12/21/14

Holiday atmosphere had been dampened by several days of low clouds and rain. But 12/21 has nice symmetry, maybe a little mojo working. Sunday was the only day my kids and their kids could rendezvous for food and gift exchanges and we jumped on the opportunity. Had we costumes, one might have mistaken the table for a medieval feast. Grapes and cherries, cheese, veggies, chips and dip; chile substituted for roast pig and we used spoons. After gifts were opened we settled in for a board game that had everyone drawing cards to find out what kind of ridiculous act they had to perform in front of the others. We had to set ground rules about smart phone videos and what could be posted on Facebook. 

Back on 12/21/12, it was an altogether different celebration. In Dayton, Ohio, we celebrated a wedding. My oldest son Pete and my 2 now, going on 3 year daughter said their, ”I Do’s.” We got to talk on the phone with them last night as they marked their 2nd anniversary. We talked to our daughter/sister in Alaska as well. Her birthday, just a long week earlier was still fresh in our celebrating. 

When I got home the rain had let up but the patio was still wet. I gathered scrap wood from a barrel in the basement and built a mini-bonfire in the chiminea. Sitting in front of the fire, I watched flames leap out of the stack, sparks rising and disappearing in the dark. 12/21 is winter solstice; has been since they adopted the Gregorian calendar in 1582. Solstice must be the earliest, most enduring celebration in the history of human-kind. I love it. The longest night of the year signals longer days, more sunlight and the promise of warmer weather. The warmer weather takes a while, like 4 months but the promise is something you can hang onto. It will happen. From their cave-condos, our ancestors associated longer hours of daylight, even by a few minutes; before they knew what a minute was, with the return of warm weather. 

In Great Britain, Pagan Druids worshiped trees and burned logs in sacrifice on that longest night of the year. Out of that tradition came the Yule Log. Decorating trees and the Yule Log were later incorporated into Christian tradition, a way to help assimilate pagans into the new, Roman religion. So I sing, “Silent Night” and, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” in keeping with the new. I also build a bonfire on the longest night, in keeping with the old. 

PLAN FOR THE DAY

My plan for the day was to mat and frame some photographs for a show I’m hanging in the spring. I’ve never done that before and I need help. Today my helper couldn’t make it so we rescheduled for another day. I called a friend and asked if he would help me size the gallery space, come up with the ideal number of pieces and frame sizes to best fit the room. So imagine two little old men with tape measures and sketchpad, fumbling around the gallery. Straight out, it was reminiscent of an old, Laurel & Hardy movie. We arranged empty frames up against blank panels and debated the merits of here or there, large or small, vertical or horizontal. After a couple of hours, we had a new plan. It looks like 23 pieces, plus or minus; and three different sizes. I love it when I have a plan. I never stick to the plan but it’s nice to know there is one. 

I’ve known Nelson since 2008; we go to the same church. We both have kids in Alaska and we teamed up on a big road trip. We drove my daughter’s car to Washington then took it on the boat, up the inland passage. He flew back after a week or so and I stayed in Anchorage for a couple of months. I hadn’t seen him recently; I was down on the gulf coast for thanksgiving and he was in N.Y. for the Macy’s Parade. His career was all about how crop insurance should work in 3rd world countries and mine was about teenagers and the difference between momentum and inertia. He is a good friend. 

It was lunch time when we finished and the weather today was unbelievable, Here it is, warm and sunny in mid December. We both wanted to eat outside as the weather will surely close down soon, leaving us to sit in a booth next to a window and watch winter go by. So we landed at a little sandwich shop on the Country Club Plaza. It’s a high end shopping district, built in the 20’s, with Spanish architecture and pricy shops. I had a salad and he got a sandwich. Our table was in a sunny corner, out of the wind. I have forgotten what we talked about but I always do. 

Nelson wanted to walk for a while, for exercise and to look in the shops. A young woman with dark, pulled back hair and full, rosy cheeks was stationed by the door of her store. It was a tea place. That’s it. They sold tea and tea pots. She had a couple of tea urns and lots of small cups for samples. While I was sipping my Orang Blossom tea, she updated me on the wonders of their exotic product. She said the sweetener was all natural and unprocessed. I asked if she had to go to Nepal to learn about unprocessed sweeteners. Nepal is after all, where Tea Gods dwell. She told me no, that her cohort standing beside us, shaking tea out of one large tin into smaller tins had trained her. So I asked her boss if she had been to Nepal to learn the tea trade. She laughed and I sipped a second sample. I spent eight dollars on two ounces of Orange Blossom tea, sampling another cup as I went out the door. I’ll make a point to drink some tea before the new year or, its aroma is so nice I could use it for a potpourri. 

I’ve got a new wood shop project going on in the basement that requires rabbets and dados. I belong to the Kansas City Woodworkers Guild. They have a world class work shop with top of the line power tools.  I go there when I need powerful, precision equipment or someone over my shoulder, telling me either, “No, not like that,” or, “yes, you got it.” That’s my plan for tomorrow. My holiday greetings are stuffed in their envelopes and stamped, ready to go. I’ll probably wait another day or two before I send them on their way. 

IDLE

Thanks Giving came and went without a hitch. I made fish & shrimp tacos; halibut from Alaska and fresh, Gulf shrimp. Couldn’t be thankful though without cranberry sauce, (orange zest and pecans) and cornbread stuffing. Skipped all the football in favor of PBS. Louisiana: good food and music and I count on that. The Indian Pow Wow was way-cool. Spent a couple of days ratting around antique shops in Mississippi and am now sitting under a tin roof shelter house on the beach; Pensacola, FL.  My action on the computer is about all that is going on. Sun is starting to get low and gulls are all perched on their favorite pilings. Birds are great fliers but even better at conserving energy. They don’t fly unless it’s about food, sex or survival. Right now, they’re all happy to be idle. Except for the occasional acorn falling on the tin roof and shadows getting longer, one could make a case for suspended animation. 

A while ago, a guy was fishing with a cast net off the pier and a Great Blue Heron was shadowing him. I wanted to see how close I could get before it flew. Looking through my camera lens I started inching up on it; had to keep adjusting the zoom out to keep it all in frame. So close I thought I’d step on its foot and then a croak that sounded really insulting. Sounded like, “What in the #!!# do you want?” in Heron-ese. It opened up its wings and stroked twice, to the other side of the boardwalk. Not exactly wildlife photography. I’m on my way north tomorrow. I’ll miss 70’s and sunshine but If I plan right, it will be meal time when I get to Memphis. 

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.