That omission struck me as well. I know it's hard to get every important fact into a one- or two-minute segment, but I think the radio producers should have tried harder.

At least James got quoted saying that he was a student in the program years before he became director, which suggests that the program has some real history, but the piece didn't really even touch on the history or, you know, the program's founder.

--Mike

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started? Pretty amazing, I'd say.

On Jul 30, 2013, at 9:04 PM, Clayton Stromberger wrote:

Here's a link to a recent "Arts Eclectic" spot on KUT, with quotes from the students and James -- check it out.

http://kut.org/2013/07/shakespeare-at-winedale/

Clayton Stromberger Outreach Coordinator, UT Shakespeare at Winedale cstromberger@austin.utexas.edu www.shakespeare-winedale.org cell: 512-363-6864 office: 512-471-4726

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

Poetry Damn fine poetry Thank you my friend.

From: winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org [mailto:winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org] On Behalf Of Clayton Stromberger Sent: Friday, August 02, 2013 12:16 PM To: James Ayres Cc: Shakespeare at Winedale 1970-2000 alums Subject: Re: [Winedale-l] Current class members on KUT

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres <jayres@cvctx.commailto:jayres@cvctx.com> wrote:

Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started? Pretty amazing, I'd say.

It IS amazing, isn't it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas' Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the future, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I'm just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria's old office about how the buildings are getting old and there's not money to repair them and then on to all of James's students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby-faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents' eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire - and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don't know you are doing that. And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust's mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always. In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree. And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think: I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes. Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say: Yes. Name what part I am for and proceed. Pretty amazing indeed.

________________________________

UT Southwestern Medical Center The future of medicine, today.

Thank you, Clayton. (And next time anyone wants an interview, I'm sending you!)

James

On Aug 2, 2013, at 12:15 PM, Clayton Stromberger wrote:

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres <jayres@cvctx.commailto:jayres@cvctx.com> wrote:

Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started? Pretty amazing, I'd say.

It IS amazing, isn’t it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas’ Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the future, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I’m just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria’s old office about how the buildings are getting old and there’s not money to repair them and then on to all of James’s students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby-faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents’ eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire – and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don’t know you are doing that. And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust’s mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always. In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree. And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think: I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes. Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say: Yes. Name what part I am for and proceed. Pretty amazing indeed.

_______________________________________________ Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.orgmailto:Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

Mind blown, as the kids nowadays say.

R

On Fri, Aug 2, 2013 at 1:11 PM, John Rando john.rando@verizon.net wrote:

Love you Clayton!

On Aug 2, 2013, at 1:15 PM, Clayton Stromberger < cstromberger@austin.utexas.edu> wrote:

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started? Pretty

...

amazing, I'd say.

It IS amazing, isn’t it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas’ Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the *future*, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I’m just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria’s old office about how the buildings are getting old and there’s not money to repair them and then on to all of James’s students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby-faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents’ eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire – and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don’t know you are doing that. And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust’s mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always. In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree. And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think: I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes.

Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say: Yes. Name what part I am for and proceed.

---

Pretty amazing indeed.

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

Ah Clayton. So beautifully and freely given. Thank you.

Sent from my iPhone

On Aug 2, 2013, at 2:08 PM, Robin Mize robinmize@gmail.com wrote:

O wonderful wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that out of all whooping!

xxxxx Robin

On Fri, Aug 2, 2013 at 2:50 PM, Robert Stevens rstevens@austin.rr.com wrote:

...

Mind blown, as the kids nowadays say.

R

On Fri, Aug 2, 2013 at 1:11 PM, John Rando john.rando@verizon.net wrote:

...

Love you Clayton!

On Aug 2, 2013, at 1:15 PM, Clayton Stromberger cstromberger@austin.utexas.edu wrote:

...

...

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

...

...

Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started? Pretty amazing, I'd say.

It IS amazing, isn’t it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas’ Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the future, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I’m just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria’s old office about how the buildings are getting old and there’s not money to repair them and then on to all of James’s students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby-faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents’ eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire – and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don’t know you are doing that. And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust’s mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always. In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree. And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think: I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes.

Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say: Yes. Name what part I am for and proceed.

Pretty amazing indeed.

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

--

Robin Mize, LCMFT 7034 Carroll Ave. Takoma Park, Md. 20912 301-648-8491 robinmize.com

E-mail is not a secure medium so I cannot ensure your confidentiality will be protected. _______________________________________________ Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

Or else the Molly Bloom of Winedale.

Sent from my iPhone

On Aug 2, 2013, at 3:40 PM, David Sharpe dpsharpeaustin@gmail.com wrote:

Clayton, this is stirring stuff you've written. You are the Walt Whitman of Winedale.

David

On Fri, Aug 2, 2013 at 2:35 PM, Kris zinzabar@yahoo.com wrote:

...

Ah Clayton. So beautifully and freely given. Thank you.

Sent from my iPhone

On Aug 2, 2013, at 2:08 PM, Robin Mize robinmize@gmail.com wrote:

...

O wonderful wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that out of all whooping!

xxxxx Robin

On Fri, Aug 2, 2013 at 2:50 PM, Robert Stevens rstevens@austin.rr.com wrote:

...

Mind blown, as the kids nowadays say.

R

On Fri, Aug 2, 2013 at 1:11 PM, John Rando john.rando@verizon.net wrote:

...

Love you Clayton!

On Aug 2, 2013, at 1:15 PM, Clayton Stromberger cstromberger@austin.utexas.edu wrote:

...

> On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

>> Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started? Pretty amazing, I'd say. >> >>

It IS amazing, isn’t it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas’ Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the future, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I’m just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria’s old office about how the buildings are getting old and there’s not money to repair them and then on to all of James’s students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby-faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents’ eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire – and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don’t know you are doing that. And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust’s mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always. In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree. And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think: I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes.

Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say: Yes. Name what part I am for and proceed.

Pretty amazing indeed.

---

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Robin Mize, LCMFT 7034 Carroll Ave. Takoma Park, Md. 20912 301-648-8491 robinmize.com

E-mail is not a secure medium so I cannot ensure your confidentiality will be protected. _______________________________________________ Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

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Oh Clayton, How lovely. You got me tearing up in the HEB parking lot. Again. Thanks Jerald

Sent from my iPhone

On Aug 2, 2013, at 12:15 PM, Clayton Stromberger cstromberger@austin.utexas.edu wrote:

...

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

...

...

Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started? Pretty amazing, I'd say.

It IS amazing, isn’t it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas’ Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the future, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I’m just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria’s old office about how the buildings are getting old and there’s not money to repair them and then on to all of James’s students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby-faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents’ eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire – and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don’t know you are doing that. And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust’s mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always. In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree. And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think: I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes.

Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say: Yes. Name what part I am for and proceed.

Pretty amazing indeed.

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

this is so beautiful...it's no wonder the place, idea, thing is so deep inside all of us. Aub

ACDO 1401 E. 7th St. Austin, TX 78702 512-472-3393

On Sep 25, 2013, at 4:25 PM, "Barker, Michael" Michael_Barker@spe.sony.com wrote:

This is unbelievable. I would like some stalwart to perform this on the stage in the barn. Amazing stuff. \m

From: winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org [mailto:winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org] On Behalf Of Jerald Head Sent: Friday, August 02, 2013 4:37 PM To: Clayton Stromberger Cc: Shakespeare at Winedale 1970-2000 alums Subject: Re: [Winedale-l] Current class members on KUT

Oh Clayton, How lovely. You got me tearing up in the HEB parking lot. Again. Thanks Jerald

Sent from my iPhone

On Aug 2, 2013, at 12:15 PM, Clayton Stromberger cstromberger@austin.utexas.edu wrote:

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started? Pretty amazing, I'd say.

It IS amazing, isn’t it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas’ Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the future, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I’m just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria’s old office about how the buildings are getting old and there’s not money to repair them and then on to all of James’s students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby-faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents’ eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire – and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don’t know you are doing that. And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust’s mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always. In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree. And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think: I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes. Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say: Yes. Name what part I am for and proceed. Pretty amazing indeed.

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l _______________________________________________ Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

Let me tell you how I feel about Godwin's Law (sometimes "Godwin's Rule"). I think about it the same way I think about my best performances in the Barn. Sometimes you hit the language and the moment the right way, and people remember it.

Would I perform Clayton's transmutation of Molly? In a heartbeat. Because Clayton and I love language the way we do, and because Doc taught us to listen to language and to speak it with love.

--m

On Wed, Sep 25, 2013 at 7:30 PM, Jerald Head jlhead1952@gmail.com wrote:

I have printed Claytons piece out and have placed it on my bullion board at work to read when I need a lift, to remind me of this wonderful place and experience, Winedale. Indulge me, as no one wants to hear about other peoples dreams, but even last night I was at Winedale, this time the older student, watching all. Of course a good dream would not be perfect without a tornado, which appeared as we took cover. I have always been a friend of Dorothy though. On a separate topic," Godwin's Rule" was mentioned this morning on "Morning Joe," as they commented on our nasty Senator Cruz bringing up Hitler and Chamberlin into his healthcare rant, just after he read from "Green Eggs and Ham." Nice shout out, Mike. Jerald

Sent from my iPad

On Sep 25, 2013, at 5:18 PM, Aubrey Carter aubreycarter@sbcglobal.net wrote:

this is so beautiful...it's no wonder the place, idea, thing is so deep inside all of us. Aub

ACDO 1401 E. 7th St. Austin, TX 78702 512-472-3393

On Sep 25, 2013, at 4:25 PM, "Barker, Michael" Michael_Barker@spe.sony.com wrote:

This is unbelievable. I would like some stalwart to perform this on the stage in the barn.

Amazing stuff.

\m

From: winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org [mailto:winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org] On Behalf Of Jerald Head Sent: Friday, August 02, 2013 4:37 PM To: Clayton Stromberger Cc: Shakespeare at Winedale 1970-2000 alums Subject: Re: [Winedale-l] Current class members on KUT

Oh Clayton,

How lovely. You got me tearing up in the HEB parking lot. Again.

Thanks

Jerald

Sent from my iPhone

On Aug 2, 2013, at 12:15 PM, Clayton Stromberger cstromberger@austin.utexas.edu wrote:

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started? Pretty amazing, I'd say.

It IS amazing, isn’t it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas’ Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the future, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I’m just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria’s old office about how the buildings are getting old and there’s not money to repair them and then on to all of James’s students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby-faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents’ eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire – and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don’t know you are doing that. And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust’s mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always. In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree. And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think: I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes.

Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say: Yes. Name what part I am for and proceed.

Pretty amazing indeed.

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

---

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---

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Word, y'all! And thank you, Doc.

--Susan

On Wed, Sep 25, 2013 at 7:30 PM, Clayton Stromberger < cstromberger@austin.utexas.edu> wrote:

Beautifully said, thank you Mike. I am still learning and re-learning every day how to listen to language and speak it with love -- yes, what Doc taught us -- and attempting to share it with as many young folks as I can every day too.

I miss all of you very much and look forward to our next gathering.

cheers,

cs

Clayton Stromberger Outreach Coordinator, UT Shakespeare at Winedale cstromberger@austin.utexas.edu www.shakespeare-winedale.org cell: 512-363-6864 office: 512-471-4726

On Sep 25, 2013, at 7:02 PM, Mike Godwin mnemonic@gmail.com wrote:

Let me tell you how I feel about Godwin's Law (sometimes "Godwin's Rule"). I think about it the same way I think about my best performances in the Barn. Sometimes you hit the language and the moment the right way, and people remember it.

Would I perform Clayton's transmutation of Molly? In a heartbeat. Because Clayton and I love language the way we do, and because Doc taught us to listen to language and to speak it with love.

--m

On Wed, Sep 25, 2013 at 7:30 PM, Jerald Head jlhead1952@gmail.com wrote:

I have printed Claytons piece out and have placed it on my bullion board at work to read when I need a lift, to remind me of this wonderful place and experience, Winedale. Indulge me, as no one wants to hear about other peoples dreams, but even last night I was at Winedale, this time the older student, watching all. Of course a good dream would not be perfect without a tornado, which appeared as we took cover. I have always been a friend of Dorothy though. On a separate topic," Godwin's Rule" was mentioned this morning on "Morning Joe," as they commented on our nasty Senator Cruz bringing up Hitler and Chamberlin into his healthcare rant, just after he read from "Green Eggs and Ham." Nice shout out, Mike. Jerald

Sent from my iPad

On Sep 25, 2013, at 5:18 PM, Aubrey Carter aubreycarter@sbcglobal.net wrote:

this is so beautiful...it's no wonder the place, idea, thing is so deep inside all of us. Aub

ACDO 1401 E. 7th St. Austin, TX 78702 512-472-3393

On Sep 25, 2013, at 4:25 PM, "Barker, Michael" < Michael_Barker@spe.sony.com> wrote:

This is unbelievable. I would like some stalwart to perform this on the stage in the barn.

Amazing stuff.

\m

From: winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org [mailto:winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org] On Behalf Of Jerald Head Sent: Friday, August 02, 2013 4:37 PM To: Clayton Stromberger Cc: Shakespeare at Winedale 1970-2000 alums Subject: Re: [Winedale-l] Current class members on KUT

Oh Clayton,

How lovely. You got me tearing up in the HEB parking lot. Again.

Thanks

Jerald

Sent from my iPhone

On Aug 2, 2013, at 12:15 PM, Clayton Stromberger cstromberger@austin.utexas.edu wrote:

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started? Pretty amazing, I'd say.

It IS amazing, isn’t it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas’ Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the future, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce

MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I’m just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria’s old office about how the buildings are getting old and there’s not money to repair them and then on to all of James’s students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby-faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents’ eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire – and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don’t know you are doing that. And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust’s mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always. In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree. And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think: I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes.

Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say: Yes. Name what part I am for and proceed.

Pretty amazing indeed.

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

There is a bit of Eliot, Bloom, Thomas, Shakespeare, and a lot of Faulkner here. A many splendored thing indeed!

Cheers to all,

Doc

On Aug 2, 2013, at 10:15 AM, Clayton Stromberger wrote:

...

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

...

Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started? Pretty amazing, I'd say.

It IS amazing, isn’t it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas’ Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the future, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I’m just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria’s old office about how the buildings are getting old and there’s not money to repair them and then on to all of James’s students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby- faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents’ eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire – and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don’t know you are doing that. And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust’s mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always. In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree. And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think: I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes.

Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say: Yes. Name what part I am for and proceed.

Pretty amazing indeed.

That's the way the cookie crumbles, Doc.

--Mike

On Fri, Aug 2, 2013 at 8:20 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

Oops, forgot Proust.

Doc On Aug 2, 2013, at 10:15 AM, Clayton Stromberger wrote:

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started? Pretty

...

amazing, I'd say.

It IS amazing, isn’t it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas’ Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the *future*, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I’m just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria’s old office about how the buildings are getting old and there’s not money to repair them and then on to all of James’s students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby-faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents’ eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire – and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don’t know you are doing that. And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust’s mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always. In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree. And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think: I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes.

Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say: Yes. Name what part I am for and proceed.

---

Pretty amazing indeed.

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

"Sage et Savoureux" -- c'est le nom du restaurant, je veux être propriétaire lorsque je prendrai ma retraite.

--m

On Fri, Aug 2, 2013 at 9:34 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

Une leçon allitératif très sage et très savoureux en effet. Merci.

Doc

On Aug 2, 2013, at 4:13 PM, Mike Godwin wrote:

That's the way the cookie crumbles, Doc.

--Mike

On Fri, Aug 2, 2013 at 8:20 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

...

Oops, forgot Proust.

Doc On Aug 2, 2013, at 10:15 AM, Clayton Stromberger wrote:

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started?

...

Pretty amazing, I'd say.

It IS amazing, isn’t it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas’ Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the *future*, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I’m just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria’s old office about how the buildings are getting old and there’s not money to repair them and then on to all of James’s students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby-faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents’ eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire – and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don’t know you are doing that. And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust’s mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always. In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree. And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think: I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes.

Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say: Yes. Name what part I am for and proceed.

---

Pretty amazing indeed.

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

A consummation devoutly to be wished, nonetheless.

On Fri, Aug 2, 2013 at 9:57 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

une pensée dévotement à désirer. mais il est pays inconnu dont aucun effritement des rendements des cookies.

Doc

On Aug 2, 2013, at 4:38 PM, Mike Godwin wrote:

"Sage et Savoureux" -- c'est le nom du restaurant, je veux être propriétaire lorsque je prendrai ma retraite.

--m

On Fri, Aug 2, 2013 at 9:34 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

...

Une leçon allitératif très sage et très savoureux en effet. Merci.

Doc

On Aug 2, 2013, at 4:13 PM, Mike Godwin wrote:

That's the way the cookie crumbles, Doc.

--Mike

On Fri, Aug 2, 2013 at 8:20 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

...

Oops, forgot Proust.

Doc On Aug 2, 2013, at 10:15 AM, Clayton Stromberger wrote:

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

Hmm. How in the world did something like this ever get started?

...

Pretty amazing, I'd say.

It IS amazing, isn’t it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas’ Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the *future*, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I’m just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria’s old office about how the buildings are getting old and there’s not money to repair them and then on to all of James’s students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby-faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents’ eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire – and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don’t know you are doing that. And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust’s mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always. In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree. And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think: I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes.

Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say: Yes. Name what part I am for and proceed.

---

Pretty amazing indeed.

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

Dear Jerald,

Regarding our idiom, "That's the way the cookie crumbles, " the Doctor said, below,

Indeed, an alliterative idiom, very wise and very tasty.

Je t'embrasse bien fort, Jerald. (Big kiss!)

Marie

________________________________ From: Jerald Head jlhead1952@gmail.com To: James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com Cc: Clayton Stromberger cstromberger@austin.utexas.edu; Shakespeare at Winedale 1970-2000 alums winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org Sent: Friday, August 2, 2013 7:39 PM Subject: Re: [Winedale-l] Current class members on KUT

Mary et Maggie Translation please

Sent from my iPad

On Aug 2, 2013, at 8:34 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

Une leçon allitératif très sage et très savoureux en effet. Merci.

Doc

On Aug 2, 2013, at 4:13 PM, Mike Godwin wrote:

That's the way the cookie crumbles, Doc.

...

--Mike

On Fri, Aug 2, 2013 at 8:20 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

Oops, forgot Proust.

...

Doc

On Aug 2, 2013, at 10:15 AM, Clayton Stromberger wrote:

...

On Thu, Aug 1, 2013 at 10:31 PM, James Ayres jayres@cvctx.com wrote:

...

Hmm.  How in the world did something like this ever get started? Pretty amazing, I'd say.

...

...

It IS amazing, isn’t it? From Samuel Lewis who built the cotton gin back there in the woods behind Hazel's somewhere to the folks who built the Stagecoach Inn to George Joseph Wagner, Sr., who bought it and made it home to the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing immigrants who took the big hand-hewn cedar beams from the gin and used them to build a hay barn in a meadow to Papa Wagner who punched the tin lanterns (let there be light) to Hazel Ledbetter who bought the Wagner house and then showed it to her friend Miss Ima who fell in love and restored it all and gave it to the university and loved it until the end to Virginia who planted the roses and gardens and raised money to a dark-haired professor whom Miss Ima met one fall day and told to go look inside that Barn and do Shakespeare there and who not so much later walked the Parlin halls snagging kids with fire and joy in their eyes who drove out there and found a Forest of Arden and an Eastcheap and a

country store full of country folks who worked hard and drank der beer and could dance a mean polka and sang Germans songs to an accordion and wore straw hats in the sun and rode horses and understood animals and heard the wind through the trees and made Winedale a living place populated by characters out of Dylan Thomas’ Wales but speaking in musical German-Texan accents with names that had a chime and a ring and a thump, Zwernemann and Hinze and Klump, Marilyn & Rollie, Gloria, Edith & Liz & Ronnie, Angelene, Delphine, O what a name, Delphine who sang on his tractor in that amazing baritone (dipping effortlessly into bass?) voice that floated across Lake Winedale as he mowed, and Rosalee who loved her beer and loved young people, they were the future, and Verlie, how I miss that wry deadpan drawl, to Percy and Norma and all the others whose names came and went in my head and who after a squint or two opened their sun-toughened arms to the long-haired kids with fire in their eyes and beards both real and spirit-gum who laughed and loved and sang there Donald Terry Jerald Alice Mary Robert Michael Buddy Dolly Gail Laura Carol Rob Craig Jan Aubrey Maggie Robert Jeff Joy Bruce MichaelCarlErnieDavidMalouNickGrahamRobinBonnieTeresaJeanneEliseTamsenJohnBillBrittBetsyDavidSteveMarkJamesKrisWillieBrianLeighBob okay take a breath who am I leaving out? I’m just getting warmed up here and only that dark-haired professor knew them all over thirty years, the professor who pushed them hard and played hard too and said Let wonder seem familiar, he remembers all the names and faces, and had I but world enough, and time, I would get all the rest of those lovely names down, so then on to -- yes -- you too reading this now and then on to all the audiences who saw the flyer brought by the guy driving the milk truck and came and came back and sat on the metal folding chairs in the heat without complaining, transported, and drank the lemonade and the beer (yes) brought their families and friends bought the t-shirts and told their friends and the folks who gave to the endowment and believed in what was happening there on to JoAnn a new life in Round Top and then on to James who took the reins and Laurel and all the folks who helped the next generation get rolling and now Liz and her husband Rob and Elroy with the walrus mustache who takes care of the grounds and has his own country twang though not German and Barbara who worries in Gloria’s old office about how the buildings are getting old and there’s not money to repair them and then on to all of James’s students in the past decade who are now feeling very grown-up at the ripe old age 30 or such but still come back when they can, some with children in tow and on laps in the front row, and on to the baby-faced young people (the future, remember) who are there this very moment with James (full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round since James and I first played on that ground) who were in a baby stroller when some of us wearing powdery hair-white there in that Barn or were even just a twinkle in their parents’ eyes and now they are speaking the words of Gonzalo and Dromio and Caliban and Adriana and Hal and Ariel in that same space and many of us no longer need to add any more hair white as we listen to them speak the old words anew and hope for them O a muse of fire – and through this long chain of building and creating and sharing and giving and sacrificing and laughing and singing and playing and crying and wearing trousers rolled and giving of oneself it has remained a place that you have to find, and once you find it you never forget it and you strive to know the place again for the first time, even if you don’t know you are doing that.  And this place can be found around the world, if you look for it, in Urinetown and Mickee Faust’s mad tavern world and hospitals and courtrooms and classrooms and stages, the full-throated joy and the sound of the stirring pecan trees and the straightness of the pines and the crickets at night as the lights glow orangey on the warm wood under the Milky Way are all in there: England and nowhere, never and always.  In the dazzling stillness of a hot summer afternoon when you hear the cicadas again; the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree.  And now the name some pipe-smoking hat-wearing German came up with while glancing across a cascade of grapes in the leafy shaded green (perhaps, on some sunny day, long ago, in a world where Lincoln had died just the other day) is a word that sits on the tongue of hundreds of even younger young people (the future, Rosalee!), some seniors in high school, some just going into fifth grade, who rouse themselves at the name of Winedale and unroll their texts and say I played such a one there, and they think back on a day there, or a weekend, or of two weeks of camp, or a childhood of summers, and think:  I liked that place, and willingly could not waste my time in it, over and over again every summer or spring, as often as a parent will drive them out there, and you ask them if they want to go back to Winedale and the answer is yes I will Yes.

...

...

...

Some day it will all be gone with the cloud-capped towers and the gorgeous palaces and the great globe itself but until then they say:  Yes.  Name what part I am for and proceed. Pretty amazing indeed.

---

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

_______________________________________________

Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l

_______________________________________________ Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l