On May 12, 2007 I arrived at the Stanford University for the annual Powwow. Mixed amongst the PowWow parking signs, there were other signs announcing the Spring Festival.
Parking is plentiful and free on the campus during the weekend, although you may have to walk a bit to get to the celebration grounds, as tourists and locals take the opportunity to explore not just the festival, but visit the museum, the Hoover building, or just enjoy the grounds. The weather worked with us that day. The sun shined, with temperatures in the 70’s and a chilly breeze. Some attendees walked in tee-shirts, and others wore light sweaters while children ran in circles around their parents or were pushed in strollers.
I was excited by the feeling of energy that webbed and flowed through the air and ground. As I entered the encircling booths (yes, even the booths are set up in a circle) I passed by a musical booth, but kept going. Being it was my first time at a PowWow, I wanted to see everything.
In the middle of the event is a large arena. Screened tents nearly encircle it, leaving very little space available for just the walk-through spectators. How many feet have danced across this ground until it is so hard, it is as smooth as a dance floor, rather than the pock marked ground the area is surrounded by? Native Americans dancers and/or singers were dressed in multi-colored clothes that sparkled in the sun. Their costumes were adorned like rhinestones with pick-size shards of metal. It amplified, making their chime-like sound become a part of the dance, song, and music.
A few wigwams were displayed. These rooms are bigger than my little kitchen.
A festival environment is not complete without booths. Here, culture has mixed, and I find a Thai food booth. I kept myself from opening my pocket book as I passed the booths selling jewelry, dream catchers, leather pouches, feathers, musical (and I’m assuming smoking) pipes, baseball caps, blankets, and clothing.
I did have a purpose for this excursion. I wanted a drum. Not just any drum, because a store brand, or factory produced drum would not have had the personal desired affect that I was looking for. I am a shopper and on a limited budget. Even the $150 that my fellow drummers advised me that it would cost, it would make a ding in my savings.
Finally towards the end of the booths, I found some hand painted drums: depicting a buffalo, a wolf, and some geometric figures. The colors were vibrant and the art beautiful, but on my limited budget $225 was too much.
The trip was a success. I found my drum! It was in the first booth that I passed as I entered. I found just the size I wanted, a drum about 8” across, and skin on both sides. I didn’t choose it for looks, but for the sound. It was pitched half way between the other two, but when the seller struck it with the stick, I knew before the note ended that this was the one I wanted. Even when just drumming it with my fingers, the sound brings me peace. The gentleman at the booth signed and dated it for me, adding that the drum I had chosen was made
out of brisket.
I have a drum.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Monday, April 30, 2007
Highway 580
On Sunday April 29, 2007, Californians witnessed a disaster unfold. Between the hours of the last call and the street sweepers, a gasoline tanker truck lost control, rolled, and erupted into flames on the lower overpass of Highway 580 at McCarthur.
I wasn’t at the scene. As I was driving across the San Mateo Bridge, the news on the radio reported the event. I haven’t been there yet, but the master photographer for the SF Chronicle has provided me ample viewing of the scene. There are photos of flames as they fought nature and mankind from being contained. The fire’s massive heat punched relentlessly at the higher overpass. I imagine hearing its snarl, snapping and biting at rock and dirt, angry because its true hunger is for something still living, still breathing. The metal, thought to be invincible, seems to scream as it is torn from its mooring and collapses, falling forward like one who has taken its last breath.
Other photos are viewed. What should be a colorful landscape with blue skies and sunshine, are instead layers of cement gray to grinding soot. Rigor has set on the once proud structure. It drapes the lower overpass like a death shroud. The expression "as hard as a rock" lacks meaning after this.
I wasn’t at the scene. As I was driving across the San Mateo Bridge, the news on the radio reported the event. I haven’t been there yet, but the master photographer for the SF Chronicle has provided me ample viewing of the scene. There are photos of flames as they fought nature and mankind from being contained. The fire’s massive heat punched relentlessly at the higher overpass. I imagine hearing its snarl, snapping and biting at rock and dirt, angry because its true hunger is for something still living, still breathing. The metal, thought to be invincible, seems to scream as it is torn from its mooring and collapses, falling forward like one who has taken its last breath.
Other photos are viewed. What should be a colorful landscape with blue skies and sunshine, are instead layers of cement gray to grinding soot. Rigor has set on the once proud structure. It drapes the lower overpass like a death shroud. The expression "as hard as a rock" lacks meaning after this.
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