Romance of the Village of Solución

August 20, 2013

Next chapter added today. Click on the link on the mast head called Romance of the Village of Solución.

A note on the book:

This novel was begun and  written in 2001-2002. I have returned to it for rewrites and substantial revisions between other projects. Now I am in what I  consider to be a final edit process…before submitting it. Meanwhile, as I edit each new chapter, I’ll post them here as blog posts. They will be numbered.  You’ll need to go to the masthead for the introduction and first two entries. But the others will be here. I’m hoping I have some readers and I welcome comments through messages on Facebook.

 

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Katie Gale Scheduled Signing Events in Fall

 

.Washington State Historical Society/Olympia

State Capital Museum   October 28 at noon.

.Orca Books, Olympia, WA November 1

.Powell’s Bookstore Portland, Oregon  October 3  7:30 p.m.

.Village Books Bellingham, WA November 2  4 p.m.

.University of Washington Bookstore, Seattle  November 6, 7 p.m.

.Eagle Harbor,  Bainbridge Island. November 17 at 3 p.m.

Pending

.Barnes and Noble Kitsap Peninsula

.Sage Books Shelton

.Mason County Historical Society

 

 

 

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The Romance Has Begun

First installment of the new novel is up. Look at the list of options on the masthead and click on Romance of the Village of Solucion. I will post a new chapter every couple of weeks.

 

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The Romance of the Village of Solución

Soon to be serialized here…..If Bezos can buy the Washington Post, a penniless emerita professor can surely join the likes of Dickens, Dumas, James, Stowe, Poe, and Melville and serialize the novel that has been for too long a-mouldering on my shelf ( or on my diskettes?).  You will not have to pay a dime to read it nor even buy a newspaper. Isn’t that the way Amazon started??? The book does not presume you have read Big Adventure on Moa Nui, but some characters were introduced in it. That book, for some odd reason, sells for over $30 in some markets. Do not pay that much. Here is the complete title of the soon-to-be-serialized volume.

                                      The Romance of the Village of Solución    

Tales Collected by Henrietta Pouissiere

As edited by

Fiona Elizabeth Kelly and Gertrude Pouissiere

By

                                                               LLyn De Danaan

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Katie Gale: A Coast Salish Woman’s Life on Oyster Bay

The book will be available on October 1, 2013. There will be a series of signing events. I’ll post them here and on Facebook sometime in September. Meanwhile, here is the page in University of Nebraska’s catalogue for blurb and preorder:

 

http://www.nebraskapress.unl.edu/product/Katie-Gale,675713.aspx

 

And here is the blurb from the catalogue:

Oyster Bay: the outline of a woman begins to emerge and with her the world she inhabited, so rich in tradition, so shaken by violent change. Katie Kettle Gale was born into a Salish community in Puget Sound in the 1850s, just as settlers were migrating into what would become Washington State. With her people forced out of their accustomed hunting and fishing grounds into ill-provisioned island camps and reservations, Katie Gale sought her fortune in Oyster Bay. In that early outpost of multiculturalism—where Native Americans and immigrants from the eastern United States, Europe, and Asia vied for economic, social, political, and legal power—a woman like Gale could make her way.

As LLyn De Danaan mines the historical record, we begin to see Gale, a strong-willed Native woman who cofounded a successful oyster business, then wrested it away from her Euro-American husband, a man with whom she raised children and who ultimately made her life unbearable. Steeped in sadness—with a lost home and a broken marriage, children dying in their teens, and tuberculosis claiming her at forty-three—Katie Gale’s story is also one of remarkable pluck, a tale of hard work and ingenuity, gritty initiative and bad luck that is, ultimately, essentially American.

LLyn De Danaan is a writer and an anthropologist. She contributed to the bookVashon Island Archaeology: A View from Burton Acres Shell Midden, and her articles have appeared in Women’s Studies QuarterlyColumbia: The Magazine of Northwest History, and Oregon Historical Quarterly.
Katie Gale’s story is unique in its scale; few accounts of the nineteenth-century Northwest focus on the life of a single Native woman and her family. LLyn De Danaan’s writing is big history made deeply human, offering insights not just into Native American history but also into the arrival of industrial capitalism on Puget Sound, the politics of statehood and race in Washington, and the profound transformation of local landscapes.”—Coll Thrush, author of Native Seattle: Histories from the Crossing-Over Place
“I have followed LLyn De Danaan’s writing path for years now. She is talented and bold, and this new book puts her firmly where she belongs—at the heart of the American voice. Good stuff, highly recommended.”—Luis Alberto Urrea, author of The Devil’s Highway and Into the Beautiful North
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Soliloquy: The Curious Obsessions of an Aged Cat

This book will be printed and published as a fine letterpress book…in the tradition of Conversations with the Inner Dog. But you have here a preview.

 

Soliloquy:

The curious obsessions of an aged cat

By

Frank

with the assistance of

His Scrivener

 LLyn De Danaan

©2013

 

i

The Dream

 

I dreamt that I was living in a stylish apartment and could walk easily, even on cold wet mornings, to a jolly coffee shop.

The shop I frequent has large plate glass windows that are gaily lighted. My nose quivers and my eyes brighten as I enter and smell the fresh, hot croissants.

This place is like home and I imagine people greeting me as I make my way between their feet and rub their legs. They offer saucers of milk, scratch my head, and ask me how the day is for me. Bonjour! Como ce va? they say, understanding that I am a sophisticated savant of a cat and understand many languages. Of course, I am also quite handsome.

The dream continues. I am a local celebrity, an elder among cats. People ask to take my picture. I have a new bed and all the food I want whenever I want it. I grow sleek and fat and take up smoking. I reread Somerset Maugham. I affect an authentic Basque beret and a cold-blooded stare. I have, perhaps, a lover.

Then through the fog of sleep, I wake, and I see I am still alone on my wretched fleece. This so called fleece is nothing more than a vile skin of dead sheep. Its clotted curls prod my tender under self and my body aches as I unfurl myself each morning.

I plod out to the kitchen and rub against her legs. Its not all I might have imagined for my life, but it is good enough.

 

ii

Turn of the Screw

I should never have started reading the Turn of the Screw. Only Henry James and that damned story could have driven me here, to the “inner chamber of my dread.” She leaves her books scattered around and I read them while she sleeps. She doesn’t know. On these dark, cold nights I should pick something comic or ironic. But there, just last week, was the James volume. I opened it and read the first line, and that was that. It led me, no, flung me, to the deep crevices that etch the surface of my tiny brain.  Now I see shadows passing over the rug below my couch. I think I see a figure standing by the door or a hint of movement against the drapery. I start, I jump, I give chase. I clutch grisly phantoms across my chest and bite as best my loosened teeth and shrunken gums will allow. She hears me and calls out from above, “ENOUGH!” I understand then that I am but a deluded inmate, separated from the world of reality by illusory bars she has placed around me. That and a tag that bears my name and her telephone number. I really must do some lighter reading and perhaps get out more.

 

 

iii

I am Old

I am an old cat with too much time on my paws for my own good. I live with her. It’s been 23 years now. Other creatures, her so called pets, have come and gone. We have stayed on, together. She reads and writes. I sleep and think and do a lot of reading myself. She also sleeps. We both do a lot more of that than we used to.

 

 

iv

Despair

A first glance into any home is enough to tell you whether love or despair reigns there. Thus wrote one of my new heroes, Henry James. I can tell you that people are fooled when they come into this house. If they’d only consult me, I could tell them a thing or two about despair. Not that I’m complaining. I am a fool for the blandishments she lavishes to distract me from my unpleasant musings. She is a fool for me.

 

 

v

One True Sentence

 

I have my work. Each day I think about Ernest Hemingway’s advice to authors and try to write one true sentence. That’s all I need. One true sentence. The truest sentence I know. She has taught me to discipline myself and my mind by her wretched example. Sometimes I despise her for it.

Sometimes there is an idea. A thought….but then, no. So I distract myself. I visit my litter box. I check my food dish in the forlorn hope that something novel will have appeared therein.

I return to the fleece to think. It is agony, this work of mine. I read only the best of literature. It helps. But it does not solve my problem. I try for even a word. A true word. What would that be? I stare out into the room, through the window, beyond the trees. My mind is a cobweb or is it covered with cobwebs? It is shrouded. No, it is encased in….you see, even this is not true. Everyday the same work. Every day I think THIS will be the day. I wait for my publishers to call. Who am I kidding? Why would they call such a fool. But at least I am not distracted no, never.

Wait! Something. Something, God help me, is coming. Is it a sentence? Is this a sentence? I touch it. I reach for it. Oh please. Always it is just out of reach. I have it and then it is gone. Oh, please, God have mercy.

What must I do?

 

vi

The Shrubbery of my Meditations

There are dogs living just two houses away. I hear them throughout most days and, sometimes, into the night. Their “tongues go mad at the sound of their own rattle,” to paraphrase M.E. Braddon, “like a Spanish dancer at the sound of her own castanets.” I have practiced thinking kind thoughts about these twin menaces. I try compassion for it is surely out of distress that they call out so passionately. I wonder what they are trying to say.  Being dogs it is impossible to tell. It is probably a series of nonsense syllables. I breathe deeply and sink into my fleece. If I am successful, I do not hear them at all. If I am not, to quote Hawthorne, I find myself glaring at them from out of the, “shrubbery of my meditations.” If I were but a few years younger, I would jump at them out of the real life shrubbery in their real life yard, brandish my fangs, and happily tear them into tiny pieces.

 

vii

Dissimulation

I dissimulate. Often, if not most of the time. I am a writer and I feel the pain of rejection, especially when I have gone to the trouble to send off a query letter and am told, “…we often end passing on intriguing ideas and writing.” If my work is so damn intriguing why do they pass? “There is a lot to recommend in your writing.” Oh? Then why are you not snatching it up? I make an effort not to show what I really feel about all of this. I sit on my fleece and stare, unblinkingly. No one knows what I suffer. I have, after all, chosen this life. Or it has chosen me? Sometimes I believe that if she would just wash the window in my room I could see the world more clearly and not feel the pain. I’ve never sought elegance or splendor but only a reasonable life. It has escaped me. Perhaps I should  open the damn window and throw everything out until my “mind is bare and empty.” Then, perhaps, I could truly live without hope, without fear, and without a need for a publisher.

 

 

 

 

viii

The Poisoned Yard

 

The earth  outside my window is full of small bones and shells. In my younger years I explored it thoroughly. I sometimes think there was a plague of squirrels or mice or even, God forbid, cats here some centuries ago and what I find are the remains of their last struggles in life. Sort of like a Star Trek episode. There is “no such unwholesome atmosphere” as that of a yard rendered poisonous by one’s predecessors. Nevertheless, I venture out upon occasion. It is unhallowed ground, not worthy of me. However, I long since gave up trying to find a place that respects my presence as much as I do. I make do, though reserve the right to object loudly and persistently until she gets the point. She says I think too much and urges me to chase mice or indulge in the catnip she leaves around. She really doesn’t get me.

 

 

ix

Litter Flakes on Falling Fur

At this advanced age, my fur falls out. I often find it wilted upon my tongue after a vigorous round of grooming. Sometimes it comes out in great clumps and works its way into the fleece, or, horrors it falls onto the floor below my fleece, then, inevitably, she comes with the vacuum and I am rousted from the world of my own invention and either freeze in place or have an irresistible impulse to flee into some forlorn part of the house that I otherwise avoid. I seem to have been born to be imposed upon.

 

x

No Finesse

Let it be known that she who commands the vacuum cleaner was a slavish idolater of the stupid dog who used to live here. She has no finesse with cats. Neither did he.

 

xi

The Antiquest

There is a style of antiquest, Douglas Glover wrote, in which one goes on a journey but instead of returning one finds oneself frozen on the periphery, “the place between places, in a state of being neither one nor the other.” I thought about this a long time. I wonder if I am on the periphery. If so, what is the center? And if I am neither one nor the other, what am I? Troubling thoughts like these crowd the playhouse of my reminiscences, often in the form of small animals or historical characters. They pounce at me for attention. They whistle, grunt, and screech from somewhere out there in the woods. They exhaust me. But worse are the people who suddenly appear at the door—who’ve popped in for tea with her. I am never entirely free of the threat of an unwanted visitation. I try to become invisible but am found and cuddled and told how cute I am. I listen to the small clock of my courage as it marks the time. They leave, and I drop onto my fleece and resume thinking. I dream about other times. Then there is a sound from the kitchen of a can opening. This changes my mood and I rush to her side. The world seems possible again.

 

 

 

xii

Bleak House

 

There are rules in this bleak house. One feels their sway the minute one crosses the threshold that delineates outside from inside. The idolater marks her interior territory shoeless. I cannot remove my paws and do not wear boots, therefore I track  crumbs of litter and leaf mold from the mudroom into her tidy universe.  She deplores this. My bits of fur and hair, deposited here and there, likewise annoy her. She designates a place in which my fleece is to remain and on which I am to nap. I obey now and then. But I defy virtue. I rail against boundaries, if only for the fun of it.

 

xiii

Kittenhood

 

I can remember my kittenhood clearly. The strong paper box into which I was placed bore the label “Dewers.” I was snuggled there upon a red and white striped cotton towel. My brothers and sisters were there with me. As luck or fate would have it, I was plucked out of my peculiar package of a home and deposited in this place where I have lived and, occasionally, ruled for 23 years. I have been resolved to enjoy myself no matter. People and dogs have come and gone. Carpets and sofas have become threadbare and replaced, tattered beyond repair by my insistent clawing. I have become boney and slow. But I still have my dignity. After all, “Without dignity, there is no identity.”

 

xiv

Cranky

I am cranky. The older I get the crankier I become. The only cat I know has drawn this to my attention. She says she’ll let me know when I’m snippy and such. This is good. I don’t go out much but I don’t want to be a grumpy or unlovely cat when in company. She says she’ll also let me know if an errant whisker gets repulsively long. What would I do without a friend?

 

xv

The Country Cat’s Year

I observe that there is more light now and I venture into the marginally warmer outdoors. As always I notice the presence or absence of water in my bay. I’m never certain whether it will be there or not. These random comings and goings are without explanation. With the returning water comes certain birds, birds in grand clumps, spinning like dizzy tops across the whitecaps. But why? Today I see bright flowers. They too come and go inexplicably. Nothing here, I notice, is perpetual yet all holds on to life. I greet the flowers, when they come, like old friends. I bend to them and touch, ever so carefully, with my nose. There is a smell in the air then. For this I am grateful because I cannot hear them, if indeed flowers talk, and can hardly see more than a blur of color. Birds whisk past me like feathered bullets unafraid of my harmless, painful attempts to bat at them. I was never much of a hunter.

 

xvi

Ah, Sweet Mystery

I watch for and notice the smallest changes: a pillow moved from the brown chair to the green, a previously not seen pasteboard box by the door, an almost empty cup left beside a chair, a wicker basket, previously full of assorted papers, suddenly empty, or a cut glass vessel mysteriously now full of bright, yellow flowers (that clearly belong outside, not inside). Any such sudden, unexplained shifts in my universe tear at the fabric of my otherwise stable sense of reality. I explore, sniff, touch, and look for clues. I try to find logical explanations and avoid assigning these curiosities to the work of the supernatural. Sometimes I wonder if she is the furtive unmoved mover and whether she gets up deep in the night to devise these baffling puzzles and thus keep me busy during the day.

 

xvii

No Regrets

It is the fashion now to expose to the world the deepest wounds one has suffered. The hungry and thirsty among us devour these revelations. Flaying one’s self has become fashionable. It used to be, this stripping away of the flesh, reserved for saints such as Bartholomew or Hypatia. But even they didn’t do it to themselves. I vow not to flay nor to auto-scourge nor certainly not to use a cat of nine tails on myself. I have lived my life flawlessly and with no regrets. Neither have I suffered at the hands of others. Well, there was that one Maine Coon that got me really bad in the right cheek. But other than that.

 

 

xviii

Useless Comparisons

I could spend my waning days comparing my lot to that of other cats. I could be thinking if only I had had this or that. Or, if only I had been born here or there. I could be wondering if my fleece is the best there is or if she could have been more loving or kinder. I could do this. I do not think this would be a very productive way to spend my days and I also think it might make me really upset.

 

 

ixx

We are Happy Here

We are happy. I fear I am not making that clear in my musings.  But we are. I am.  We are particularly happy, she and I, to get a few hours each day of productive time. I mean, time in which we actually do something. I walk from my fleece to the back door and eat. I walk back to my fleece. I stare out into the room. I go out for a drink. She doesn’t seem to do much more than that. The rest of the time, we nap.

 

xx

Death

I’m old enough to think now and then about death. I’ve seen some things that were lively and running about and then simply stopped all of that and lay limp or flattened and desiccated under a bird feeder. The cause of their destruction is a mystery. I’ve seen some things crushed by a snapping contraption that lured them to it with a bit of cheese. I’ve seen eyes go blank and brilliant fur and feathers turn dusky and dim. I wonder when people or even dogs and cats leave this house and never return if that is what has happened to them. Did they become trapped? Were they attacked by something bigger than they? If I stay in this house and avoid big metal things and cheese, will I avoid death? Sometimes I wish someone would return. Someone like that kind one who always spoke to me, and smelled like the sea, and gave me bits from her plate. I think she misses her too.

 

xxi

Kinds of People in the World

Which leads me to this: there are only so many kinds of people in the world. I have observed them for many years as they come in and out of the door. There are people who are clever and smart but who have no sense of touch or gratitude for soft fur or sweet pearly paws upon their cheeks. They come with laments or fullness of themselves. They come to her to report or preen. I feel them as sharp edged knives or crooked tunes. I used to hide from them but now I just observe and wonder. Then there are those who wear love on their sleeves and their hearts in their eyes. They are gentle souls and have perhaps been cats during one of their incarnations. I think this because I know they see me. They seem to want nothing nor want for anything. There are others, of course. Some are merely worried or distracted and the circumstances of their lives seem to prevent any real interaction with me. They do say hello.

 

xxii

Love

I’m old enough to tell the difference between love and indifference or worse. I choose love. I choose to be around those who know how to love and show it. I am old enough to walk away from hurt. When one is this old, moving on will just be thought of as eccentricity.

 

xxiii

Theater of Memory

Umberto Eco called it the theater of memory. I believe this is a useful way to think of the peculiar things that prance across my mind’s stage. I no longer know what I, the playwright, producer, and director of my own fantastic inner world, have invented out of whole cloth or what things I have incorporated into a tale from some actual experience. Sometimes I think I relive some other cat’s life. Perhaps this is what is really meant when people speak of a cat’s nine lives. Perhaps we simply take upon ourselves the richness and adventures of others and thereby seem to extend our own existence. Or perhaps we are given the remainder of a life taken too early. If this is what is required in order to live in sweet contentment, I’ll take it.

 

xxiv

The Joy of Uncertainty

I don’t know when I will die. Though I may seem curmudgeonly to you, I have actually loved the beauty of my life. I have lived peacefully, observing the change of light and mood upon the water. I have learned to love, most of all, uncertainty and the small surprises of the day. There are, perhaps, one or two things that I can count on. But not everything. And sometimes not even the one or two things. Oh, yes, I complain about this and that. But I greet each day with an eagerness to see what will happen. I love the simplicity of my surroundings and the comforts I’ve been given. For me and because of her, uncertainty never equals terror or apprehension. Her character is reflected all around me and though she is sometimes thoughtless, it is clear that she is good and what I have been given is beyond reproach. Everything is precious; vanity is healed. I am not bound by anything.

 

Many thanks to my readers and all those who have petted and cherished me during my long life here on Oyster Bay. I am particularly indebted to the following writers and books which have influenced me. I have occasionally quoted some of these.

The Island of the Day Before by Umberto Eco, The Riddle of the Sands Erskine Childers, Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption by Laura Hillenbrand, House of the Seven Gables and Blithedale Romance by Nathaniel Hawthorne, Lady Audley’s Secret by M. E. Braddon, Cousin Betty by Honore de Balzac, Complete Works of Henry James and The Turn of the Screw by Henry James, Elle by Douglas Glover, and many others whose words have informed my way of seeing the world. You will surely be delighted by occasional allusions to other literary works.

Much credit goes to my faithful scribe, LLyn De Danaan.

Frank

Winter 2013

 

Postscript

 

Frank died in the spring of 2013. This book is dedicated to him and to two of his most beloved friends who are also gone, Elspeth Pope and Cyndie Phelps. They are all sorely missed. I imagine them together, purring.  There is a  little evergreen shrub (a Hebe (named for the goddess of youth!)  planted over Frank’s grave and already blooming.

 

LLyn De Danaan

August 2013

 

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Phosphoresence

Phosphorescence*

by

LLyn De Danaan

“draft”

It’s a dark night. The moon won’t rise for another hour. The water is very still, yet I can see the frothy crests of small surface waves lapping at the pilings under the dock where I’m sitting. I can see those crests because there is so much phosphorus in this part of the Sound tonight. The phosphorescence rides along with the movement in the water and looks like fireworks when it dashes against the pilings beneath me. Every so often, a sparkling splash makes its way up through the spaces between the planks of the dock. Then I feel the cold, wet salt water slapping at my shorts. But the air is warm and I don’t care.

I’ve got a flashlight in my hand and the water is clear  and smooth enough to use it to spot the dogfish even yards away. Their eerie eyes light up and glow green below the surface, even down there close to the bottom where they hangout. I see their eyes and they see my light. They follow the beam, warily at first, and then they swim toward it faster and faster until they near ram the dock. My pal, Boots, and I each have a make shift spear: a bundle of carved points tied fast to the end of a stick. When the fish get right under us, and are staring, mesmerized by the light, we drive our spears into their horny bodies.  The fish wriggle on the end of our sticks but can’t break lose. That’s the way we’ve carved our points, Boots and I: with a barbed point. The fish can’t back off. We’d seen them carved this way in the museum collections we’ve visited on school trips. We’ve even seen them in the Indian relics local people have found down on the beach.

We always go for the dogfish. Seems like we’ve done it for years. But of course, we’re only 12 years old so it can’t have been that long. Not that there’s anything to do with the dogfish. Nobody eats them. They’re just dirty old bottom fish. We could save them and use them for bait. But usually we just toss them back in the water. We’re careful because their spines can hurt us. We toss their bleeding bodies back in the water and those once bright eyes go sour and pale as the fish dies. Tomorrow they will float to the surface of the water and something will lunge at them from the sky and, like a lightening bolt, strike then grasp in their talons then carry them off to be devoured by a nest of young or jerked into a hundred smaller pieces and eaten as a snack. They won’t go to waste. Nothing here does.

It’s late. The last ferry from Seattle to Indianola has made its run. There are a few lights still bobbing around out there on the water. Probably some fishermen poking around trying for salmon. With all the phosphorescence, it shouldn’t be a great night to snag a fish. The old timers say the fish can see the nets and everything else on a night like this. Still, if you know where they are and are patient, you might get one or two.

People who fish don’t care if they don’t catch any. The men, and a few women I know who fish, just want to get out there on their own no matter whether there are fish around. I suppose it is a little like going into a trance. If you are alone on the water, in the dark, and feeling the rocking of the boat and hearing the sound of the lapping water and the occasional gull’s cry, then that’s your world. It’s all there is and it’s all you need. And after a while you crave it because that world is so much easier than the other one. That’s how I feel anyway.

Just when I think I’m starting to feel a little chill in spite of the warm air, Boots suggests we jump into the skiff at the end of the dock and row up toward Indianola. Just for fun. Boots is daring that way. Nobody calls her by her real name. She isn’t a Bertha. She is just Boots: always lean and strong,  her skin deeply tanned by the summer sun. She reminds me of an otter when she is in the water. That’s how sleek and supple she is. She likes to jump off the side of my sailboat when we are out darting around the bay. We heel over as she steps up on the gunwale. Her long brown toes grip the smooth curve of the boat just long enough for their knuckles to turn white. Then she dives, jerking the boat over then quickly upright again. I see the black hole she’s made in the water closing in on itself. Her body is propelled out like a rocket from somewhere in the depths. She breaks the surface and moves surely and quickly just skimming the water with long, even strokes. She is soon far away from me. The bronzed skin of her wet back catches the sun and almost blinds me. I could stay in this dazzling August heaven and watch her forever. Sometimes the little harbor seal that has fallen in love with her wriggles its body to the edge of its warm resting place on the shore, slides into the water, then scuds toward her to follow a short distance behind. All I can hear then, on a calm day, is the heavy, even breath of that seal. I tack up and down the bay near her and keep a watchful eye. But Boots is always safe. She can do anything and could probably swim across the bay a hundred times a day.

Boots comes every summer to her family cabin on the shore. Her grandmother is rich as hell and lives in a big stone mansion up on a bluff. I’ve only seen her once or twice. She wears a long black dress and a high lace collar like in the old days and when I met her the first time she invited me in for a cookie. She looked pretty ominous but she was nice as heck to me.

I get to come and live with my grandparents every summer. I can hardly stand the rest of the year waiting to get back to the island and the water. I love the water.

So Boots and I pull ourselves up to our feet, place our spears on the ground together near the bank, then walk to the end of the dock to where the skiff is tied.  I’ve got a little sailboat too, but that’s tied up over by my house. The skiff is perfect for tonight. Anyway, I can row for miles. I have extra long oars and I know how to feather them.

The rope is heavy and damp in my hand as I untie the cleat hitch. Boots is in the prow, leaning forward like an eager, ancient masthead, and I sit on the bench in the middle of the boat facing the stern and grasp the handles of the long oars. We may as well go out. The moon is coming up anyway and the dogfish won’t be so interested in our light. I begin moving the oars, scooping through the water rhythmically.  Every time an oar blade hits the water, the phosphorescence darts around like the  fiery showers from a sparkler on Fourth of July. It is, suddenly, a celebration.

We don’t talk, Boots and I, she is lying on her back now, hanging her head down toward the water off the prow and looking at the stars. She’s pulled a tee shirt on over her bathing suit. She’s wearing that one with the frills around the top. I don’t wear frills. I’m still in my wet, yellow shorts and a cowboy shirt I wear everyday except when my grandmother grabs it from the end of my bed while I’m asleep and puts it in the wash.

Boots is lucky cause she has curly hair and after she’s been in swimming, it dries in little dark red ringlets around her face. My hair is straight as a poker, as they say. But it is pretty thick. When I’m not wearing my favorite sailor hat, grandmother parts it on one side and puts a clip in to hold it out of my eyes. It’s always getting in my eyes. I’d cut it real short if Grandmother would let me.

As I row, I tell Boots to keep me aimed straight for the jagged row of lights to the north. That’s the ferry dock. I keep the rising moon on my left and watch it struggle to clear the dark streaky clouds on the horizon. It peeks out now and then. We’re eight days past the full moon, but it will still be bright. The overhead sky is clear enough that I can see Pegasus and the big square and the seven sisters and a whole lot of the Milky Way. Saturn is there somewhere. My grandfather taught me how to read the night sky.

Sometimes Boots calls out from her perch if she sees a shooting star. We’ve made a lot of wishes on those shooting stars. But the rule is we both have to see the same one at the same time. I think Boots always hopes I will have seen the one she has seen. I think Boots hopes we can wish together. When she isn’t announcing the shooting stars,  she tells me if I’m too far to the right or left and I correct my course.

As the moon gets higher, its light washes out the phosphorescence. Now we can see the dark traces of the fir trees on the land around us. Nothing is distinct. Everything is in shadow. Sometimes we hear a doleful cry of a solitary heron. Sometimes we hear a large fish as it leaps out of the water, flaunting its freedom, then falls back into the deep with a plop and splash.

The dock at Indianola is big. Three boats to Seattle leave here everyday. There are stores and a post office. But everything is closed now and the only lights are those shining around the dock. They’ve only had electricity for five or six years, so we’re used to the dark and so are they.

It’s late. Very late. And I’m too tired to row all the way back home. Boots knows that.

Boots runs down the dock to the shore hooting and hollering like a mad woman. I think she imagines we are stuck on a desert island and we are in for high adventure. She reads a lot of books about girls having adventures like Nancy Drew. Plus she has a great imagination. When she gets to the end of the dock she starts walking east, picking her way along the shell covered beach. She doesn’t want to cut her feet. There are clamshells and oyster shells and bits of crab and dead barnacles mixed in with all the other beach debris. Though we both go barefoot all summer, the shells and dead barnacles are sharp and hurt like hell. I can easily see her, a dizzy shadow tip toeing in the moonlight.

I take care tying my cleat hitch and look at the water line and markers on the pilings so I know how high the tide comes in here and how much slack to leave in the line. It’s not quite at its highest now, but will be soon. By the time we’ll want to start back, it will be three or four feet lower I reckon.

Boots, meanwhile, has spotted some fishing boats pulled up on the beach a little ways north and east of the dock. Some of them have tarps pulled up over them to keep their insides dry. All along that beach, above the high tide line, are fishing nets and crab pots and charred driftwood remains of big bonfires. There are a few drying racks with salmon. I’m tempted to go get a piece but don’t. I just keep walking toward where Boots is.

“Come on,” she hollers at me, “let’s find one with some cushions and we’ll make a tent.” I follow her with the now dimming beam of my flashlight. She’s right. We can sleep in a boat under a tarp.

We find an old boat with three torn and ragged but serviceable life jackets filled with kapok. We had to yank nets and other gear out of the way to make a little nest for us in the bottom of the boat. Then we arranged the life jackets and flopped down and pulled the tarp back up over us. We giggled so hard and so long I thought we’d never stop. Once in a while, Boots would peek out from under the tarp to see if anyone was on the beach or if the dawn was on its way. Finally, after a tickling bout, we fell asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms to keep warm.

It was a Suquamish fisherman come to work on his net who found us. He wanted to get out just before dawn when the fishing is almost always really good this time of year. He nearly passed out when he pulled the tarp back. “What the heck! What are you girls doing here?”  Then he couldn’t stop laughing. He had a big thermos with a dented metal screw top that doubled as a cup. The body of the thermos was painted black and red and had his name scratched on it. “Jacob” it said. It was full of hot black coffee. Jacob shared the coffee all around. We each took big gulps then passed it on to the next. He pulled a package of store-bought donuts out of his rucksack. It was probably his breakfast, but he seemed to enjoy sharing it. He said he didn’t believe in mermaids but he has family on Vancouver Island who swear they are real. He thought for a minute that’s what we were. We told him about our spear points and he gave us some tips for making them more effective.

The sun was up above the horizon so we decided we’d better get back home and let Jacob get to fishing. We’d still be in time for breakfast. Grandmother would be cross if I didn’t make it to breakfast. She’d probably begin to wonder where I’d gotten to. There was steam fog rising from the water, but we could see for miles. As Boots called out directions, and I plunged the oars through the water, I watched Jacob back on the beach getting his boat and gear ready. The water was smooth.  Boots was back at the prow and happy as I’d ever seen her.

 

*Based on an incident relayed to me by Mary Randlett. Thanks.

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A Cold Day in February

Some thoughts upon saying goodbye to a dear mentor (draft)

I could taste the fine soil when I licked my lips and smell it when I took a deep breath of the cold February air. Six men, turn taking, tossed shovel full’s of the earth into the deep rectangular hole into which the plain yellow cedar coffin had been lowered. They worked quickly. It was not more than fifteen minutes that we stood in silence, punctuated by a plaintiff song just now and then, and watched the earth finally match the level of the undisturbed sod and then mound a little above it. This was final. The dear one’s body was in the box, the box painted on its interior with lovely colorful hummingbirds by Inez Henry. The dear one is lying, as if an artifact of her own life, dressed in her fancy dance beads and buckskin with her eagle feather fan in her waxen folded hands.  There is something ancient there in how she looked, something very ancient and at the same time timeless. We filed past, looking at her lying amidst the hummingbirds. Some placed gifts on the blanket that draped the lower half of the coffin. Someone put a dollar bill because the dear one had worried she wouldn’t have money for the ferryman. A son cried, inconsolable. Be careful not to let a tear drop into the coffin we were told. The son is finally helped to leave the dear one’s side.

 

There was nothing romantic about the small cemetery in which we gathered after the service and the viewing. It was surrounded by chain link fencing, set behind a shop and bordered on both sides by large motor vehicles, truck bodies, auto shops. It was one of the small patches of trust land still owned by the people out there along the Puyallup River. The whole valley has been cut up, populated, desecrated. Progress sucks, someone says. This was the river that came down from the mountains, barely visible today in the near freezing clouds above us. Ugly billboards and power lines crowd out even the foothills. This was the river along which the people lived in their elegant villages and large cedar plank houses and caught their fish and raised their children. It has been destroyed, channeled, leveed, and polluted. Nothing is left of its free running, unbridled power and the life that poured through this floodplain. There are a few Douglas Firs standing still within the boundaries of the cemetery. Many of the tombstones are late 19th and early 20th century but a few are newer and there are, sadly, two freshly dug graves nearby.

 

Father Twohy tells us about our work. It is work we must do together here today he says. He tells us that the dear one was an embodiment of the kind of life we must have on this earth…the kind of teacher we must have. This is a teacher we learn from by watching…by watching their manner of living, the way they are, the way they behave. It is important to know, he says, that this is still alive in our world, this kind of teacher. Elders like this dear one are worthy of seeing and following. We must have gratitude and lift our hands to her nobility, he says. We all know that he speaks the truth.

There are moments when we feel pure pleasure…hearing that she liked some country music and some blue grass. Seeing pictures of her as a young woman, a young wife, with her children and with her grandchildren. So many of these photographs are faded and seem older than they are. A life I hardly glimpsed passes before my eyes in oddly framed images, the dear one with people I didn’t know dancing, traveling, and lounging.  It must have seemed this brief to her, in a way, this passage of time which I see as mere flickers on a screen. And she is in her plain box, being her still and beautiful archived self, content with her own history, ready to be stored in the deep earth.

 

A drummer singer with the saddest face on earth instructs us, sings a keening kind of drum song. I love you I love you he wails in a high-pitched piercing almost cry. His face is long and dark like his body. He wears a ribbon shirt and his straight shiny black hair is pulled back into a knot, tight away from temples and forehead. His slit of a downturned mouth opens wide and with every vowel he intones his mouth becomes a dark cavern and his sad eyes speak even more loudly than his tongue. He tells us over and over that he is doing his best as if his best can never suffice.

A group of young men comes forward and sing, to my surprise, a drum song with the words happy birthday. This is a birthday for the dear one I realize. This is a birth into a new life. Happy birthday. They sing it by the grave and over the coffin.

 

We leave the dear one and the little cemetery and return cold and somber to the youth center where food has been prepared. We are not sure that we are hungry but we eat elk and fry bread and salmon and somehow cannot stop ourselves even then. There are pies and cakes and cookies and mashed potatoes and beans. People are invited to take more, to take it home. Boxes are passed out. And then the gifts are given. No one goes home without something.

I take the photograph of the dear one they’ve given to us all and frame it. I feel I’ve been on a long journey today and with this picture I will remember each step of it.

 

 

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Guest Blog for Hearth Music

Guest Blog: Joel Savoy & David Greely in Olympia Concert Review

This is the link for my review of Greely and Savoy published at Hearth Music.

 

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The Olympia Phenomenon

LLyn De Danaan riffs on the local music scene (Draft: Comments, Additions, Corrections Welcome. Always new music happening; always new history being uncovered.)

 

The Olympia Phenomenon

LLyn De Danaan riffs on the local music scene

A vibrant nurturing music community has developed over the past four or five decades in Olympia, Washington. Nonprofessionals, that is, people who simply love to play and listen to music with others, have a feast spread before them in this town of fewer than 50,000. That’s counting the people, i.e. the humans. But countless other species come out to party on the streets during the annual Procession of the Species.

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If you like music, either as consumer or producer, Olympia, Washington has something for you nearly every night. There are: Sessions including Bay Shanty Sing and the Columbia Street Seisiun (which moved from its Columbia Street venue to Tugboat Annie’s and now is a largely private gathering according to the sesium web notes).  There is the Quebecois Session, hosted by various members around town. There are jams such as Black Hills Pickin’ Party (which has a slow jam time to accommodate less seasoned musicians) and there are more or less private get togethers such as First Fridays.

Traditions Fair Trade, a café and fair trade outlet, has been open for around 17 years in its current location, according to Dick Meyers, the proprietor and gallant and charming host to many musicians over the years. The regular, busy calendar of musical events in Olympia, Dick says, “were a continuation of the concerts I did at the Antique Sandwich shop” in Tacoma. So counting both places, Dick has been sponsoring music events for about 37 years. Many groups have done well in these venues, including “Dirk Powell, Rani Arbo and Daisy Mahem, and Blackberry Bushes with the Water Tower Bucket Boys for instance.” There are, Dick says, about 65 concerts in a season. The attendance averages about “65-75 per show” with many sell-outs to appreciative standing room only audiences. Traditions is by far Olympia’s favorite hang out for progressives. Traditions also provides space for shape note singing sessions as well as blue grass and acoustic music jams.

That’s just a sampling of Olympia’s weekly and monthly music offerings. In addition there are regular “festivals” and street events such as twice yearly Art Walk and springtime Procession of the Species during which live music can be enjoyed on every corner.

There is an annual Old Time Music festival (coming up in February 15-17) as well as the once a year Blue Grass from the Forest and Fiddle Fest in nearby Shelton. The tally of available live and or participatory roots style music goes up if one counts the many appearances of musicians at the Farmer’s Market or in private pubs or house concerts. Alice Stuart (more about her later) does fabulous acoustic house concerts, Olympia Acoustic Music sponsors occasional shows, and the Buren Boys plays frequently at Cascadia Grill.  This doesn’t begin to cover the musicians who play for the contra dance crowd that gathers at South Bay Grange on the first, second and fourth Saturdays of each month.

Indeed, most any dark and rainy winter nights you can throw on a slicker, a pair of Wellies, grab your guitar or fiddle and find somebody, somewhere with whom to play. Or leave the guitar at home and just go listen.

You can be the kid in the candy shop, as I most often am, simply enjoying not only the music but the communities, sometimes if not often overlapping, that come together to appreciate and play sing or listen to each other in homes and pubs, on street corners, or during festivals and community wide parties.

The Olympia Phenomenon

The story of music in Olympia most assuredly goes back before I moved to the area and began paying attention in 1971.

Olympia has a history not just of supporting roots music but also of being a Mecca for jazz artists, a petri dish for punk and garage, and a rich soil for the growth of Latin influenced bands. Before 1970s, there were notables like the Fleetwoods whose “Come Softly To Me” hit the top of the charts in the late 1950s. The Fleetwoods were the first group ever to have multiple hits in the Billboard top 100. The unsinkable, unstoppable Gretchen Christopher, a member of the trio and writer or co-writer of many of it songs, does solo work still and released an album in 2007. Coming to the fore, a bit after the Fleetwoods, a current Olympia, Port Commissioner, George Barner (one year behind Gretchen Christopher in Olympia High School), known as “Big George”, was a well-known rocker with Trendsetters. (His sister was the well-known Gracie Hansen who ran a Las Vegas Burlesque at Seattle Century 21 Exposition in 1962 called the Paradise Club. Later she fronted a show in Portland then ran for mayor and Governor of Oregon. I saw her review in the late 1960s when she hosted at the celebrated “Gay Nineties” themed Barbary Coast Lounge in Portland’s Hoyt Hotel.  By the time I met George in 1972, his voice was already as raspy as a bear’s growl from years of hollering the lyrics to Louie Louie. (It was Washington State’s favorite and became, because of a 1985 campaign drive in 1985, almost became the STATE song.) Thousands of people came to Olympia for April 12, 1985 Louie Louie Day (declared by the Washington State Senate) to hear the Wailers, the Kingsmen, and Paul Revere and the Raiders rock the state capitol grounds.

Around about 1959, Don Rich (1941-1974), born Donald Eugene Ulrich in Olympia, was playing his fiddle and guitar in local venues. (Known as Don Ulrich then, he was in Barner’s class at Olympia High School.) Still a youngster, he was part of a band called the Blue Comets. That band, working in a South Tacoma restaurant, was observed by Buck Owens. Don was recruited. Don stayed with Buck Owens until his own, tragic death in a motorcycle accident in 1974. Together they made country music history and recorded hit after hit. A recording that shows off his fiddle playing is Tumwater Breakdown, named for the town, still considered a suburb of Olympia then, in which he grew up. You can listen to a clip at:

http://www.rhapsody.com/artist/don-rich/album/country-pickin-the-don-rich-anthology/track/tumwater-breakdown

Tumwater Breakdown is on Don’s posthumous anthology album called Country Pickin’.

For memories of Don by his Olympia High School friend, see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0aXIEjdCLV4

By the 1970s, a spectacular local jazz scene was treating Olympia audiences to top of the heap music. Bassist Red Kelley, who had toured with Woody Herman and played with Harry James, Claude Thornhill, and Stan Kenton, among others, opened the Tumwater Conservatory of Music. Before that he was playing around town at venues like the old Governor House on Capitol Way. He was joined by, among others, Jack Perciful, a master pianist who had played with Harry James for 18 years, and, occasionally, by the redoubtable, iconic Ernestine Anderson. Jan Stentz (vocals) and her husband Chuck (tenor sax) performed regularly with Barney McClure at the piano. Barney wrote arrangements for them. The Stentz’ owned Yenny’s, an Olympia music store, during this period.

From the late 1970s through the 1980s Olympia continued to be a hot venue for jazz and often featured musicians like Bert Wilson and Barbara Donald*, called, “one of the most original trumpet voices of her generation…” She followed Bert to Olympia. Her group Unity recorded one or two albums in the early 1980s.   Bert Wilson followed friends from Berkeley to Olympia in 1980. Bert played with Smiley Winters and Sonny Simmons, and saxophonist Jim Pepper. Bert still performs and records regularly. Joe Baque, a seasoned studio pianist who played with Lena Horne, Stan Getz, and Louis Armstrong, moved to Olympia and became a beloved fixture. According to his published bio, it was love not musician pals that brought him to Olympia in 1983. Not only is Baque simply terrific as a soloist, he is generous to other musicians with his time, advice, and production savvy. He is a sought after accompanist and his name alone will draw a crowd and introduce a fledgling vocalist with all the bells and whistles Joe can muster…and those are aplenty. In these past few years, Jessica Williams, the brilliant jazz pianist and composer, moved to the area and appeared periodically at venues like The Art House. Jessica, who played with Stan Getz, Tony Williams, and Eddie Harris among other greats, received a Guggenheim in the field of composition and has been praised by people like Dave Brubeck.  She has a healthy following and a resume that reads like a who’s who in jazz.

Must not forget the considerable Latin thread that has wound its way into the fabric that is Oly music. We locals celebrated Obrador appearances from 1976 through 2006. The group included Steve Bentley (drums), Steve Luceno (bass and guitar), and Tom Russell (primarily known for his hot woodwinds). In addition to club and festival appearances, Obrador, in its early days, played benefits for Greenpeace and the Crabshell Alliance among other progressive organizations. As an original member explains, “Obrador in Spanish means worker or workshop and obra can mean a work, construction, or musical composition. It was exactly what we were all about. A labor of love so to speak.”[i]

Ocho Pies, known for Afro-Cuban rhythms, came together in 1994 and featured Connie Bunyer on percussion (also of Obrador), Paul Hjelm on guitar and where needed, Luceno, and Michael Olson. Typical of Olympia based groups, Ocho Pies members engage in social action projects, specifically the Obrador Guanabacoa Project, founded by Obrador with La Escuela de Guiermo Tomas in Cuba. They called it quits after 18 years in September of 2012.

There are so many other groups and individuals it is impossible to name them in this brief review. But the participatory ensembles must be mentioned because they may be, in the end, the heart of it all. The Citizen’s Band first played at Evergreen State College on Earth Day. Harry Levine is credited for being the first mover of the group. He moved to Olympia in 1983 with the hope of starting a radical arts collective. There are currently four long timers on board (according to their web site). The band is unapologetically leftist, critical and anti-capitalist. The indefatigable Grace Cox, an original and long-term member of the Olympia Food Coop Collective, plays bass for the group. She wrote the lyrics to “Doin It,” one refrain of which includes this quintessential Olympian analysis of the world’s problems:

“So I said to myself, Self what is the matter? What’s keeping all these people from doing what they’d rather, It’s the chase for the dollar, the drive for success That’s keeping folks content with such unhappiness.”

Artesian Rumble Arkestra, whose members play for progressive fundraisers, welcome all comers and stand out on the corner of Percival Landing and 4th Avenue every Friday afternoon, rain and snow be damned. This is a group in the tradition of Honk! and street band culture. The philosophy of Honk! has been promulgated by ethnomusicologist Charlie Keil (Born to Groove) and spread by his students far and wide.[ii] Members blow their horns and beat their drums and generally play music that is of and for “the people.” Honk! enthusiasts aspire to overcome the “arbitrary social boundary” between performer and audience, a kind of “Dancing in the Streets”[iii] while blasting through the “fourth wall.”

Activist, pianist, and trombonist (her Artesian persona) Becky Liebman seems to have been critical in bringing this perspective on music and action to Olympia. She was involved in the first days of Samba OlyWa, a dynamic organized that evolved and is evolving still from its appearance at the first Procession of the Species in 1984. Essentially democratic at its core, it is open to anyone who comes out to practices either to play percussion or dance.  Becky, aside from her membership in Arkestra, has been a key member of the band Bevy. Indeed Becky’s spirit and philanthropic commitment to social justice has been critical to the development of a trademark music that helps define Olympia. Nonprofessional, participatory expression of pure joy through music and movement, characterizes this brand.

Bevy’s members were either mentored by or regularly play with people already mentioned. Nancy Curtis for example, is Bert Wilson’s partner and though primarily a jazz musician, she can play just about anything and thrills audiences with her polish and virtuosity. Lisa Seifert not only plays clarinet with Bevy but hosts choro parties that draw folks from across the Oly music scene.

Not to say that The Evergreen State College didn’t in someway put its own musical stamp on the community. Arguably, its contribution to the Olympia scene came by way of providing a critical, progressive ambiance for composers and musicians, access to studios and technology (for enrolled students), and a general support for a local paradigm shift that supported and supports creativity and progressive values. Still, there were specific people and events associated with the college that surely had an influence on local music. One early faculty member was the charismatic Dumisani Maraire from Zimbabwe. His experience at the college perhaps exemplifies the clash between classical academic standards and perceptions of “professionalism” vs. the world music/participatory sensibility he brought to students. Specifically, a colleague of his, though ostensibly an expert on Indian tabla drumming (but not himself a drummer) continually complained about the “noise” Dumi made in his classes. Since those days, the colleague’s work has been roundly criticized in print by other professionals for its lack of accuracy and misreadings of the Indian tabla tradition. The inaccuracies are at least partly, the critic claims, because the man did not himself play. I’d like to say that such tight-assed approaches to music and performance didn’t exist at all in the early days of Evergreen. What I can assert is that it was, arguably, the college’s progressive ideology as a whole and its ability to draw innovative, broadminded students to the area and not individual faculty (with some exceptions) or programs, that contributed to the making of the Olympia Phenomenon.

Dumi performed with and taught mbira and marimba and often said, “if you can talk you can sing, if you can walk you can dance.” His students fanned out across North America and formed marimba groups wherever they landed. And his son (Tendai Maraire of Shabazz Palaces Hip Hop collective in Seattle)and other Maraire (spell check) kin carry on and honor his legacy with various projects.

Evergreen also brought the fabulous Odetta to Olympia as an artist in residence in 1982. Odetta, like so many contemporary, eminent roots musicians, did not grow up with folk music. She learned, listened, and even visited the Library of Congress’s Archive of American Folk Song to grow her repertoire. The Archive was founded in 1928 and was consolidated with the Archive of Folklife Center and renamed the Archive of Folk Culture in 1978. The Traditional Music and Spoken Word Catalog contains “approximately 34,000 ethnographic sound recordings,” made between 1933-1950, including all of Alan Lomax’ work.[iv]It is a abiding source of information and inspiration for serious roots musicians and students of Americana.

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Alternative music was given a mighty boost in Olympia with the Yo Yo A Go Go festival in July of 1994. Pat Maley who fronted a local small independent label called Yo Yo Recordings organized the event. The multi-day happening featured several dozen bands and drew people from all over the U.S.

The bicoastal Riot grrrl movement, often referred to as a feminist punk movement, was strong in Olympia beginning in the 1990s. Precursors locally were women’s bands such as Noh Special Effects (known for “skank, slam, and wiggle according to one of their gig posters) including performance artists such as Chelsea Bonacello, appeared occasionally in the late 1970s and early 1980s at the Rainbow and Carolyn LaFond’s coffee shop, the Intermezzo. The Intermezzo opened in 1978 and has been touted to have housed the “first espresso machine installed between Portland and Seattle.” The Intermezzo also provided a gathering place for the women’s community, including activists, writers, and musicians.

A Wikipedia article notes that in the early 1990s, “Olympia…area had a sophisticated do it yourself infrastructure.” Hence, young women created, “punk-rock and fanzines and form (ed) garage bands.” Allison Wolfe, who grew up in Olympia, is quoted as saying of Olympia in the early 1990s, “It was a really hippie town, and we were getting really politicized…so we kinda started creating.” Bratmobile was born. And so many others.  This music and these musicians were probably among the most political, in your face folks to rise from the yeasty mix I call the Olympia Phenomenon. The members of this group were smart, loud, dedicated and influential in many ways. One woman told me not long ago, “Hearing the Riot grrls on stage was the first time I knew I could say things out loud, things that I’d always wanted to say.”

The first Ladyfest was organized and hosted in Olympia in 2000. People credited with making it all happen are Sarah Dougher, Sleater-Kinney (the band), and Teresa Carmondy.

For more on alternative bands and the general scene in Olympia in 2000, you can’t do better than to read Ben Nugent’s Time Magazine article, “Olympia Ladystyle.”[1] It was because of his piece that Olympian began to agree that they lived in “the hippest town in the west.” That aside, Nugent tapped a truth about Olympia and the Phenomenon when he elicited the punkers’ acknowledgement of the fundamental mutual influence and support musicians could get in this small town. “Someone comes up with the seed of an idea,” Mirah Yom Tov Zeitlyn is quoted as saying, “…and the rest of us are poised for action.” This describes, in brief, is the synergistic nature of this place. [2]

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A little more on Alice Stuart. Alice was born in Chelan, Washington, then got her start in the early 1960s in Seattle. She was on the bill at the Berkeley Folk Festival in 1964 and now, after years and years of success and touring with the greats (including Mississippi John Hurt and Van Morrison and was a member of The Mothers of Invention with Frank Zappa) lives in Olympia. She has gigs all over but can, fortunately for us, still be heard locally and is frequently at the Royal Lounge on Capital these days.

To Have or To Be: Emergence and The Mystery of a Musical Community

Maybe it really is the water as Olympia’s eponymous beer claimed was what gave it a unique, indefinable quality. It could be. After all, the discovery of Lithia springs arguably made Ashland what it is today. All those progressive Southern Oregon folk sipping from the depths and realizing that they could speak Shakespearian English and, collectively, had the makings of a great little resort town!

In Olympia, people still happily trek to the artesian spring at 4th and Jefferson to fill vast jugs for their weekly supply. According to one blogger, a 1940s survey identified 96 active artesian wells and springs in the general area of the town. Olympia beer arguably put Olympia on the map but being known as “the hippest town in the west” has kept it there and helped its resident hip-types develop a kind of self-consciousness about its unique status.

But beyond hip, it is has more happening music per capita than most other U.S. burgs. Maybe its just something about the magnetic position of Olympia on the earth that causes everyone here to pick up an instrument and want to play it with somebody else. I really don’t know. It just seems true. One of the first things you learn about someone at a party is that they have a guitar or a fiddle or sing. Next thing you know, you are making plans to play together or listen to each other.

As I posited above, Zeitlyn and Nugent were on to something when they talked about the merits of a small town for musicians. The zeitgeist that has characterized Olympia of the past forty years required a mixture of ingredients and cultural inventions to come evolve. We know that “synergy” is defined as the coming together of two or more things that then produce something bigger, greater, and different than the mere sum of parts. Anthropologist Ruth Benedict took this idea further when applying it to culture. “From all comparative material the conclusion emerges that societies where non-aggression is conspicuous have social orders in which the individual by the same act and at the same time serves his own advantage and that of the group … not because people are unselfish and put social obligations above personal desires, but when social arrangements make these identical”. Abraham Maslow the psychologist who coined the term self-actualization went further after reading (and editing for publication) Benedict’s lecture notes on the topic of synergy. He said, in discussing the subjects of his own studies of self actualized people that, “the …opposition between heart and head…was seen to disappear where they became synergic rather than antagonistic…the dichotomy between selfishness and unselfishness disappears…Our subjects are simultaneously very spiritual and very pagan and sensual. Duty cannot be contrasted with pleasure nor work with play when duty is pleasure….”[3]   What better way to describe the multifarious, overlapping, celebratory, cooperative pools of musical fools in Olympia over the last forty years or so.

.Non-aggression: these folks tend to be anti violence anti war pro peace in how they behave personally and in what activities they tend to support by their actions which include fundraiser for a range of the disaster stricken and less fortunate both in Olympia and abroad.

.Social arrangements make self-interest and duty identical!: Indeed. Individuals want to play and perform. Groups make this possible and that the group has other goals beyond pure performance make duty part of the package. Duty is, indeed, pleasurable and rewarding in so many ways.

.And you can’t beat Samba OlyWa, for example, for combining the pagan and the sensual. Procession of the Species and Luminary Procession and Ball is the ritualized, climacteric point in each year when everybody can pull out the stops and let’er rip in full costume and with the fervor of animals in rut. Samba OlyWa is a core participant in Procession. It became clear a few years ago that Olympia people saw the Procession as theirs, not the property of one of its founders and director who tried to reel in and punish some participants whose costumes, he believed, did not properly manifest the spirit of the Procession. Outcry.  The 2013 web page for the Procession states simply that it was created by the community for the community. And nobody better mess with that ideology.

So Olympia provides a context for synergetic things to happen and for people to find each other and play together. But what are the ingredients that helped this happen?

Because I don’t know what Olympia was like in the 1960s and 1950s, I’ll talk about the early 1970s. That’s when the paradigms were shifting. It was a period of anti-war protests, it was a period of growing feminism and gay activism, and it was a period of experimentation with alternative cultures. It was all of this and much more. Coincidentally, The Evergreen State College opened its doors in Olympia and drew people to it who were engaged in all of the above. They started businesses, coops, and musical groups. They started producing, not just consuming. The definition of family and community was massaged into something that included networks of friends with like values and goals and teamwork. People out of the early 70s started organizing workshops like the popular Puget Sound Guitar Workshop (1974) where musicians and wannabes met, bonded, and came home with a will to keep playing together. People found each other, invited each other, built on each others’ expertise and ideas, and voila.

Put this together with the simple fact that Olympia’s downtown core, with its principle venues, is small. You can walk the stretch of Capitol Way between the capitol grounds and the public market within about 15 minutes. Along the walk, you pass a small but accommodating Sylvester Park with a beautiful gazebo…the park and gazebo just perfect for rallies and small outdoor concerts and all kinds of festivities. In the market itself is a covered stage for performance. Theatre spaces in the core that were on their last legs were long ago usurped for community based productions, particularly the Olympia Film Society’s Capitol Theatre which hosts music groups galore as well as music festivals. Combine this with the availability of relatively inexpensive housing on both the east and west sides of Olympia, commodious thirties style houses. These were  quickly occupied by students looking for shared housing possibilities after Evergreen Sate College came to town. The houses were and are amenable, some of the larger ones, for the use of politically based communal houses as well as for musical rehearsals and the development of pickup, experimental bands.

Think emergence theory. No one thing or person or event explains the Olympia music scene and its propensity to attract and support great musicians. As in philosophy, the very complex set of interacting groups and people in Olympia is what it is because of many individual events and actions over the years. It is what political philosophers might call “made order” as opposed to a conscious creation. It is real, it is palpable, and we all benefit by what we have collectively created here.

One last theoretical notion and then I promise to stop. Eric Fromm, a social psychologist, wrote a great book called To Have or To Be. Because so much of Olympia’s music scene is imbued with or generates from the early 1970s paradigm shift in values (fed by the people who gravitated here during this period, in some cases drawn by innovative curricula and structure of The Evergreen State College), Fromm’s distinction between having and being makes sense in understanding the community. Having characterizes a society or culture which is driven by materialism, by possessions, and by acquisition. Selfishness and greed. Being characterizes active culture in which experience, relationship, sharing, giving, and  sacrifice. Fromm suggests that the culture in which we live, including the socioeconomic structure of our society, fosters one of these two potentials. Though we may live in nation that makes the desire to have a strong pull, it is true that many Olympians have found ways to opt for being.

It is true that Citizen’s band members and most of the musicians and others who are true Believers/Be-livers probably don’t have health insurance or much of anything else. They barter, tend to live simply, work day jobs so they can make music at night, give lessons to newbie’s and wannabes to supplement the little that comes in from gigs, and generally walk lightly on the planet. The professionals haven’t got much either. And they really do have to keep working many more years than those who have regular jobs with “benefits.” Jessica Williams recently put out a plea for help to cover a year of not playing because of spinal surgery. That’s the position people who give us years and years of pleasure end up in given our current system of health care and support for the arts. But it is also, for some, that state of relatively happy deprivation and simple, musical living that makes Olympia what it is. And you thought it was just another state capital.



**Both Bert and Barbara have passed on since this article was written.  Bert died early June 2013 at age 73. Barbara died March 23, 2013 in Olympia. She was 70.

[1] http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1101000807-51245,00.html

[2] Also see the 2012 Love Rock Revolution: K Records and the Rise of Independent Music by Mark Baumgart

[3] http://www.worldtrans.org/essay/synergy.html  Benedict and Maslow are quoted in Flemming Funch’s essay from 1994 and Maps of the Mind by Charles Hampden-Turner. Benedict’s lecture notes on synergy were published posthumously in the American Anthropologist New Series, Vol. 72, No. 2 (April, 1970). Pp. 320-333. The article is called Synergy: Some notes of Ruth Benedict, by Abraham H. Maslow and John J. Honigman



[i] MAXSAX post on http://forum.saxontheweb.net/showthread.php?113311-The-Forgotten-American-Manufacturer/page3

[ii] see http://www.harmonicdissidents.org/archive/in-issue-2/what-is-a-honk-band/

[iii] Dancing in the Streets: A History of Collective Joy by Barbara Ehrenreich

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