RED WOLF

As the story goes, a young warrior had become separated from his tribe and was searching for them. In the dark of night he heard singing from over the hill and went to investigate. He found a Red Wolf singing and dancing on its hind legs. In the end the wolf told him to teach the songs and dance to his tribe. The story comes from Kiowa culture; songs and dance that honor warriors. It was part of the Sun Dance which was banned by the federal government in the late 1800’s. They feared young warriors would rebel and leave the reservation. If they went back to the old ways the army would have to chase them down and they didn’t want another Indian war. After WWII, American Indians began to reclaim their traditions, including the Sun Dance. In the 1970’s, the federal government officially rescinded the ban.

The ceremony associated with the songs and dance of the Red Wolf are manifest in the Gourd Dance. Over time, other tribes have created their own Gourd Dance societies and protocols vary from tribe to tribe. The Kiowa stay with the original theme while some others have shifted emphasis to honoring veterans. Some permit only Native Americans to participate while some allow non-indian veterans to dance as well. 

In Cajun Louisiana, the surname Richard is pronounced with the French accent; (RE-shard). My friend Larry Richard is more Indian than not and his blood lines cover the American Southeast to the Great Plains and up into Canada. I started hanging out with him twenty years ago. We are storytellers. I was interested in the Cajun-Indian connection and he was graceful enough to accommodate me. We were both in the military, the same decade. But I did one tour, in peace time. Larry did two tours in Viet Nam. He came home without any bullet holes but exposure to Agent Orange would catch up with him and he still lives with that. He has been after me for several years to come dance the Gourd Dance with him. The Pow Wow in Gonzales, Louisiana is small, allows any veteran to dance in the circle. This year I did just that. There is formal dress regalia, so to say; a rattle, feathered fan and a blanket of red and blue. You don’t need the trappings but those are the basic elements if you want to invest in the culture. 

The drummer-singers had started drumming a low, slow invitation. Larry gave me a rattle and told me to come in the circle when he signaled me. Dancers were in a circle with the drum in the center. Not a lot of footwork; they simply moved in place, working the rattle to the rhythm. Singing and drumming changed tempo and intensity. When the pace dropped off, the dancers inched closer to the drums and sometimes gave out a shout, in honor of the red wolf. At the end, they backed up to the spot where they began. There would be a short break and then do it again. 

About half way through the first round, he motioned me into the circle. I stood close enough we could communicate and tried to model his example. At the end, after the drumming stopped, men from the circle, in their wonderful costumes, walked by me, dropped folded up dollar bills at my feet. I was told it was a gesture of respect, that I had been called into the circle of warriors and the gift was a tangible sign. Larry told me to just stand still. Another man came across, bent over, picked up all of the dollars and gave them to me. “This is their token of respect for you,” Larry said, “you can do anything with it you like. You can keep it or you can give it as a token of your respect to the drum.” I stood at the shoulder of the lead drummer until he looked at me. Then I reached in, touched the drum and dropped all of the dollars on the drum head, just as I was instructed. Then I walked around the outside of that circle, shaking hands with each drummer. By the time I got back to the side lines, the low, slow drumming had begun again. 

We danced three more rounds. I learned quickly that you need to have some dollar bills in your pocket as new people are brought in often and veteran, warrior, Gourd dancers are honored frequently. I learned how simple it looks and how taxing it can be to keep the rattle and your feet in sync with the drums. After an hour, even with the short breaks, the subtle motions become almost too much. After I was honored with the dollar bills, the same dancers came back around to shake my hand. This time they all looked me directly in the eye an said either “Thank you for your service.” or, “Welcome home.”  From another generation, before the Gulf War in 1990, my brothers in arms came home to jeers and insults. Gourd dancers wanted to be sure all veterans got a deserved welcome home and thank you. 

I was moved and that’s unusual. Letting go of my military experience was easy. I was never in harm’s way and I had no desire to go there. But I knew going in, that was part of the deal. I was trained and I understood our mission. I was lucky enough to see it through before the killing began. My old unit, the 2nd 503 was one of the first units sent into the Mekong delta in 1965, when I was a sophomore in college. Regardless of how I feel about the politicians who sent them there or the ideology behind it, they were doing the heavy lifting while I was studying philosophy and biology on the GI bill. There are names on the wall in Washington D.C. that belong to guys I used to play cards with; not to mention the ones who came home broken, to nobody who cared. 

I’m a Gourd Dancer now. Larry told me, “This is for real.” It’s not about my fascination with Native American culture and it’s not about patriotism. It’s about a common bond that we shared then and ties that still hold. Yes, I was moved and it did surprise me. But you’re never too old to learn and it’s never too late to turn the page. 

ROCK ME BABY

It is ironic that I have been driving through Memphis, Tennessee for lots of years, staying on the Interstate, stopping only for gas. In July, I spent two days there and kick myself for not stopping sooner. I don’t think it matters which direction you come from, the roads all seem to lead downtown, to Union Avenue and Beale Street. Yesterday I got off the Interstate, onto Riverside Dr. to Beale and found an empty parking meter. It was rush hour with busy traffic and the space was tight. A rough looking, ragged man was standing by the meter. When I noticed him over my shoulder, he was already giving me hand signals, like the ground crew guys at the air port. I didn’t need the help, my car with the back-up camera has made parking easy. When I approached the meter with coin purse in hand he was pointing at the digital display. “You get one hour for four quarters.” He said. “If you need another minute, you have to pay for another hour.” He was humble and courteous. He couldn’t know how difficult it is for me to read small print, in low or bright light but his help was timely. I thanked him and fished out four quarters. “If you have any spare quarters, I could sure use some help.” Without staring, I sized him up. His haircut was reasonable and my face needed a shave as much as his. But his body language and rumpled clothing spoke to me of a street person. I told him that I didn’t carry much cash when I travel but I did pull out my wallet. I knew I had a $10, a $5 and a few $1’s. He sensed I was going to give him something. “It costs $6 for a bed at the shelter,” he said, ”and I only have a dollar and change.” I gave him the $5 and his “Thank you” sounded either well rehearsed or sincere. He started up the street as I turned to the crosswalk, across from BB King’s Blues Club. 

Inside, I was seated in front of the stage where a huge screen projection system was playing selected clips from BB King concerts, duets with other famous musicians. The service was fast and before you know, my small rib dinner was coming out of the kitchen. I don’t usually flaunt pictures of food. When I see that I take it at face value, believing first that the person was really feeling good and the food just made it better. It wasn’t the first time I’d had this meal and I knew exactly what to expect. You have to handle the ribs carefully or the meat falls off before you can get it to your mouth. I had to decide where to start; beans first, slaw then the ribs or . . . on the big screen BB introduced Jeff Beck and they took off together on “Rock Me Baby.” This is the point where you know how really good I”m feeling, good enough to post a photo of my food. I thought about the guy at the parking meter. I know that 9 out of 10 times, they will have a great story but spend the money on booze or drugs. I knew it when I gave him the $5. At that point it didn’t matter. I hope he slept well either way. Leaving the club I had to wait a moment for a couple standing in the door. They were in their 40’s maybe, both thin and hard looking, both in sleeveless shirts and full sleeve tattoos. They were deciding to come in or go somewhere else. They came in. I waited for the stop light to change, could see my car half a block away. In those seconds I thought about the homeless black man and the biker couple. My mom would have said to me, “There but for the Grace of God . . .”  I know, I know mom. The couple probably knew where they were going to sleep anyway, and weren’t worried about the next meal. They might be better off than me but I’m both lucky and grateful. I’ll be in the French Quarter tomorrow for more good music and sinful food. I trust the biker couple can take care of themselves but I have second thoughts for the homeless guy. I'll have to fall back on Joseph Campbell who said, “Participate in the sorrows of the world.  We can not cure the world of sorrows, but we can choose to live in joy.”

HOUSE FOR RENT

A big polar chill has come down through Canada with beaucoup snow in the upper midwest and hard freeze as far south as Louisiana. When that happens I retreat to the basement and make sawdust. The holiday season is almost here and gifts are on the to-do list. I quit worrying about what people want or need. What I know is that everybody needs a bird house. When I was teaching Biology in the early 80’s, I slipped in an ornithology unit. We learned bird songs from audio tapes and made coloring books full of bird's field markings. Then everybody had to go on at least two birding field trips either before or after school or on a Saturday morning. They grumbled at the time but in the following years, many kids confided that it was one of their favorite projects. I have been hooked since I was little; birds are special. 

Everything, everyone is special; but birds are absolutely, awesome special. Yes, they can fly and we can’t. We create flying machines but they are weak knock-offs for the real thing. I want to soar on uplifting thermals and I want to dive full speed into an oak tree, landing on a twig without a ding or a dent. I’d be happy eating bugs and seeds if I could do that. But my special isn't the right kind of special. All I can do is watch them and feel the joy vicariously. I love them all but woodpeckers are fantastic. When I hear one drumming, I’ll do just about anything to locate it, to set my eyes on it. Woodpeckers are experiencing a housing shortage. Development in cities and suburbs has reduced the number of suitable trees, with hollow cavities, where Woody’s nest. So I’ll build some woodpecker boxes. Maybe I can lure a pair of woodpeckers to the Ash tree in my back yard. The view is great and the rent is cheap.

My mother loved wrens. She had several wren houses in her yard and talked back to them through her kitchen window. When my brother was recuperating from cancer, wrens perched in a tree above his deck and chattered at him. He believed it was our mom reassuring him that everything would be alright. Now all wrens remind me of someone I grew up with and I make houses for them. I’m making wren houses for friends and family, gifts at gift giving time. I don’t think it will matter where it came from or how much it cost. It doesn’t need a guarantee or instructions. Just hang it in a tree and come April, listen for the rat-a-tat-tat, rapid fire notes of the wren’s song. They will complain when you come too close and discourage other birds, looking for mates and nest sites. Then if there's nothing else to chatter about, they can simply sing. I’ll be on the road soon enough and that takes me to another mindset but for now it’s wren houses.

HOME

I need to make the distinction between, “Home” a house and, “Home” the place that's more about your identity. I am at home right now, the house where most of my things live, most of the time. It belongs to me and I’m quite comfortable here, when I”m here. For me, travel is not a departure from routine, it is the routine. So when I’m home, it’s sort of like sitting in traffic at a red light. I check mirrors, adjust the volume on the radio, readjust my wallet so it’s more comfortable in my pocket, all the while keeping track of the light. There are times when I could use more time at the light but that’s another story. I will be leaving in a couple of weeks, for several weeks but for now, I am checking mirrors and my wallet.

I really like to cook, fix food. While I’m home I have a well equipped kitchen but nobody to cook for so I rely on the salad bar and deli for most of my needs. I decided a long time ago that food is not my friend. I need to keep a well defined emotional distance between friends and things that only make me feel good. Friends won’t beat you up just because you are vulnerable. When I do a good job of managing food, I eat well, sleep well, it tastes good and nobody gets hurt. Sharing food is near the top of the list for rewarding, social behavior and I love to go there. So I never pass a chance to fix food for my friends. I may indulge in too much or too rich but it doesn’t happen often and I understand the price I pay.

With cold weather coming on, stuck here for a while, I have a chance to cook for myself. Today I skipped cold cereal in favor of steel cut oats. Not like fu-fu, rolled oats that cook up in a minute or so, steel cut oats take half an hour on the stove top or hours in a crock pot. Near the end, I throw in a handful of toasted pecans, some dried fruit and a shot of honey. Breakfast was good with enough left over for lunch or a snack later on, or even breakfast in the morning. Last night I put lentils in the crockpot to soak overnight. This morning they are cooking with carrots, sweet peppers and curry. I’ll add some turkey pastrami later; whirl in the blender enough to juice it up and soup’s on. Strange, if I eat from a bowl, with a spoon, I don’t overeat. Finger food that comes from bags or boxes are not my friends. 

I got the leaves mulched the other day. Patio chairs and umbrellas need to come inside and I have several wood shop projects underway. It seems like there is always something more important at the time than practicing guitar and I need to change that. So while I’m sitting here at the red light, there are things to do. Last week I made a comment on FaceBook that, "Home is where the feet is." When I arrive in two weeks, there will still be “Home” work left undone at the house but my feet won't notice. When the light goes green you need to move along. 

DEER HUNTING

A long time ago, when I was attending writer’s retreats at Glen Lake, Michigan, I discovered Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lake Shore. It’s a stretch of lakeshore that reaches back into the eskers and moraines, left there from the last ice age. They are steep sided hills and ridges, covered with maples, oaks and ash and their flanks stretch  down onto the shoreline. I go there when I can and walk the slopes, talk to the animals and make believe I belong there. Once, for my small writers group, I wrote a piece about walking this one particular high meadow. I called it “Deer Hunting.” I was hunting deer, early in the morning before the fog burned off. I was wet from dew on the tall grass and had seen deer beds and fresh droppings. I explained how I finally found the deer and began shooting. Shot after shot I took aim and squeezed. In the end I revealed that my weapon was a camera with a big lens and that I had several trophies to take home with me from that hunt. 

Now, over a decade later, I’m still deer hunting every time I go to the “High Meadow.” Day before yesterday I was there in the late afternoon. I drove three hours to get there before sunset, that magical hour of low angle light. But clouds blew in and my magic hour turned into an ordinary cloudy afternoon. I still walked the meadow. I have a better camera now with an even better lens and I was searching for deer. Not even the animals can move through the grass without leaving a trail. You can tell which direction and how fast they were going and I got into a spot where there had been a lot of traffic. Then I saw the large, beaten down circle with a deer’s shoulder and leg. The hide had been gnawed away and stripped of flesh. Chunks of deer hide were strewn about but all of the red meat was gone. Across the way an eight-point buck’s head was set aside, undisturbed. Behind it in the grass was the ribcage and spine. Blood spills looked recent and the bits of flesh still left on white bones had not yet dried. I was fresh on the scene. I reasoned it was probably a mother coyote and her young; they would be six months and between them, they could take down a buck.        
A few minutes later, cresting a low ridge that rimmed a bowl shaped depression I had to look hard but there were five dark spots in the tall grass some two hundred yards down range. They were moving toward the trees. I thought immediately about my writing and about coyotes who were probably sleeping off their big meal. We get nostalgic with the Bambi concept and think of them as nature’s darlings but coyotes need to eat as well. Certainly, cars and highways are a new danger but the struggle to survive is timeless and grim as it might seem, the buck was just recycling the food web a little sooner than he might have wished, if he wished at all. Park Rangers protect wildlife from hunters with guns but the true hunters sleep in the same tall grass as the deer. The high risk business of survival is everyday stuff for the deer and the coyote. I live a charmed life, no worries about hungry predators outside my door. Our predators cheat us out of our money but we get to wake up in the morning.

MAN WITH A CAMERA

Grand Haven, Michigan; the beach is in winter mode now with rows of snow fence set up to keep sand on the beach instead of migrating to the street below the bluff. The light house may have some new paint but wear and tear on the pier itself can’t be covered so easy. Freeze and thaw eat away, little pieces, one at a time but the cracks and cavities are too big to miss. After so many years it’s easy to take the place for granted. The last time I was here there was a great festival going on. The beach was crawling with people of all ages. Sunset found the pier with tourists, shoulder to shoulder, waiting, watching the sun sink somewhere beyond the horizon, into Wisconsin. I'm by myself now, walking up and down the beach, out to the light house and back, then repeat the process again and again. Walking the beach should be worth college credit; you learn something important, every time. As much as it stays the same over years it changes minute to minute. Subtle changes in light, different angles, creatures in and out of the picture; I’m not sharp enough to catch them all but the lens doesn’t miss anything. 

There is an edge on the wind, just enough to push small rollers up onto the sand. Where the pier was full of people last time, this morning only three guys and a dozen fishing poles. The perch are there but nobody’s having any luck today. They are quick to remind anyone who will listen that a bad day fishing is better than a good day at work. Down the beach, gulls have congregated at water’s edge. Before I can check them out a jogger and her dog come up on them too fast and they explode into a flurry. Some settled back in the shallows while others circled for a few minutes and came back to the wet sand. As I got closer, hoping for another flurry and a chance to shoot them on the wing, they noticed me alright but chose to walk away rather than fly. In the sand, with a heavy camera around my neck they can walk as fast as I can so I headed back up to the rows of snow fence. There was a healthy dune behind the first row with wind ripples on top. The wind has packed the sand and that makes for easy walking. So I walked there, looking for lines and angles, color and contrast. Photographs don’t just happen, you have to look for them. Even then you have to figure out where you need to be when you trip the shutter. 

I have other things to do today but maybe I’ll still be in town when the sun gets low. If I can get a low angle sun in the same frame with the light house and be lucky enough to catch a few gulls flying through, I wouldn’t want to be somewhere else, doing something mundane. Fall colors are past their peak and I need to go up north tomorrow if I want fall photos. Some of you have been with me to the high meadow on M22, just up the road from Glen Arbor. That’s where I’ll be tomorrow when the sun comes up. If you haven’t been there, you need to go. 

FARMER

When winter starts to wain and the promise of spring gives you hope, you bring home with you, green growing things and great expectations. I do it every year. But this year I was far away, returned late in May. With perennials in front of the house I didn’t have to put much stuff in the ground but all of my containers were stored. Everyone I knew had their plants established while I rummaged through left overs at the lawn & garden store. There were some good buys, plants that weren’t perfect, passed over and now just hoping to drop their roots somewhere before being recycled in the compost heap. It was the fist week of June before my plants were all in. Two weeks later everything looked fine, except for the tomatoes. 

Flowers have always been good to me, give them a drink now and then and pull a few weeds. But my luck with tomatoes has been nothing but bad. If it’s not caterpillars or white flies it’s blossom-end-rot or mold. But they had great deals on healthy plants that should have been in the ground a month earlier. So I bought six, made them at home in 20 gallon pots. By the time they acclimated and got their roots in gear it was July. Everybody else had little green tomatoes and mine were still growing a root network. I figured they would come late but with a little luck, I would get some tomatoes.

In September, as green tomatoes began to turn, yellow first then into orange, I discovered that neighborhood squirrels had been watching them too. There was a yellow-pink tomato that would be just right in two or three days. When I checked again, it had been gnawed on, through the skin into the meaty flesh, just enough for flies to gain access and torpedo the salad I had planned. So I started harvesting firm, yellow-pink fruits keeping just ahead of the squirrels. They ripen on my countertop instead of vine ripened, like the samples down at Farmer’s Market. But I had tomatoes. 

So now it’s October, short days and cool nights, what’s left on the vines will not ripen in the sun. Plants aren’t stupid. They know, at least the annuals, when nights turn cool and sunlight goes away, they look in the mirror and say to themselves, “OMG, I’m so old. I don’t have much time left.” It’s programmed into the DNA, when the odds go against you and your time is short, reproduce. Bloom again, make new fruits; it’s all about the seeds. “If I”m going to perish, at least I can seed a new generation.” So that’s what they do and they spend all of their remaining energy on new blooms and whatever tomatoes are left, are left hanging like orphans. Then I come along and see the new blooms, tell the late tomatoes, in tomato talk, “You guys have been disinherited, you get nothing from now on. Why don’t you come with me? I’ll spread you out in the kitchen and you can ripen there, listen to the radio, watch me eat cereal in the morning.” They are smart enough, know that however their destiny plays out, they won’t be back in the spring. I collected all of my October tomatoes today, leaving the parent plants to fret over blossoms that will never set fruit. Between slicers and summer salad, my little harvest will last a week or so. The green ones may not make it to ripe; may have to do the fried green thing, dredged in garlic and pepper flour. If I had bib overhauls and a straw hat I could look the part.