You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
My introduction to Native drum circles came at the annual Tinowit pow-wow on the Yakama reservation in Washington state. That event is much larger than the more relaxed annual Passamaquoddy Days gathering near my home in Maine today, but drum circles are still an important part of the culture and identity. By the way, the Passamaquoddy emphasize that their celebration is NOT a pow-wow. There are some formal distinctions.
Some parts of my life today, here in the easternmost corner of the USA, echo my experiences in the interior Pacific Northwest. Dancing at the Passamaquoddy Days, which tribal members pointedly say is not a powwow, is one of those. At the Yakama reservation’s Tinowit, the event was much larger and more established. Here, it’s more a sense of rediscovery and reconnection, which has its own sense of excitement, especially as the younger members of the community gain familiarity with those roots.
The primary attraction had been the mountains. We were in the foothills on the eastern flank of the Cascade Range. I was getting out into the wild probably every week from summer to the start of winter. Here are a few excerpts.
One of my first exploration, maybe the first, was on a Tuesday I had off work, when I drove up the Middle Fork from Tampico and then logging roads to Darling Mountain crest. Sheep scats and tracks around the snow and awesome meadows. Old site of forest fire lookout, since torn down. Climbed a dead tree to enhance the view. Mount Hood, above clouds. Adams, thrusting into them, closer. Goat Rocks across the way, and St. Helens’ perfect cone beyond. Straight ahead, following the road, Rainier thicker into the clouds somehow superior to the others. Then, a golden eagle sailing straight toward me, turning off perhaps 30 yards away, soaring off, circling briefly, and disappearing. With my guest status, I gave gratitude.
Deep forests were extraordinary.
I had no idea that this was on the second-highest logging road in the state.
On another trip, on my way to Mount Rainier, saw my first petroglyphs (rock inscriptions) and petrographs (rock paintings) outside of Naches. The paintings looked a little faked — red and white, perhaps with a little blue or red.
Our routes to Rainier were progressions through ecosystems that became familiar over repeated exposure as we drove from sagebrush desert into ponderosa pines and reservoirs of future irrigation waters on our way to the high country of the Cascade Crest and the rainforests beyond.
Rainier hikes inspired many poems as well as scenes in my novel Nearly Canaan.
Each day trip was intoxicating.
John Day Dam in Columbia River: fish ladder and 80-foot drop of locks: air in stomach, at man’s mass of cement: aluminum company by the RR tracks.
Steam locomotive at Maryhill State Park, reflecting Sam Hill’s source of wealth: Maryhill Museum of Fine Arts, his castle above the palisades, green lawn dropping off into clouds. The sculpture studies by Rodin the claim to fame. During the trip, pondering Mount Adams vs Rainier …
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Sweet vinegar smell of hay [up to 5 mowings a year in the interior Far West; the hay was grown in the sunny lands east of the Cascades, and much of it was trucked to dairy farms and other livestock operations on the rainy western side of the mountains].
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From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.
Most poets write of themselves or lovers or at least things around them: poetry as a conversation with yourself. Or maybe God, on a good day.
My 2nd tall, kraft-colored Citadel spiralbound opened with “May you be inscribed with a good year,” Rosh Hashanah 5737.
Apart from the office, I faced a host of new discoveries.
Photo of Mount Adams by Josh Hild at Pexels, as seen from the high country at the fringe of our valley.
Looking back, I see that few in our circle of friends in Yakima were from the place … At the office, a few filled me in …
After my promotion, did my mountains explorations diminish?
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From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.
With their many different species, jellyfish are found in every ocean in the world, including very cold waters of the Arctic and Antarctic. Some are even found in freshwater. Some species live in shallow, sunlit waters near the surface, while others live in the deep, dark, cold or somewhere in-between. Here are a few other points.
We settled into a new three-bedroom duplex with an attached garage, situated at the base of the ridge.
Living in town: the newest and most modern dwelling of my life, even now 50 years later … (of my first decade after college, I’m seeing on aerial photos that the majority have been demolished) … It was about a 30-block walk to the office, something that could be done if needed but still long.
We even had a fireplace, come fall and winter.
Summertime, though, had us learning the intensity of the desert sun, including the need to close both the blinds and the curtains in windows being struck by direct sunlight. The radiant heat was brutal. That was especially true of our living room in the late afternoon. Many houses had extra blinds on the outside, too.
As I set up my meditation room slash studio, I noted: European/American Eastern poetry reflects a resignation, where Asian/American Western has an acceptance of life / one is essentially sad, the other full of discovery and delight / the curious juxtaposition of East and West here!
While I was reading the Hindu classic Patanjali, the doorbell rang. Thought it might be the mailman, answered it to find an old man carrying Bible tracts denouncing crime, asking if I had watched the presidential debates, handing me his Bible to read two verses — an answer, he said — talking all the while of meekness — but this was no dialogue, no conversation — it didn’t matter if I were here or not, only that there be an audience.
In his demeanor, no meekness, yet my feelings were mixed. Admiration in his determination going door-to-door, but sadness in his lack of holy radiance. His book for a quarter? “Can you speak to the dead?” and “Is Hell really hot?” And then his magazine, the Watchtower.
He kept speaking of the Kingdom. “Kingdom, isn’t that what it’s all about?” Guess he’s never heard of love.
Well, you can speak to the dead but don’t expect an answer.
Rosh Hassahna began that night — a new year of thanksgiving.
We were certainly on the verge of a new year, personally.
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From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.
Who? A 250 area code, British Columbia. Don’t know anyone there,. Still, my curiosity nearly got the better of me.
In the initial job description, if there had actually been one, I would have been doing some basic reporting, including the lead for Crossroads, the weekly religion tab section we ran on Saturdays.
I was also working nights and weekends, including one Saturday or Sunday night when I wound up in the copy desk slot rather the rim after Belcher handed it over to me after he had had it with superiors’ memos. We finished pasteup with one minute before the 12:30 deadline. I’m a whiz.
My basic schedule seems to have been day shifts, 10-7 tues-fri, then late weekend Saturdays while Gil’s in slot. So I do scrub work on advertising-driven special sections and love it … He’s appreciating my willingness and flexibility … he asked about weekend slot, “Kent was in Sat.” and then asked if I was comfortable there, adding he has plans … so things looking good (did new TV listings logo last night, it’s OK) …
One reporter’s husband had Keogh as his PhD chairman at IU… turns out Rash is the top man in his field in the country, yet one more humble Quaker in my exposure.
In retrospect, the early office was more conflicted than I recalled … my erratic hours did give me most Mondays off …
Kent’s big dream, with me being assigned much of the effort, was a weekly outdoors tab to be called Action Northwest. At this stretch, it was still in the early planning stage.
Essentially, I was learning the local ropes first.
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From Spiralbound Cascadia with commentary.
Jnana's Red Barn 