Storytelling with MOOSE at North Star Cafe

By Monique Wells, Freelance Writer

When the host began to speak, Ranger Vernon took his place next to Jean Armstrong and pulled a string attached to a coffee can. He let out the wail of a moose whenever she used the acronym (MOOSE) for the Maine Organization of Storytelling Enthusiasts.

Vernon and Armstrong, the silly-hatted host, chattered on stage as if Vernon didn't know the MOOSE acronym, frustrating Vernon. He had serious ranger-moose business to attend to.

The Maine Organization of Storytelling Enthusiasts consists of middle-aged theatrefolk and circus-dabblers, as well as professional and storytelling hobbyists.

Ashley and I came to Open Mic Storytelling at the North Star Café new to MOOSE, and as MOOSE go, we were quite young.

Jean set the rules: no reading, though glancing at notes is ok. "Tellers" should limit stories to ten minutes. First up was Larry, who slowly recited an Irish drinking song titled "7 Drunken Nights," a tale about a clever adulteress.

Vernon stepped up next and, still in character, told a heavily-accented story about being a Maine tour guide. Set in a bar, the issue in the story seemed to be: How many generations must one's relatives live in Maine to be considered Mainers? Vernon resolved this question with dialog: even Native Americans probably originated in Africa, therefore none of us are truly Mainers.

Jean donned a new ethnic hat as the next teller came forth. Deb Friedman spoke of a silver fairy who wanted only to fly but lacked wings. The fairy met a caterpillar one day and they bonded over wing-lust. The caterpillar transformed to a butterfly and hooked the fairy up with an extra set of wings.

At this point, Jean began to fish for new tellers. One woman volunteered. She told another ranger story but I didn't absorb much of it; I was gathering my gusto.

"Who'd like to tell next?" People hadn't noticed before, but fellow MOOSE noticed our age as they turned to us. I volunteered. Sitting on a high stool, I told the story of my old roommate Ray, a black, fifty-year-old physical trainer who one day found a baby hummingbird, Sugar. Ray nuzzled the bird and fed it sugarwater from his finger. He swore affectionately at Sugar and made a her home in a cottonball-filled cardboard jewelry box.

I made Ray a shrinkydink necklace that read, "Give me some Sugar," beside the image of a hummingbird. When I gave it to him, he burst into tears. "Sugar passed, Monique. Sugar passed." Ray stuffed the bird in "the position she knew best" mouth agape, waiting for food. But Ray didn't have taxidermy skills, so Sugar was never preserved (though her deceased body did rest atop our bookshelf for months).

Up next, Adam told a story about meeting an ex-wife's ex-boyfriend while they both wore propeller hats while counselors at a circus summer camp. As the story ended, he told the woman's current boyfriend, "If you ever get the urge to shave your head and wear a propeller cap, we meet on Thursdays."

After the hour-long open mic, special guest Pat Spaulding stepped up. Pat delved into an hour-long tale of meeting her husband through the mail and starting a children's theatre troupe with him. In this troupe she was Ranger Pat (yes, there was a prevalent ranger theme at MOOSE that night), and her husband suited up in a full bear suit as Mr. Bear.

In vivid detail and using her hands as makeshift puppets, she told multiple tales. Of bottles of Gatorade strapped to her husband's sweat suit-wearing chest under the bear suit. Of a Bear de-pantsing. Of bear-ranger disputes and other near-disasters concerning the public library, the Audubon Society and hordes of 6-year olds.

In the last ten minutes, she unveiled a new piece: a headless bird puppet fiasco in New York City, which ended in an exasperated fight and an end to their careers in children's theater.

"We….needed new roles," she said, her final pause an ellipsis from the Greek God of library science. She was a champion storyteller.

We exchanged encouraging words before leaving. Open mic night is wholesome, cozy and gave me satisfaction akin to baking cookies to the pauses of public radio comfort. It feels like being silly with second cousins and aunts by a campfire, telling tall tales.