-Bearded they were, with watery eyes..-

Storytellers of all stripes will gather on a green hill in the park every Saturday this summer. Among them? Perhaps myself. Certain to be there: three master storytellers who dominated the story exchange today.

They arrived, one by one, wearing collared shirts in different shades of blue. The first storyteller was slim, affable. He sported spectacles, a faint beard, and a sky-blue shirt.

The second to arrive only had a few extra pounds around his middle, and a dollop on the jowls. He wore glasses, an moderate beard, and a cerulean shirt.

The third had a stature much like the second, but stored his extra fat, we would soon discover, in his balding head. Glasses, thick beard, and a midnight-blue checkered shirt.

The audience? A retired Nabisco employee, his wife, two children's librarians, and me.

Cerulean went first, spinning a Celtic tale of Queen Maeve and her band of warriors. Arguments between the warriors in the mead hall. Horse races. A pitched battle between Connaught and Ulster. Finally, the queen takes down a boar the size of a rhino, returns to the mead hall and is regarded the greatest warrior.

I bet it killed at the Renaissance Faire. We all clapped for cerulean.

My fingers began twitching impatiently under the table. I liked Cerulean's delivery, although it didn't seem particularly difficult. Hollow stage voice? I could do that.

Midnight blue went next, telling (Inwardly, I sank into my chair) another Celtic story. I knew I was out of my league; or rather, in the wrong league. How would my contemporary tales of tangential city living be received by these Gaelic aficionados?

I heaved a sigh of relief when the sky-blue storyteller attributed his story to Italy. As it turned out, the geographic designation was rather unnecessary, unless Italy actually does boast a castle known only as "the castle" and a mountain with a dancing spring called "the enchanted mountain."

Midnight made several rude grunts throughout the telling, which admittedly could have been spiced up with some extra rhetorical tricks. But it was generally a breath of fresh air compared to the flaxen-hair-and-chainmail pomposity of the other tales, so Midnight's post-story dissection of the plot, characters, dialogue, and so on was particularly galling. I defended the sky blue fellow's story with two polite parries, and changed the subject.

This was unwise; one of the children's librarians told us a story about a mother hen, her chicks named Big Chick, Middle Chick, Little Chick and the dog preventing them from entering a garden. There's table thumping. Barking. High-pitched voices.

Kid-friendly stories from children's librarians speaking to an adult audience - surprised?

I wanted to gnaw off my own ears.

Fortunately, Cerulean revived the evening with an even-paced biographical lecture on Nellie Bly that stood out, in my opinion, as the best of the evening.

Midnight followed it with a children's tale. This was the last story of the evening, because I no longer trusted myself to speak.

So, is this the end of my Storytelling group experience? Not necessarily. You may see me when the sun plays high in the sky over the emerald hills of the park next Saturday.

Unless they talk too much about the emerald isle, or to the playground audience. Pit your Celtic heroes and Big Chicks against my slices of Americana at your own risk.