There once lived a girl who shared a home with her stepmother. Years earlier, her mother had died and her father had remarried. While her father lived, her stepmother treated her kindly. But after the girl’s father died, that woman turned poison mean. She made the girl do all the work around the house and on the farm. When the girl didn’t work fast enough—and most days there was no fast enough—the woman beat the girl with a chain. The girl was miserable, but she had nowhere else to go.
One morning, when the girl was around fourteen years old, her stepmother said, “Today you are going to chop the weeds out of the cotton.1 Go on out there, and don’t come back to the house until you’ve finished, either.” She sent the girl out without any breakfast.
The girl trudged out to the shed, picked up a hoe, and walked on down to the cotton patch, where she began chopping weeds. The girl chopped and chopped. The sun beat down on her. Her stomach growled. Still she chopped. But as she worked, she thought: “I ought to just run away, but where would I go?”
The longer she worked, the more running away seemed like a reasonable idea. Finally she gave in. She hid the hoe in tall weeds under an old wagon. Then she walked into the nearby woods.
Now, even though the woods were so close that the girl could hear leaves rustle in the slightest breeze, she had never been there before. Her stepmother kept her working so hard; she’d never even had time to explore the woods right next to the fields. So in no time she was lost, but that didn’t stop her. “I’d rather die out here than go back,” she thought, and she kept walking.
About midafternoon she reached a clearing. In front of her stood an amazing house. The shutters were made of wafer cookies, and gum-drops studded the walls. Oh, the girl was so hungry, she couldn’t stop herself. She ran up to a window, broke off a bit of shutter, and popped it into her mouth. The door of the house opened, and an old woman looked out. “Child,” she said, “you must be awfully hungry if you’re chewing up my house.”
The girl swallowed hastily. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she apologized. “I should never have done that. I am so sorry.”
“It’s all right, child,” said the old woman. “You’ve done no harm that can’t be undone. Like I said, you must be awfully hungry.” The old woman offered her hand. “Come on inside, and let me feed you a proper meal.”
The girl went inside, and the old woman did indeed feed her a fine meal. The old woman also told the girl stories and jokes. The two of them talked and laughed together. The girl felt a joy she had not known since her mother died.
Then the old woman glanced out the window. “Oh child, it’s going to be dark soon,” she said. “You need to go on home now.”
“Oh,” sighed the girl, “Do I have to go? Couldn’t I stay with you?”
“No, you need to go home.”
“But—”
The old woman interrupted her. “I know you’re living a hard life, but you have to go home.”
“I was lost when I found your house,” the girl protested. “I don’t even know how to go home. Please, can’t I stay?”
The old woman stood. “I’ll help you find your way, child.” She walked to a cupboard, opened it, reached in, and pulled out a gingerbread boy. She handed the gingerbread boy to the girl, saying, “Put this in your pocket. Eat it after you reach home.” The girl put the gingerbread boy in her pocket. She was about to speak again, but the old woman raised her hand, and the girl fell silent. “Your life will be better, child,” the old woman assured her. “You’ll see.”
The two of them left the old woman’s house. In a very short time the old woman had led the girl through the woods and within sight of the old wagon. They said their goodbyes. Then the girl retrieved her hoe from under the wagon and trudged on home.
When she walked into the house she smelled freshly baked bread. Her stepmother sat at the kitchen table, knife in hand, slicing the loaf. When she saw the girl, she set down her knife. “I don’t know where you’ve been, but you were not chopping out the cotton like I told you.” As she spoke, she leaned over and picked up the chain beside her chair. “Don’t think you’ll be eating any of this bread.”
When the girl saw the chain, she ran toward her room. Her stepmother came after her, whirling the chain. The girl ducked as she ran into her room. She slammed the door and braced herself against it. She could feel the door shudder as the chain struck it again and again. Finally the stepmother tired and returned to her chair at the table.
The girl braced a chair under the doorknob to keep her stepmother out; then she collapsed on her bed and cried. She cried for her father and mother. She cried in longing for the joy of that afternoon. She cried and cried. When she was cried out, she rolled over and felt the gingerbread boy in her pocket. She took it out, looked at it, held it by the head, and bit off an arm.
Out in the other room, the stepmother sat eating warm bread slathered in butter. Suddenly her knife flew out of her hand and—whack!—it cut off her arm. She couldn’t scream. She just stared at her arm on the floor.
Back in the bedroom, the girl bit off the other arm. Whack! The stepmother’s other arm landed on the floor.
The girl broke off a leg. Whack! One leg gone.
The girl bit through the other leg. Whack! Another leg on the floor.
Then the girl broke the head from the body. Whack! The stepmother’s head fell to the floor.
After she finished eating the gingerbread boy, the girl fell asleep.
The next morning, when the girl walked out of her room, she found her stepmother’s body in pieces. No blood on the floor—just pieces.
The girl knew just what to do. She took a shovel from the shed and she dug a grave. She had worked so hard for so many years; she had no trouble digging a hole six feet deep and three feet wide. Of course, she had no need to make it six feet long. After all, the body was in pieces!
In the years that followed, the girl lived on there in her own house. She and the old woman in the woods became fast friends and the very best of neighbors.
Leonard Roberts2 collected this story from three sources, Billie Jean Fields, Mary Day, and Margie Day.3 My telling was most influenced by the Fields version. In all three versions the girl is made to do all the work around the house and is mistreated by the stepparent. In both Day versions the girl visits a known witch. In the Fields version the girl visits a woman who seems to be a witch (she lives in the classic cookie house familiar to audiences from the witch in the “Hansel and Gretel” tale), but Fields never specifically labels the old woman “witch.” In all three versions the old woman, witch or not, is kind to the girl. She gives her a gingerbread man in the Fields version and a candy doll in the Day versions. In the Fields version a mean stepmother is eating fresh bread and is killed by her knife when the girl eats the gingerbread man. In the Day versions a mean stepfather, while chopping wood the girl forgot to chop when she went to visit the witch, is killed by his axe when the girl eats the candy doll.
Roberts published a retelling of the Margie Day version in 1954. In the headnotes of the published story, Roberts writes, “It is also about the best and most concise example of a peculiar power of witches known as Murder by Sympathetic Magic (Motif D2061.2.2). The twelve year old girl who told it, Margie Day, Leslie County, Kentucky, seemed not to be aware of the force and malignant power motivating her story.”4 In the published version of Margie Day’s telling, the ending reads: “The old man died and the witch come over after that. She got the house and land and lived there and the little girl lived with her forever.”5 However, in the sound recording of Margie Day telling this story, she gives it the following ending: “And the old man, he died, and she took and lived happily ever after with that old witch. She lived with the witch forever.”6 In Mary Day’s telling, the girl also lives happily ever after with the witch, and in the background on the sound recording a voice that sounds like a child’s voice can be heard commenting, “a fine home.”7 I have no way of knowing why Roberts would have interpreted and published the ending with the witch moving into the girl’s house and taking over the girl’s property, when it could just as easily have been that the girl went to live with the witch.
When I listen to the children, Mary and Margie Day, telling the story, they don’t seem unaware of malignant power. Instead they seem well aware of the cruelty of the stepparent and sound fully satisfied by the ending of the tale in which the abuse is over and the child lives happily ever after. In the ending of the Fields version, not collected until 1970, there is no mention of the old woman moving in with the girl. The Fields version reads: “Now everything belonged to the little girl and she could do what she wanted. So she lived happily ever after.”8 In my retelling, I have the old woman and the girl remain good neighbors. I also picture the girl as a young teenager, not a little girl, and I imagine the story taking place when a teen living alone could have been acceptable.
Telling this story, unsettling as it is, is also lots of fun. Audience members will often seem startled by the first “Whack!” By the time I reach the last “Whack!” some cringe while others look downright gleeful. I’ve even had the experience of hearing audience members call out, “Now the head!” as the girl eats her way through the gingerbread boy. The first time I mentioned that the girl did not need to dig a grave six feet long because the body was in pieces, some listeners laughed. I decided to keep this bit of comic relief. Yes, audiences do teach tellers how to tell, but only if we listen to them.
My retelling of this story is no longer the only version being told by a contemporary professional storyteller. After August House published my retelling in 2009,9 I received an email from Linda Gorham, a fantastic, energetic storyteller from Chicago. In her email, Linda wrote, “I got inspired by your story ‘The Gingerbread Boy’ in The August House Book of Scary Stories. Can I have your permission to tell it my way? I wrote a draft—attached so you can see what I did with it.”10 I read it and loved it. Here’s Linda’s draft:
Summer is fun for most kids. But not for twelve-year-old Tommy George. Each summer he was sent down south to work on his uncle’s farm.
All summer, Tommy George had to work from sunup to sundown—planting, pulling weeds, picking cotton, cutting hay—the work never ended. And if he didn’t do the work right or if he didn’t do the work fast enough, his uncle would grab his whipping stick and beat him. Whack. Whack. Whack. Tommy George would curl up in a ball, cry, and pray for the beating to end.
One day, after a particularly bad whipping, Tommy George ran away. He didn’t know where he was going. He just ran through the cotton fields and into the woods. After running for a long time, he came to a dirty white clapboard house. It’s a wonder he saw it—the place was half hidden by bushes and covered with vines. He had never seen it before. On the front porch, an old woman was sitting on a rocking chair—rocking real slow.
“What be your name boy?”
(puffing) “My name’s Tommy George, ma’am.”
“Well, Tommy George, why you running past here all crazy?
Seems to me you’re gonna pass out from the heat.
Come on over here boy. Let me take a look at you.
You thirsty boy?”
“Yes’um.”
“Come on over here.
Let me get you sweet tea. Something t’eat too.”
Now Tommy George knew stuff about not talking to strangers and all, but he was tired, he was hungry, and she seemed nice. He went inside her house and she fixed him some cold sweet tea and a peanut butter sandwich. Tommy George thanked her, but he didn’t say much else. Finally, after a long while, she said, “You in trouble ain’t you boy? What’s wrong?”
Tommy George began to cry. Between the tears, he told the old woman about how his uncle beat him all the time.
“Would you like those beatings to stop?”
“More than anything, ma’am.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes’um, I’m sure.”
“Now let me tell you something.
Take one of these gingerbread boy cookies.
Go on, put it in your pocket.
When you get home, eat it.”
“I don’t want to go home, ma’am!”
“You have to boy.
Now, just do as I say and your life will get better.”
“Better by eating a cookie, ma’am?”
“Just do as I say.
You hear me?!”
“Yes’um. I’ll do it.”
It was a long walk home. Tommy George knew his uncle would be mad. He knew another beating would come—and it did. As soon as he could, Tommy George ran to his room and shoved a chair up against the door to keep his uncle out. He lay down on the floor and cried. Then he felt the gingerbread boy cookie in his pocket.
He took out the cookie and bit off an arm. Outside his uncle was chopping wood. The axe flew out of his hand and whack! His left arm was cut off. The uncle was in shock. He couldn’t even scream. He just stared open-mouthed at his arm on the dirt.
Back in the bedroom, Tommy George bit off the other arm of that cookie. Whack! His uncle’s right arm fell to the ground.
Tommy George bit off a leg. Whack! His uncle’s right leg came off. He fell down hard on the dirt, but he could not cry out for help.
Tommy George bit off the second leg. Whack! Left leg—off—severed in a clean cut. Then Tommy George bit off the head . . .
Tommy George finished the cookie and fell asleep. The next morning he got up early and went outside to start his chores. That’s when he found his uncle’s body—well, pieces of it—two arms, two legs, one body, and a head. Tommy George didn’t cry. He didn’t feel nothing. He just grabbed a shovel and started digging.
Receiving a written draft from a teller requesting permission to retell a story based on my telling sparked my curiosity. I don’t write the stories down as I work on them. Oh, I may write out a portion here and there, but I rarely write down entire stories. Well sure, I’m writing them down for this book, but I’ve told them many times to many different audiences before writing them here. Linda seemed to begin her work with the story by writing. After all, she called the version I’ve included here a draft, which implies more written revisions to come. I simply do not begin with writing! So, I asked about her process.
First I assumed she would use her revised written version as a script to be memorized, but Linda wrote, “No, I couldn’t memorize a story if I tried.”11 This sounded very familiar to me because I don’t memorize stories either.
Nevertheless, I’ll admit that when audience members or storytelling workshop participants hear this, some protest: But you know them from memory, what do you mean you don’t memorize? Albert B. Lord in The Singer of Tales defines memorization this way: “Memorization is a conscious act of making one’s own, and repeating, something that one regards as fixed and not one’s own.”12 Neither Linda nor I regard our versions of this story as fixed text.
So, how does Linda use her written versions if she does not treat them as fixed texts to be memorized?
“My process works this way: first, I write out the story based on my research. I need paper to organize my thoughts and ‘see’ it come together. Then I need to say it aloud to get it right. I write and rewrite after saying it aloud—often adding dialogue and description. I practice on a treadmill, while riding a bike, or walking on a path. I can’t practice in my house. If I sat on a chair to practice, I’d fall asleep. I need distractions to let my mind freely ‘see’ what I can do beyond the paper.
“I try to record any new thoughts/comments on my text although sometimes I never get new ideas back to the paper. My written versions never match what I actually end up telling. Then, after I tell a story to listeners the first time, I add new notes based on what worked spontaneously. I keep doing that for quite a while. Telling helps hone the story more than anything else. It takes me a long time to feel comfortable with a story.”
Linda told me she labels her drafts by date and sometimes has five years of story revisions. So, since she’s not going to treat her written versions as fixed texts, I wondered why she creates and saves them. “My written versions are my safety net. My training is as a linear thinker. When I write out a story, I use bullets, indents, color, italics, spacing—tricks to help my mind get a picture of the story. Paper gives me comfort and helps my mind ‘see’ the story.”13
Then Linda compared her way of working with methods some other tellers use: “I wish my ‘way’ was easier. But I know we all have to find what works for us. Pictures don’t do it for me. Practice in a quiet place doesn’t do it for me. Practicing in front of a mirror doesn’t work. I need distractions to get a story in my head. The more distractions, the better. Oh, and by the way, I almost never practice most of my facial expressions and/or movements—except for major interactive movements that are part of the story. I trust that those things will come naturally.”14
Linda does not do all of her preparation for telling to audiences in isolation. She also talks with others as part of her research and works with a storytelling coaching group.15 “For the Gingerbread Man, many of the new revisions reflect conversations with my husband about folks ‘down south’ and how they live and talk. He spent all of his summers as a boy in rural Georgia. A lot of the new imagery (names, dog, New York reference) came from those discussions.”16 Please don’t worry about Linda’s husband’s summers in the South, because she also wrote, “My husband had a grand time. He loved the balance between city life and summer country life. No evil uncle. No working on the farm—except for the fun. No flying axes!”17
“Then I took the story to my coaching group for review. They helped enhance the grossness at the end when Uncle Bo’s body got chopped up.”18
Hmm? You didn’t read the reference to New York? And you are wondering: What dog? What Uncle Bo? Those details have developed through Linda’s continued work on her version of the story. What you have in this book is an early draft! So, to hear the latest version you’ll need to watch for an opportunity to hear Linda Gorham tell stories in your area, and then make a special request for “The Gingerbread Boy,” her retelling of a Kentucky tale.19