Walking with Angela

 

Last night I learned of the death of Angela Lloyd. 

For my first appearance at the Flying Leap Storytelling Festival in Solvang, CA, in 1992, I wrote the story, Sterling. Solvang is a small mountain town north of Santa Barabara. Noted for it's Danish heritage and Danish-style buildings, it is a sort of theme park without rides. There is a small, impressive museum dedicated to Hans Christian Andersen. Sterling concerns a salt shaker who falls in love with the sugar bowl - it is my homage to H.C. Andersen.

Featured at the festival that year was my friend and colleague, Angela Lloyd. A whimsical and eclectic storyteller, with her beribboned 'sunbrella' washboard and kazoo, Angela was charming in the true sense of the word: a magical singing storyteller. I delighted in her company onstage and off. We had worked together with Milbre Burch as the ensemble "Triple Crown Tellers" and often crossed paths at storytelling festival stages in those days. A story of hers tells of the magical pedlar who strings up a clothesline where people can hang up their worries and cares. The pedlar invites them to exchange their troubles for someone else's. As Angela tells the story, with the enchanted ringing of her rainbow bells, our own troubles drift away. She was a true docent of the story realm.

After the festival, the two of us stopped by Nojoqui Falls Park. It was a pleasant sunny day and the park was alive with visiting families. As we approached the falls we delighted at the scenery, the sun, the sounds and sight of children playing. It was a picture-perfect day. But since neither of us had a camera, we decided to capture the scene by improvising poems together.

"Bill-capped boys sparkle the splash water –"

"Rolling musically over stones and trilling sweetly in the rills..."

"Sun-speckled tree cover patchworks of green and oak..."

And so on.

The exact words of our impromptu poetry are lost (though some may yet be found in one of my journals from the era) but the feel and vision of that gentle stroll remains with me, clear and bright. It is not an ecstatic memory, not a moment of high drama or hilarity, but merely a time of simple beauty wrapped in poesy in the company of a fellow story traveler.

Angela was the magic pedlar. She brought us to a place of easy happiness and profound joy. I am grateful to have walked beside her.

What rice was for Sterling, the memory of Angela is for me, and all who knew her: a desiccant against despair.