli Alli Alli Alli Alli Alli WAH!”

My nose began to twitch like a rabbit nearing the cabbage patch. I knew my facial expressions, which at first matched the import of the words coming out of my mouth, now were at odds with these words and this chant. As I chanted, my mind said to my body, “Wait! WAIT! Wait until the scene is over. As soon as Carrie says her next line, turn away. Sneeze then.” However, the brewing sneeze caused my nose to now twitch as though it were not only a cabbage patch, but also a carrot patch this rabbit was nearing. Right at the climax of the story, drum resounding loudly as Brother Monday turns himself into an alligator right before the terrified eyes of Old Judy, the sneeze overtook the power of my mind.

“AHHHHHHHHCHOOOOOOOOOOOO!” crashed like thunder through the wireless microphone clasped upon my shirt and poured torrentially through our powerful Mackie speakers. The audience of 300 third, fourth, and fifth graders laughed uproariously. I, too, was on the verge of a giggling fit as was Carrie who piped through the noise, “I guess Old Judy was allergic to alligators!”

Carrie and I have been known to spur each other on into giggle fits. Neither of us could look at the other right at a point in the story where we usually have an intense rapport. We continued, my nose no longer twitching, the sneeze out in the open, the cabbage and carrot patches gone. However, underlying our lines were muffled guffaws. For the rest of the story, I knew my facial expressions did not match the words pouring out of my mouth. I tried, and in a few isolated moments, I pulled myself back into the story. But an involuntary smile bordering on laughter now took over where before it had been a twitching nose; and a smile and laughter did not properly accent talking about Old Judy swearing that “What she said happened at Blue Sink Lake that night happened exactly as she said it did,” or that “When she could stand on her own two feet again, she knew it was Brother Monday himself that had put her back on those two feet.”

Perhaps this will inspire another story, a creative new journey that Brother Monday conjures through a sneeze. Under the circumstances of that moment upon the stage of Sandpiper Elementary, the clock ticking away at the far end of the cafetorium reminding us that we had four minutes to finish, say thank you and goodbye before the first lunch shift at 10:15 A.M. would begin, there was no choice but to continue the story as is and hope that its powerful impact was not totally destroyed by a powerful sneeze. Judging from the children’s applause and, as they filed out, their questions about Brother Monday and whether or not “he was a real man who really lived and could really turn himself into an alligator,” I think not.

When I was in the process of writing my memoir, Rudolph, Frosty, And Captain Kangaroo: The Musical Life of Hecky Krasnow – Producer of the World’s Most Beloved Children’s Songs, it was akin to being pregnant. This new creation that would eventually emerge into the world grew within me daily and absorbed me completely. I did other things: socialized, shopped, gave performances, and took care of family. Yet, every moment the book was in the writing process, I could feel the stirrings of its creation.

Sending the manuscript to the publisher had all the pangs of labor. I had to let this life of words that had spent nearly two years gestating come out of me and have a life of its own. Suddenly, I didn’t want to let it go, just like I’d wanted to keep my first-born child within me in a womb of a lifetime of dreams about what a child of mine would be like. In actually giving birth, imagination would become reality and responsibility. The pain of letting go was both harsh and a relief.

As with that first-born child and the three who followed, though my attentiveness and nurturing continued and does so to this day, adults that they may now be, I put my manuscript out there. As with my children who have turned out well, so has the manuscript, which is now a book advertised and sold on the Internet and soon to be in the stores. Having given birth to my memoir, I now have to parent it with nurture, attending to its development through book talks and signings. As with my children whom I hoped would bring home good report cards when they were in school, I now await reviews of my book and hope the reviews are good.

Once a parent, we are always a parent. Our children are our children: Likewise with a book. We do not relinquish our concern over it and must continue to nurture what we have written if we want the effort put into what we wanted to say through all those words to have its effect upon the readers whom our words reach. We must do so by taking it to activities – readings, signings, interviews and more just as we chauffeured our children to dance lessons, Little League, friends’ homes and more.

Caring for a child can be overwhelming, yet we go on and get pregnant and give birth to more: Likewise with a book. The next one lurks, waiting for the right moment for conception, and the whole cycle begins again.

As I stood before the couple of hundred students from grades 1-5 in the packed cafetorium, I mustered every ounce of energy I could draw upon. The vigor of these 200 plus youngsters bounced through the air like an electrical charge. My colleague, storyteller Carrie Sue Ayvar and I were there to present our program, Florida’s Past: True and Tall Tales. In today’s fast-paced and rapidly changing world, history is not a sought-after subject for students, and it becomes an increasingly difficult one for teachers to tackle. Carrie and I have used our talents as storytellers to make history jump off the page. Our efforts have brought much reward. Just look at the word “history.” Hyphenate it and you have “Hi Story!!” What is history, after all? – the stories of humankind throughout the ages.

There we stood, opening with a song I wrote, a kind of chant and cheer,

Way down south in sunny Florida/You might find an alligator in your yarida/Ghosts and pirates in the Everglades/And a “cracker” from Jacksonville down to Dade/Give me an F–F, L–L, ORIDA HOORAY–ORIDA HOORAY!

After warming up the audience with this participatory song, we went into our tales of Ponce De Leon searching for gold, silver, and the Fountain of Youth; Jonathan Dickinson and the amazing stories from his detailed Journal about shipwreck, the Spanish, “Nickaleers,” and old Florida; pirates whose constant raids upon Florida’s coasts ultimately caused Spain to sell Florida to the U.S. — cheap; readings of a mosquito attack while herding cattle written by Patrick D. Smith in his book, A Land Remembered;the so-called eighth wonder of the world: the building of the Key West Railroad by Henry Flagler; an intriguing folktale of Angelina and the Little Magic Man in which the children ultimately save Angelina by telling her the answers to three questions about Florida; the inspirational tale of how Mary McLeod Bethune warded of raiding Klansmen by having her students sing hymns in the dark as the Klan brandished their torches; and ending with the story of Brother Monday, ”The Great Florida Alligator Conjure Man.” In between, a kazoo announcing them, we offered some fascinating facts as “Florida Fun Facts,” such tidbits as: In 1958 a first and only college of its kind was established in St. Petersburg, Florida — a Clown College! Or “Do you know what Mosquito County’s name was changed to? — Orange County because of all the scrumptilitious, healthy, juicy Florida oranges growing there by then (not to mention that Orange County might draw more tourists than Mosquito County.)

The stories and readings of segments of books are interspersed with songs I wrote such as the pirate song: From Estero to The Keys/Marco Island to St. Pete/Boca Grande to Tarpon Springs/Florida’s pirate history sings. And, after asking the audience who knows how many counties there are in Florida today, the “Florida Counties Rap” reveals the names of all 67 counties: There’s Jackson, and Jefferson, named after presidents/And Lafayette, French pirate, whose life at sea was spent…

The children sit, mouths agape, as we tell our tales, and they heartily join in when asked to do so. Comments from teachers and evaluation sheets sent to us by students and teachers alike, tell us that we are succeeding in making history what it truly is — stories: and stories are something we all remember.

I firmly believe that humankind cannot build a humane future without understanding the past. We must excite our youth – and the teachers who teach them – about history. There is no doubt that drama, storytelling and all the Arts play a major role in accomplishing this.

I stood upon that stage today, the Florida humidity and heat plus the spotlights causing me to sweat uncomfortably. We had our high quality PA system for amplification. Still, we had to compete with the din of pots and pans in the kitchen as lunch was prepared for the 10:30 first shift and, on top of that, the racket made everytime the air conditioner kicked in. Momentarily thoughts entered my mind of roadies, limousines, dressing rooms (versus hiding behind the curtains or going to the Teachers Lounge to get into costume), and not having to arise at 4:30 in the morning in order to leave before the onslaught of major traffic. “Oh, to be famous. Oh, to make mega bucks, not what the school budget provides…”

And then I looked at the faces in the audience. I thought of these youngsters, plagued with so much empty-headed junk offered in the media today. Here Carrie and I stood upon the stage offering genuine history through our true and tall tales: tales that make children’s jaws hang open in wonder, their eyes widen in amazement, their hands clap along, their questions inspired by the show boil over and make them want to hear and see more.

What the Hecky? Hecky was my father’s name, and his story is told in my memoir about him, Rudolph, Frosty, And Captain Kangaroo: The Musical Life of Hecky Krasnow — Producer of the World’s Most Beloved Children’s Songs. When he was Director of Children’s Records at Columbia in the Golden Age of kid-disks, he offered quality educational entertainment to youth when records were the primary form of entertainment for youth. I have followed in his footsteps, just presenting my offerings in different venues that include noisy cafetoriums filled with the scent of years of overcooked broccoli permeating the air while mingling with the smell of McDonald’s fries. It makes me feel good to do what I do – a mitzvah (good deed that is its own reward) done and done well. History has come alive, and the children love it!

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