Mother Did Not Like to Camp

Posted on December 23, 2014 by Llyn De Danaan

Mother Did Not Like to Camp
March 4, 2009 at 7:27am
Mother did not like to camp. That didn’t stop my Father from planning camping trips. We set out one summer for a two week tour of New England. Dad had borrowed one of those pop-up tent trailers from a buddy at “the field” –his work place at Wright Patterson Air Force Base. He had a bunch of chums with whom he worked on airplanes all day. I don’t remember meeting them except once or twice because no alcohol was allowed in the house and they liked beer and probably smoked. Also not allowed. And anyway, we did not have spontaneous gatherings of any kind. Nobody could just drop by after school or when driving through the neighborhood. Mother once blocked the door when my college friends from Cleveland came on a surprise visit. People had to be prepared for and preapproved. So Dad planned long hunting trips in Pennsylvania with the guys if he wanted to have a manly time free to imbibe and tell smutty jokes. Why I agreed to this vacation trip I don’t know. I was an adult and had been all around the world by then. But somehow I went along with an unpredictable mother, a tiresomely adolescent brother, and a timid father who hated to drive in places he didn’t know. And we were pulling a too heavy trailer with a Dodge Dart. My first memory of the trip is of Mother crying while making sandwiches by the side of a road. Things got both better and worse from that moment on, which is what life is like with a bi-polar parent I suppose. She was going through “the change”on top of everything else. We had a great time in Stowe, Vermont. But it was unseasonably cold and we had an uncomfortable night squeezed together in the little pop-up. Dad went out to pump the Coleman stove and get some coffee started. Mother was stirring, ready to face another day of trying to pull herself together in that 8 x 8 space when she noticed her fingers. They were all dark blue. Really, they were. We gathered around her outside the tent where we could see better. There was no mistaking it. At first we all thought it was just the cold air of the night. But, of course, it wasn’t. Mother had suddenly manifested Reynaud’s disease, something we learned by name later. For years after she wore oven mitts to get food out of the freezer and had two sympathectomies. This procedure gave her a face split down the middle in the summer; one side only was red and sweaty when she became over heated.

The blue fingers were not a good sign. Nevertheless, we continued our trip. We ate lots of lobster in Maine and lots of beans and pie at Durgin Park in Boston. Most of our travels focused on food. But Boston driving was a challenge for Dad, even then when traffic was relatively “light”. The little Dodge was weak, the trailer awkward, and Dad petrified. He seemed not to know how to change lanes and he hated driving over about 45 miles per hour ever. To make things a bit more challenging, we had not booked a place to stay. Hotels were too expensive; motels were full. More frightening driving trying to find a place to bed down. We ended up late in the night at a gas station in Cambridge. In those days men did a lot of important strutting and speaking arcane words about motors while station attendants pumped gas and checked under the hood. So Dad was doing his strut and checking the trailer hitch; he was glad to be off the road for a few minutes. Mother, however, had her family to house for the night. She went into the building and began chatting with people, explaining our desperate circumstance. It was near midnight by then. Mother returned to the car elated. A woman had offered her nearby empty house. We could stay there, she said. Just follow me, she said. The car was full of gas by now so Dad and Mother got back in the car and we drove behind the woman’s car up a darkly wooded hill. The woman took Dad with her round the back of the house. She didn’t have her key with her, she said. But they could get in by the kitchen door. We didn’t know til later that as they circumnavigated the old mansion, the woman showed Dad various spots where the daughter who died in the house had played and claimed to see her even then on a swing that hung from a tree they passed. You see her don’t you? She asked Dad. Dad was terrified of the woman by the time he got in the house. But he couldn’t tell us because after all she was standing right there and this was our last ditch place to sleep. There was no furniture in the house. It really was apparently long unoccupied. We gathered our sleeping bags and tooth brushes from the trailer and began to settle in an echoey upstairs room; then two young men arrived and began talking with the woman who was still downstairs. The woman couldn’t have telephoned them. How did they know she was in this house? Why were they arriving at midnight? Dad and Mother and Judo and I looked at each other; something passed between us called fear. I said, stage whisper, let’s get out of here. We stealthily repacked our bags, streaked down the stairs and raced out the front door to the Dodge. Running, we were and thought, for our lives. Dad drove fast this time. We were always convinced we had escaped murderers. By 2 a.m. we had driven very far from Boston and found a roadside motel with a vacancy. Yes, it was a lot like the Bates Motel, but things were looking better again. So we put our money down, grabbed a key, and went to bed.

Posted in Essays | Comments Off on Mother Did Not Like to Camp

Lelah Davis’ Guide to Beauty and Right Living

Posted on December 23, 2014 by Llyn De Danaan

Lelah Davis’ Guide to Beauty and Right Living
March 7, 2009 at 2:52pm
1. Roll up your sleeves: you’ll look ten years younger.
2. Stick scotch tape between your eyebrows when you sleep. It will
prevent frown lines from forming.
3. But don’t frown. Your face will be frozen that way.
4. Wear sunglasses everywhere. This will prevent crow’s feet.
5. Never let the first drink pass your lips.
6. Do not smoke. It isn ‘t lady like
7. Never do anything you wouldn’t do in front of your mother.
8. Do not wear jeans out on the streets. You know what happens
to girls who do that. Plus you will look “jakey”*.
9. Do not cross your legs when seated.
10. Do not put your hand in your mouth or pick your teeth in public.
11. Do not apply make-up in public.
12. A clothespin on the nose at night will make it narrower.
13. If your dog’s breath is not good, apply some Chanel Number 5 to its tongue.
14. A little brilliantine applied to the hair makes it shine.
15. All you need for your face is a little witch hazel applied with cotton balls.
16. Jergen’s Lotion is the best thing for hands.
17. Beeman’s gum is a necessity. But don’t chew in public.
18. Chew every bite 32 times.
19. Never date the first Catholic (unless, of course, you are Catholic.)
20. Don’t think too much. Don’t dwell on things.
21. Eat as if the King of England is sitting across the table from you.
22. You are as good as anybody else.
23. Marry a rich man. Love fades so might as well have money.
24. Fold your napkin next to your place at the table. Unless you don’t intend to
to eat the next meal there.
25. Don’t suck your fingers. They will become long and pointy.
26. Cover your mouth when you cough.
27. Girls don’t fight. For one thing, being punched in the breast causes cancer.

28. Children should be seen and not heard.
29. Don’t lean your head on the back of a theatre seat. You never know
who has been there.
30. In general, through out life, you never know who has been there.
31. Legs ache? Use liniment, some concoction made with rubbing alcohol and herbs.
32. If you want your children to have curley hair, rub their baby scalps with
warm vaseline every night.
33. Never leave the house without a hanky. Preferably one dabbed with perfume (see above re
dog tongue for brand) and stuffed into one sleeve.
34. Always wear clean underwear. You might be in a car wreck and be taken to a hospital.
You’ll know you are decently dressed.
35. On dieting: Just push away from the table when you’ve had enough. (The “Just say no”
diet). Of course number 18 slows you down bunches.

*Unknown origin. Something to do with “Jakey Mulmaster” in Wellston, Ohio who must have been a bad dresser.

Posted in Essays | Comments Off on Lelah Davis’ Guide to Beauty and Right Living

Report from a Kayak 2009

Posted on December 23, 2014 by Llyn De Danaan

Tonight the wind came up.
I watched the birth of white caps.
A solitary cormorant, head like a worked point, flew low
across the bay.
Later,
the dog and I played fetch the decoy.
The cat watched from a bleached log. Impatient.

Posted in Poetry | Comments Off on Report from a Kayak 2009

Hebble Homes

Posted on December 22, 2014 by Llyn De Danaan

Hebble Homes was built as emergency housing for the overflow personnel working at Wright Patterson Air Force Base during WWII. This compound was located in Fairborn, an amalgam of the little towns of Fairfield and Osborne, Ohio. The homes of Hebble Homes were built of plywood. They were simple structures, easily thrown up, inexpensive, homely. Amenities included plumbing and electricity. Most were little white boxes, split down the middle to accommodate a family on either side, each with its own entrance. Many were barracks style, painted a muddy brown. We lived in a white box. Unlike my solitary Marion, Ohio experience– an only child playing amidst hollyhocks in my personal sandbox and surrounded by doting adults and ancient buckeye trees—I was surrounded by hundreds of Pearl Harbor kids. We all had been conceived within months of the bombing, had been raised by Moms and Grandmas and Aunties, and now were living with returned, awkward Dads. No more all day suckers for me. It was a rough ride for the previously sheltered, pinafored, and doted upon LLynie.

I quickly made adjustments and became loud, boisterous and bossy. So my mother complained. “You are the loudest child out there. I can always hear your voice above the others.” My father complained too. I did not walk like a lady. But now life was about survival. We had gangs, you see. The white house gang and the brown house gang. We met in a big open field and played out cowboy movies. We even set up a bar and drank fake whiskey. We threw sticks and stones at each other. We yelled taunts. We got hurt. Once Johnny Zampatti hit me in the head with a very large lump of coal. Johnny’s ferocity did not stop me from having a great interest in Mrs. Zampatti, a dark eyed woman who wore low cut blouses and stiletto heels. I was intrigued by her black hair, her red lips, and the drama in her voice when she called out to Johnny to come in for dinner. Even her dinners, food I had never seen on my table, seduced me. Mother did not like Mrs. Zampatti one bit. I think this was called xenophobia. Or maybe jealousy.

We had to be called in for dinner. It was that kind of life. Out in the narrow roads and cul de sacs, under incandescent street lamps, we played til nearly limp in great herds until the adults forced us into docility. We played hide and go seek, baseball, hold your breath, and throw things at each other. At 5 p.m. each day we gathered outside of Paulette Stutsman’s house and peered through a window, pushing and crowding one another to get a view of the little television inside. The Stutsman’s had the only television within our domain. And on it we watched corners and edges of Captain Video and Howdy Doody.

Paulette Stutsman and Sharon Coleman, the brown and the blond, were best friends. My mother told me so. She said I could never be really a best friend of either of them. Because they each already had a best friend. Try as I may, this seemed true. So in compensation I bullied. And Benny George and I made secret pacts. So what.

Mother compensated too. We couldn’t afford a television so mother went from store to store in the Dayton area and brought them home “on approval.” That way we could watch Sealtest Big Top almost every Sunday. She also packed me and brother into our car on weekend nights and parked us along side a wooden fence so we could watch a movie at the drive in theatre. Of course, since we were outside the theatre proper and hadn’t paid for tickets, we had no sound. And we saw the film from an odd angle. But we had giant tubs of home popped corn and could easily make up dialogue.

Being in a house the size of a farm worker’s cabin had its pleasures and drawbacks. The kitchen and living room and mother and dad’s bedroom were all-in-one. Dad even used the same space as a darkroom. Nobody had secrets. My baby brother and I shared a room. Above my bed hung a plastic glow in the dark cross. Other than that, there was no art in the house. But there was a radio.

Though Hebble Homes was a large compound, it was walking distance to school and to town. I belonged to the Minnihahas, a faux Indian band that encamped on Saturdays at the YMCA. The Minnihahas required initiation. Exotic ritual held we little girls rapt. (These were the days when we ordered secret decoder rings from cereal boxes and wore Broken Arrow scarves. We liked anything that swept us out of our own world and into relationship with the possible or the unknown other.) We wore signature headdresses, chanted, and sang songs about our ears hanging low and King George coming home late at night drunk. Yes, George was still King. Upon much anticipated occasion we crawled through scary dark tunnels and sometimes played an odd form of archery that required us to fire nearly straight up into the air in effort to land an arrow in a distant hoop. I often stopped by the Fairborn Theatre on my way home to watch a Cisco Kid movie featuring Gordito and Pancho. Living in Hebble Homes across from Mrs. Zampatti and watching Cisco Kid movies were, perhaps, my earliest exposure to ethnicity. It seemed to me to have mostly to do with costuming.

Mother sometimes wondered where I was. But if I had a spare nickel, I’d find things to do with it on these Saturday excursions. It was not unusual for a 7 or 8 year old to live as independently as did I. It was a safe little post-war life where kids carried jack knives to school and played mumbly-pegs with them when tired of shooting marbles. I was very good at these recess pastimes and though sometimes not so good at friendships, I had my cadre of pals to swing with while the short-lived “flying wings” menaced us from above.

Being nearly on the Air Force Base, we saw many odd apparitions in the sky, not only the “flying wings.” Of a summer night, adults pulled chairs out onto to their postage stamp lawns and watched for UFOs while drinking ice tea or beer and munching pretzels. It was a favorite sport. The film that ruined my childhood, War of the Worlds, had not yet been released. But even then we were all convinced that space invaders were flying over us, just waiting their best opportunity to land and take us over. And of course, the Russians would certainly drop an A-bomb and kill us.Any time now. In school we saw pseudo-documentaries that depicted the horror we would experience when the bomb arrived. Great winds, flashes of light, deadly gases. I pictured the school hallway swept clean in an instant. The drills, in which we were instructed to stuff ourselves under flimsy wooden desks, were not reassuring. Neither were the dog tags we wore. Surely these too would melt under the extreme heat we all expected would turn us to dust. The water fountain would be poisoned. We would all be blind if we survived at all. I worried about this as I tossed about under the comfortless, disturbing, white-green, glowing cross and listened to my baby brother fuss. I dreamed I could negotiate with the Russians, even as the bomb was on its way down. A net would pull it back to the belly of the plane that dropped it and the world would be saved from this horror. Much later, in spring of 1962, I witnessed an Atom bomb test in the Pacific. Though far away from the detonation site, my night sky turned to day and the mushroom cloud rising over the distant ocean was clearly visible. Then the sky turned a sickly green and orange. People around me cheered. I burst into tears.

Posted in Essays | Comments Off on Hebble Homes

Judo, Zane, Mr. Weewart, and I

Posted on December 22, 2014 by Llyn De Danaan

Judo, Zane, Mr. Weewart, and I
I’ve fished with my brother many times through the years. In the early days, when we were both kids, we crouched together over a can of worms. We dangled lines side by side from a small wooden pier to which were tethered the small rowboats that quietly plied the waters of Lake Hope in Southern Ohio. We sat, seemingly for hours, and with surprising patience, staring at our red and white plastic bobbers, waiting for the telltale tug. We caught bluegills and small bass while the adults were up above at the big picnic shelter grilling burgers and making spicy sloppy Joes and slicing hunky, juicy beefsteak tomatoes. These were big family gatherings. The aunties and uncles and cousins lived in Vinton and Jackson Counties, home of serenely rolling hills, beautiful autumns, deserted strip mines, small Welsh and Irish communities, and stories, still circulating then, of hidden Civil War treasures. It was to these counties we fled most every weekend from our flat and sterile adopted community of Beavercreek, near Dayton. And each weekend, we visited, one by one, house by house, all of those to whom we had some blood tie. At Aunt Susan’s, we sat for tea and toast, mother to look at Uncle Max’s latest acquisition of antique glass or miniature painting, dad to talk baseball with his brothers, me to read Catholic comics in some sulky window seat behind a grand piano. At Aunt Bertha’s we viewed her seldom ambulatory self surrounded by the water stained, peeling wall paper of the decaying Patterson mansion she inherited from my great grandparents. At best on those visits, Grandma Pat and I would escape the moldy bedroom in which lay Bertha Gundlefinger, dying for many of my childhood years, and rock gently on the old porch swing, taking care not to step too heavily on floorboards lest we fall through. At Aunt Dorothy’s, we ate apple dumplings and helped her look for missing earrings.

In the summer, my Dayton parents rented a cabin at Lake Hope. My other grandmother, Nan, was with us. We caught and cooked fish, swam, and entertained all the local folk with those robust picnics.

Though my brother is seven years younger, I remember him with his worms and pole, a fishing fiend even then.

He has lived on and fished the Rogue River in Southern Oregon for nearly forty years now. And a couple of weeks ago I fished with him again.

Steelhead swim up the Rogue from the Pacific to spawn. They make redds in the creeks just like salmon. Normally, they, unlike salmon, go back to the ocean. Some get caught. Others just have bad luck or lose the will or strength to do that journey again. They aren’t eating in the river, so those who are caught are quite simply annoyed by the plug or fly they see flicking or wobbling in their path. Grumpy, snappy fish get caught. Those who stay focused on their goal make it. To me, it is quite simple.

But it isn’t that simple. Judo has made a science of it.

I glanced over his shoulder after a day of fishing in early December and saw the most extraordinary drawings. They reminded me of Krazy Kat landscapes. They were fine line drawings, done, I understood later, with a Pilot Precision .005 roller ball. Judo has tried many drawing pens and this is his favorite. I admitted to him that I’d peeked from behind and wondered what wonderful thing I’d seen. Turns out it was his journal. At first, years ago, he recorded dates, occurrences, height of the river, river conditions including temperature, rainfall, moon phase, fish caught, where caught, on what. Then he began elaborating, embellishing, ornamenting. First he decorated the dates themselves with a few hills or rocks and now he invests enough time to create vast imaginary rocky scenes. And he adds color. My brother is a comic book aficionado. We both grew up on Donald and Scrooge McDuck. Donald Duck adventures were probably my first introduction, God help me, to the Inca, for example. But the other night, he loaned me some Rocky and Bullwinkle and even an Itchy and Scratchy. He does keep up.

He studies not only stories but the drawings, especially the landscapes. The work of Carl Barks in those early Donald comics is probably his favorite. And among other knockout moments of his life is seeing Carl Barks around Grants Pass on occasion.

Thus informed by the technique he has taught himself, each page of his journal is a trek into what and how he sees, how he thinks, and how he studies the river and fish that dominate his life and have for so long. You see, the first thing he’s seen when he’s looked out the window in the morning for these past several decades is that river, the Rogue, and specifically Rocky Riffle. Legendary Rocky Riffle.

Rocky Riffle takes up a whole chapter in Zane Grey’s Tales of Fresh Water Fishing. The book was published in 1928 though the trip he writes about took place in 1924. A first edition occupies a place on Judo’s bookshelf next to copies of our dad’s circa 1915 Boy Mechanics.

Grey loved the Rogue and Rocky Riffle:

“I could see where the wide stream, gliding from round the bend above, grew swifter with a glancing smooth current, and divided its hurrying volume over a gravel bar on the far side and dark deep channels between brown ledges on my side. Below these, the water broke into a most alluring ripple, and then went on into swift massed volume, to pour white and roaring over a ledge into a rough pool, and from that over another and less fall into a narrow curved channel which soon glided, spotted with foam, around another bend.”

The steelhead themselves take on mystical qualities in his book. The men on Grey’s trip change tackle regularly to try to get these wily fish to rise. The fish regularly outwit the men anyway. They dive, they hide, they strike but they will not be landed. The men shake their heads, watch the “old timers” in cloaked envy, almost give up their gentlemanly fisher ways in desperation. Because these are noblemen who do not hook a fish and drag it to shore or even use “bait.” They “play” their fish, run with them, even at risk of drowning, down the dangerous stream. They admire their scheming cleverness. They often let them go, honoring the fish as worthy opponents.

And of course we, too, release any wild or undersized creatures.

Fishing is “intellectual” Judo says. It is about making the fly, about skill, cunning, the play. “Killing is anticlimactic.” He deplores those who cheat by keeping wild ones. “One fish gone can screw up the whole population of a creek.” And some do cheat. Some sneak out and hide fish along the river so they won’t be caught with them in their boats.
“Suddenly a heavy swirl attracted my roving gaze. At the same instant George brought up his rod hard. It bent double. Then a cracking split of the water let out a magnificent steelhead. Up he shot in a curving tussling leap! He was huge–nine pounds–ten. George had hooked him. What a slash when he went down!”
Grey yelled at George just as Judo yelled at me when I hooked my first big one. “Let him run.” “Give him line.” Hard to remember in the excitement. Judo knew when mine was about to jump. “Be ready, rod down, ‘bow to royalty’.” How did he know? He couldn’t explain it, but I learned to “bow to royalty.”

Judo and I were on the river in near freezing weather. A woman who caretakes Almeda park thought we were crazy. It was cold but worth it. We went out in Judo’s drift boat and trolled. When we fish, Judo keeps the boat in the current, making several passes in the spots he knows are good. “Where you catch a fish once, you can catch a fish again.” He has a map of the river in his head. And of course, there is his journal for reference. “You have to figure out why there was a fish there,” when you are learning a river. “Was it ledgy, gravelly, was there a slot…”

Judo fitted me out with a Berkley IMG, 8 1/2 foot rod and a Swedish made Ambassador reel with a ten pound test line. The Berkley is a medium light action casting rod, he tells me. He showed me how to “thumb” the line and urged me to get a “feel for it,” as we started down the river. “Let the fish run and dive,” he said. “Put the tip down when the fish jumps.” I threw the line out then let the fairlead zip across the drum four or five times, back and forth.

The plug on the end of my line was, I swear he said, called Mr. Weewart. It had big, buggy eyes, a bright chromed underbody, a dark overcoat, and a slash of red at its “throat.” When it is functioning properly in the water, the rod tip wobbles slightly. I used Mr. Weewart everyday. He became a talisman, my great hope, my sure thing.

Each day out, and we went out three days in a row, my hands, even with gloves, grew numb and stiff. I could hardly reel in my first fish. But I did. The hours in the boat and on the river were like a dream, details lost but impressions lasting. We saw a deep, richly brown mink cavorting on the bank one day. Eagles flew over us. Red-tailed hawks sang to us. The sometimes sun showed through fog and clouds in patches of deep blue.

Day one, I caught my first steelhead behind the ranger station at Smullin. He was a 21 inch wild fish. We got him close enough to the boat to see who he was, then let him go without even bringing him out of the water. Then, just as we were about to take the boat in, I caught a 27 inch fish at the top of Almeda Rapid. I, apparently, followed directions. This fish jumped and dove and gave me the kind of moments Grey writes about and Judo lives for.

Day two. The moon is full. I caught a wild hen at Twin Rocks. She was probably 26 to 28 inches. Released off the side of the boat. But another great ride. Then I hooked what people call a half-pounder at the top of Rocky Riffle. This was a good dinner sized fish.

Day three. The water is getting colder. It is also getting lower. We were cold and caught nothing.

Do I love fishing? I loved these three days. I loved the time with my brother, time that brings back so many days of our youth. And one day, my son was with us too! I’ve learned that I love Zane Grey’s fishing stories and that there is much more romance to it all than I dreamed. I understand when Judo says, “Fishing is humbling.” One day you’re high as a kite with the bites and the contest. Then next day, zip. What’s the difference? Hundreds of variables. The trick that worked like a wonder for weeks doesn’t work ever again.

When I was nineteen I caught a marlin. Two hundred and six pounds. Near Honolulu. It took two hours or so to land and my face was a scarlet mask at the end of the struggle. The look of that beautiful deep sea beast has stayed with me and I still weep a bit when I remember the crew whacking it on the head to kill it. I thought then, I will never be party to this killing again. Then I watched Judo take out a rough wooden “bat” made from an old oar and hit the shiny, silver steelhead I’d brought in really hard, in just the same way and in the same place on its body as the man hit the marlin. I saw life leave its eyes. So quickly. Life is that fragile. Theirs. Ours. We rowed to shore and Judo slit its throat and “bled” it while I wondered at its dark burgundy gills and little heart.

Judo is not a brute nor is he insensitive. He gives thanks before he kills a fish. He lets more go than he keeps. He always releases the first catch. He told me over the phone the other day that the bat or mallet used to finish a fish is called a “priest” or a “fish priest.” A friend found the origin of this odd term in the Oxford English Dictionary. A “fish priest” is a “baton or cudgel used in administering the last rites to a fish” as does the priest with humans. (Though we don’t think of priests whacking humans on the noggin.) It’s a term used by the Irish, Scots and English. Of course, Judo is correct in how he thinks about this moment of the kill though his own words are more about honoring the Rogue River Indians; there is something sacred about this death administered by a hungry hand. A there is something special required from those who administer it.

At the same time that I thought about life and death, I understood something about how it feels to bring something home, something I’ve acquired with my time and skill, to feed the family. Nothing intellectual about that.

These days we spent together and a description of the fish we caught are carefully recorded among the rocks and crevices of Judo’s journals. My name might even be there, perhaps engraved on one of the towering stones near a cache of Clovis points. I hope so.

Posted in Essays | Comments Off on Judo, Zane, Mr. Weewart, and I

Random Turntable

Posted on December 22, 2014 by Llyn De Danaan

Random Turntable: Posts to Facebook over a period of several weeks in 2013.

Random Turntable: Rejoice by the Emotions. How to start your Monday morning!http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DNtXDoS7y00 Produced in 1977. A great trio/a great beat. Enjoy.

Random Turntable: Eurythmics 1984. Doubleplusgood. And also frightening as hell. I thought I might clean house to this track.

Random Turntable: I just discovered a real gem in my collection. This morning I pulled “My Life in Recording Canadian-Indian Folk-Lore” by Dr. Marius C. Barbeau, Canadian C. Barbeau. The album was produced in 1957 by Folkways. I’m listening now to Barbeau talk and sing about his early life near Quebec City. Barbeau is considered by some to be the “father of Canadian anthropology.” He is best known, his Wiki bio says, as an early champion of Quebecois folk culture.” But his work is far reaching and fascinating. He was born in 1893. I’m attaching a YouTube piece about the museum that bears his name in Quebec. I’d love to go there and I am going to read a lot more about this man….whose recording I purchased so many years ago.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oE01iFouGEE

Random Turntable: I don’t have this album. I want it. I’m planning to write an article on ice worm research in the Olympics and came across this title in my initial internet search for articles. Can you believe these tiny creatures have been celebrated in song and poetry? If YOU are doing ice worm research, please let me know!

http://www.folkways.si.edu/TrackDetails.aspx?itemid=25551#.UvpYeV_1-as.facebook

Random Turntable: Italian Opera Choruses. Lamberto Gardelli Conducting the Chorus and Orchestra of the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden. Released 1972. During this period of my life, I was under the considerable influence of Dr. Maxine Mimms, my friend and long time neighbor, I was making a first attempt to become familiar with opera. She had/has been a lseason ticket holder/Seattle Opera for many years. Occasionally she took me along. I hadn’t a clue. It took a while, but I was hooked. I’m still a beginner, but I go to the Metropolitan regional auditions every year and troop off to the simulcasts at a theatre in Olympia. When I lived in Cluj, Romania I could walk to the opera house from my apartment and sit in a box for less than five bucks. Needless to say, I saw every offering. So let’s begin the week with Il Trovatore’s The Anvil Chorus and get to work!

Random Turntable: Oh my. A cold and busy Saturday morning. Perfect for Django Reinhardt, Volume III released by Everest Records Archive of Folk and Jazz Music. It was released in 1970 (Django died in 1953). You can still buy this vinyl….some advertised in “original shrink-wrap.” There are no credits for the other musicians on the album BUT hot clarinet leads me to believe this is the version of the quintet that features Hubert Rostaing. Wow. Just Wow. The few notes there are suggest that some people thought Django was “too folksy.” Lot of credit for his style given to his Roma roots and their distinct style of ornamentation. Everest created their “archive” with the purpose of selecting original 78 recordings and transcribing them for the L.P. audience.

Random Turntable: A dazzling ice cold sky. A blood orange crept from behind the eastern line of trees and flooded my room with light. Thanks. I needed that. Playing: a second volume (actually, the first that they produced) of Quarteto Italiano playing Mozart string quartets. This album has K. 80, K. 155, K. 156, and K. 157. A brilliant accompaniment to a brilliant day.

Random turntable: John Handy Recorded Live at the Monterey Jazz Festival. Released 1965. The old friends are going. It’s not even a slow going now. It’s a rapid every time you turn around going. So I listen to the music from when we were alive. I don’t have to try. Every time I pull a vinyl album from under the vintage phonograph, it’s just got to be that era cause that’s when I was buying. And before I got into tapes and cds. Let’s just add to when I was dancing to Aretha and edging up and down First Avenue in Seattle with my pool shark buddy (You have got the message? First Avenue was nothing like it is now), I was listening to John Handy at home. Oh yeah, The Doors, and Jimi Hendrix, and such. Mandatory stuff. But Lou Rawls and Cannonball Aderly and Handy had the sound of the raw clubs on the and the street and the life I could not quite be part of but longed for. I was a wanna be but I didn’t know what or wherefore. Places like Tiger Al’s drew me right in…a line of big women with dark oiled duck assed hair and sleek black jackets, backs up against the bar watching their women dance on boxes for the customers. Their predatory eyes never missed a fiver slipped into a frilly pink bra or crenulated garter belt. Better not go to far, mister. Those women at the bar aren’t playing. I wondered then (and had before) why such places attracted me. There was something about the seamy side that appealed, a kind of danger that I knew I had to run from but didn’t really want to. By day I studied Bateson and Boas and Political Systems of Highland Burma and Levi-Strauss. After sunset I dreamed that other world and craved for, at least, a trip to Jackson Street or King Street for a plate of oyster sauce beef at Tai Tung’s. The best meal in town for a student in those days.

Random turntable: “Aretha Arrives,” 1967. Her second album for Atlantic. Well, as the “beats” would say, Wow. The first cut is “Satisfaction.” Sweaty parties in dark houses on Capitol Hill, equally dark rooms filled with smoke and Aretha’s beat somewhere in Portland, Pioneer Square the “open for tourists” make-over happened, women with tall hair, go-go boots, and leopard print umbrellas strutting their stuff, Princess Playhouse, Tiger Al’s, steamy saxophones, pool hustlers and Alaska runaways… ….close dancing, young bodies, and beer. “Night Life” was the good life. “That’s Life” she sang. The sound track of my life then. Somehow I finished graduate school. All that night life and marching on the streets during the day. I mean, there was a war. And we were out there. And in Delano. How’d we do it? The notes for this album were written by Nat Hentoff, a genius who wrote of jazz and politics. We read him in the Village Voice. He wrote of Aretha, “a conjugator of soul, she gets inside lyrics and shapes them into extensions of herself.” A conjugator of soul? Think about it. The perfect descriptor of this great artist’s work.

Random turntable: Should be waking up, moving, doing something other than listening to Mysterious Universe and a long discussion of Stan Grof, death and LSD (how old this news seems!) So I pulled an album from the raggedy collection under the phonograph. Today. “Maxine Sullivan sings the music of Jule Styne” with the Keith Ingham Sextet. It’s a lovingly produced album, a real tribute to both of these fine musicians. George T. Simon wrote about Maxine and describes the April 1987 day at St. Peter’s Church in New York when her friends gathered to say farewell. Some of the tunes on this album make me want to cry. I was a tot when “It’s Been a Long, Long Time” was popular (1945). The war was over and men were flooding back to families unseen for several years. I remember, as if a scene from a long ago dimly lit black and white film, a train station in the night, a man I didn’t know in a uniform. Christmas had been on hold for his return. It was at least 1946 for he’d been in occupied Japan for quite a while, sending, in a military-looking wooden trunk, a dark army brown-green, a child sized kimono and pearly tea set that I still have. “It’s Been a Long, Long Time” was the soundtrack for this period…my mother was a romantic, dreamy sort who always had a soundtrack playing somewhere, one for every moment of her goofy life. “I Don’t Want to Walk Without You” came out the year I was born in an overburdened hospital in Springfield, Ohio. Mother and Dad (he was due to leave soon) had been watching “The Pride of the Yankees”, the Lou Gehrig story. It had just been released. “He faced death with that same valor an fortitude that has been displayed by thousands of young Americans on the far-flung fields of battle,” Daman Runyon wrote. Mother’s labor started and she faced it with the same valor and fortitude of thousands of other very young women whose loves were about to leave them. They didn’t have a car so they walked and taxied to the hospital where cots had been placed up and down the halls for the overflow maternity cases. This was just a bit over nine months after Pearl Harbor. Perhaps the declaration of war had an effect on reproductive behavior. In any case, Mother and Dad had not married until late January. Jule Styne and lyricists like Sammy Cahn and Frank Loesser gave the women at home, doing their own part for “the war effort” the songs to hum and the fantasies of a romance that might never have been more than that but for war. Thanks, Maxine Sullivan, for a lovely trip….much more compelling than any Stan Grof could have taken me on.

Random turntable: Mozart String Quartets K. 158, 159, 160, and 168. Quartet Italiano. Mozard Work for String Quartet, Volume 3. This is a beauty. The album features a portrait of the quartet members and their instruments. They each look directly into the camera, each with a slight hint of a smile. They are a sober-looking lot/not to say somber. Then there is the bright gold circle in the lower right hand corner that declares “Imported from Europe.” It is a post printing label that draws attention to the album the way a gold medal draws attention to a bottle of wine. Perhaps the year this album was released it was a mark of distinction to be imported from Europe…a declaration of worldliness and taste like the Italian boots and jacket I sported around in as an undergrad…. or like going to French films and actually talking about them at coffee shops. It’s a Philips recording..the cover printed in Holland. The author of the album notes (extensive information about Mozart at the time these string quartets were written) writes, “each work is perfection within itself and within it own terms–one would not wish to alter a single note.” These quartets were written in Milan with the exception of 168 , written in Vienna in 1773. Happy Thursday. Mozart always helps the day along.

Random turntable: Mozart String Quartets K. 158, 159, 160, and 168. Quartet Italiano. Mozart Work for String Quartet, Volume 3. This is a beauty. The album features a portrait of the quartet members and their instruments. They each look directly into the camera, each with a slight hint of a smile. They are a sober-looking lot/not to say somber. Then there is the bright gold circle in the lower right hand corner that declares “Imported from Europe.” It is a post printing label that draws attention to the album the way a gold medal draws attention to a bottle of wine. Perhaps the year this album was released it was a mark of distinction to be imported from Europe…a declaration of worldliness and taste like the Italian boots and jacket I sported around in as an undergrad…. or like going to French films and actually talking about them at coffee shops. It’s a Philips recording..the cover printed in Holland. The author of the album notes (extensive information about Mozart at the time these string quartets were written) writes, “each work is perfection within itself and within it own terms–one would not wish to alter a single note.” These quartets were written in Milan with the exception of 168 , written in Vienna in 1773. Happy Thursday. Mozart always helps the day along.

 

 

 

 

Random turntable: Phoebe Snow/Never Letting Go Released 1977/produced by Phil Ramone. Born 1950 and died in 2011. She had a Martin 000-18. Birth name Phoebe Ann Laub. Her life story is pretty rough. Take a look at the wikipedia site. Beautiful voice/beautiful album. “The diary that ends too soon.”

Random turntable: The Andrew Sisters-Boogie Woogie Bugle Girls.Album cover doesn’t say when released and if these tracks were pressed from the original recordings or rerecorded for the lp. “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.”

 

This morning: Emotions / Rejoice album. Yes I danced my way through another rejection slip. The only way to face grim farce.

 

Monday morning, January 13 The ever revolving turntable of life dealt me a strange hand today. I pulled Django Reinhardt Memorial Volume 3 but the sleeve was empty. Never a good sign. Next pull was Elliot Carter whom I am attempting now, once again, to understand. Side two is “In Sleep, In Thunder” six poems of Robert Lowell.” What am I to make of this? Here are some words by David Schiff who wrote the liner notes: “The strings, at times passionate, at times desperate, a little rigid, a bit scrappy…and the odd couple of percussion and piano with their bottomless bag of tricks and transformations…..” Well, maybe not the thing for 7 a.m. Monday morning.

Random turntable: the high pitched warbling of Joan Baez In Concert. Released 1962! I was on my way to Borneo or maybe already there. I had a Phillips battery operated turntable and a few albums. Maybe someone sent me this one? I had seen her at Ohio State either right before I left for the Peace Corps or after I came home in 64 or 65. Probably 62. By 64 Phil Ochs was out on the quad singing about war. I think the Baez concert is the one I took my brother Judo to. She wore a simple green cotton shift and took off her shoes. What have they done to the rain? Indeed. What a prophet. The liner notes on this album are TERRIFIC. First line: “Heine once said that literature is a graveyard in which we wander, searching out and embracing the headstones of those ideas which are closest to our own beliefs. So it is with our researches in folk music.” Heine…liner notes that quote an early 19th century German poet whose work was set to music by Schumann and Schubert. According to wikipedia, Marx was an admirer…himself a radical. Take a look at a snippet of what he wrote a year before his death: “This confession, that the future belongs to the Communists, I made with an undertone of the greatest fear and sorrow and, oh!, this undertone by no means is a mask! Indeed, with fear and terror I imagine the time, when those dark iconoclasts come to power: with their raw fists they will batter all marble images of my beloved world of art, they will ruin all those fantastic anecdotes that the poets loved so much, they will chop down my Laurel forests and plant potatoes and, oh!, the herbs chandler will use my Book of Songs to make bags for coffee and snuff for the old women of the future – oh!, I can foresee all this and I feel deeply sorry thinking of this decline threatening my poetry and the old world order – And yet, I freely confess, the same thoughts have a magical appeal upon my soul which I cannot resist …. In my chest there are two voices in their favour which cannot be silenced …. because the first one is that of logic … and as I cannot object to the premise “that all people have the right to eat”, I must defer to all the conclusions….The second of the two compelling voices, of which I am talking, is even more powerful than the first, because it is the voice of hatred, the hatred I dedicate to this common enemy that constitutes the most distinctive contrast to communism and that will oppose the angry giant already at the first instance – I am talking about the party of the so-called advocates of nationality in Germany, about those false patriots whose love for the fatherland only exists in the shape of imbecile distaste of foreign countries and neighbouring peoples and who daily pour their bile especially on France”.[47] This is cited in the wikipedia article about him. Oh….these wonderful lp album notes….where they can lead one!!!

1

 

 

Posted in Reviews | Comments Off on Random Turntable

An Atomic Explosion

Posted on December 17, 2014 by Llyn De Danaan

I grew up in the nuclear age and have been touched repeatedly by the devastation it has wreaked on people, both as weapon and source of energy. My father, an aircraft electrician, worked on the planes that were involved in the Nevada nuclear tests. I attended 7th grade in Albuquerque, where my father was stationed, and watched early morning local television to see if the “payload” flights had been “successful” that day. During the 1950s and 60s, some two hundred such tests were made in southern Nevada. However, my most direct brush with the power of atomic energy was in July of 1962. I witnessed the explosion of a 1.44 megaton nuclear bomb called Starfish Prime. I was in Hawaii where lights and televisions failed and power lines fused, according to one report. Satellites were disabled by radiation. This was a high altitude test conducted by the Defense Atomic Support Agency and the Atomic Energy Commission. The bomb was launched by a Thor rocket and the explosion took place 250 miles above Johnston Island in the Pacific. The “official” description of the phenomena visible in the sky up to 1400 miles away matches closely what I saw:
“…a brilliant white flash burned through the clouds rapidly changing to an expanding green ball of irradiance extending into the clear sky above the overcast. From its surface extruded great white fingers, resembling cirro-stratus clouds, which rose to 40 degrees above the horizon in sweeping arcs turning downward toward the poles and disappearing in seconds to be replaced by spectacular concentric cirrus like rings moving out from the blast at tremendous initial velocity…As the greenish light turned to purple and began to fade at the point of burst, a bright red glow began to develop on the horizon at a direction 50 degrees north of east and simultaneously 50 degrees south of east expanding inward and upward until the whole eastern sky was a dull burning red semicircle 100 degrees north to south and halfway to the zenith obliterating some of the lesser stars. This condition, interspersed with tremendous white
rainbows, persisted no less than seven minutes.”

That experience, when I was 19 years old and headed for the Sarawak, a Crown Colony on the Island of Borneo, heralded, for me, a new awareness of the horrors of war and the dangerous follies of men and governments. As a child who had been drilled in elementary school to hide under a flimsy wooden desk should the Russians come, it gave me no joy to watch the “light show” that seemed to thrill so many that long ago summer in the Pacific.

Posted in Memoir | Comments Off on An Atomic Explosion

My Trip to Mongolia

Posted on December 17, 2014 by Llyn De Danaan

Gordon Blue and Bobby Burns…..met up once in Ulan Bataar

Said old Bobby to Gordon
I’m a dying of boredom
Let’s go in to that nice Irish bar
I rode in at dawn
On a camel named Khan
And my thirst’s just as long as my arm.

Gordon stiffly dropped down from his horse
He could could walk, but only by force
Six months in a “ger”
Done my spine in, I fear
And my lumbar is filled with remorse.

They hadn’t to go very far
The horse watched the pair in the bar
Bobby strummed on his lute
Gordon pulled out his flute
And the horse pushed its way through the door

It tripped:It was known as a stumbler
Though unbalanced, It couldn’t be humbler
Bobby told it to whistle
Gordon brandished his pistol
Then served vodka all round in a tumbler

They drank several bowls of arak
Bobby asked for a cup for his yak
The yak drank  with pleasure
Bobby sipped at his leisure
Then pulled out a pipe from his pack.

The mutton arrived with a flair
The host bid them drink more if they dare
Then the camel raced in
And it raised such a din
That they milked it; it wasn’t a mare.

The horse whistled all through the night
The camel was filled with delight
Bobby smoked something weird
Mutton greased Gordon’s beard
And the yak, full of arak, took flight.

Posted in Poetry | Comments Off on My Trip to Mongolia

Easy to Empty My Mind Here: A Few Poems from Mongolia

Posted on December 17, 2014 by Llyn De Danaan

Easy to Empty My Mind Here: A Few Poems from Mongolia
August 17, 2011 at 7:51pm
#1
Flap of felt in wind
Outside, camels close their eyes
Sleep is hard to come.

#2
Morning sun subtle
Dawn breaks without announcement
No trace of night rain.

#3
Shimmery grasses.
Over there, pools of water
No! Only mirage.

#4
Betsy’s Camel Ride:
Sad! Deflated humps!
Nother much left to hold !
Old woman’s flat breasts.

#5
Dandylion tufts
Waving from my camel’s neck
Otherwise, naked.

#6
Bright bleached bone trees
stand forlorn on stacked stone mountains.
Above: bunched sword grass.
Disturbed, geese cry out.
A legion of them
wing their way between the canyon walls.

#7
Sundancer camel:
hide lashed and taut on sturdy poles.
Witness: bone of one leg.

#8
Smoke from the bath house.
Water heating for our ablutions.
Smell of desert brush.

#9
Our drying garments
are prayer flags
hung on camel rope:
boons for our journey.

#10
Near the high dun cliffs,
white butterfly on my leg:
Request: bless my day.

#11
Paws trace moonlit ridge:
Silent Mongolian wolf.
Below, mindful dog guards us.

Posted in Poetry | Comments Off on Easy to Empty My Mind Here: A Few Poems from Mongolia

Babur’s Wonderful Journey 2009

Posted on December 17, 2014 by Llyn De Danaan

Babur’s Wonderful Journey by LLyn De Danaan @2009
March 19, 2009 at 8:43pm

Preface:

I am Babur. I am a Belgian Malinois dog. We are strong and confident dogs. Belgian like Hercule Poirot, and clever as he. We Malinois become attached to our human companions. I will let a stranger know that the person with whom I walk is mine. Usually a glare will do. Sometimes I must snap or growl. With my own person, I cannot give enough love.
I was born in the Mine Detection and Dog Center in Kabul, Afghanistan. It is a wonderful place for a dog with a mission in life. We are trained to find land mines. My mother and father did this work. My brothers and sisters do this work. You see, Afghanistan is covered with mines. There are over five hundred square kilometers of minefields in the country. There are many kinds of mines including some that look like butterflies or toys so that they are attractive to small children. These horrible things kill people or inflict injury on those who have the misfortune to touch and ignite them.

We mine detection dogs have such a good sense of smell that we can be trained to sniff out the explosives and alert our handlers and the deminers with whom we work. We walk slowly then use our ears, tails, and bark to let the handlers know that we have encountered a mine. Though we have inherited talent for this work, we receive schooling to hone technique.

Mine detection dogs rise early in the morning and practice retrieving balls and pacing, with our handler companions, through grids dotted with fake mines. Commands are memorized and drilled. But it’s not all work. After a good workout, we get delicious chow to eat and even special treats. And when we are ready to graduate we become part of a mine clearing team. We get to know and depend upon each other in our dangerous work. We also have some fun together playing ball and keep away and other games at the end of a long day.

Sometimes one of our own makes a mistake. And sometimes, someone else does. Once, a bomb was dropped on our kennel and I lost two of my litter mates.

But we persevere. We do the work because the children do not deserve to die and because we are born to it.

My companion is called Ayubi. I love him dearly. One fine morning, not many months after I had completed my training, Ayubi and I and a few other pairs of our team went to out to sweep a new area. We were to walk a grid outside the city in a difficult rocky outcropping. Our team was close to the end of our shift when someone came too near an unexploded mine. I learned about the details later. It seems that in an instant, people were down all around, covering their heads and eyes and ears against the blast. My dog friends snuggled against their handlers.

Ayubi was knocked unconscious but survived. One person died. Others were injured and dazed. I had been hit in the head by a piece of flying rock. With no one to call to me or restrain me, I wandered off alone and confused. This is my story.

Chapter I

The Well

The pads of my feet hurt as I walked through the bazaar. There were cuts, some deep ones, from treading on sharp rocks. I’d come miles over rough terrain in the past few days. In one pad on the left rear paw there seemed to be a scrap of metal. It dug in with every step. I’m sure I was limping slightly, favoring that delicate foot.

The wind whipped the dust around me. I felt it in my ears. I saw small funnels of it rising from the ground. I heard it whistle as it swept through small chinks in the mud bricks of building on either side of my path. It was a gritty, sandy wind. It hurt my eyes. It stung my soft nose.

I felt the dust on my tongue yet I could not help but pant. So my tongue lolled about and caught more dust. I wished to smell water but it was difficult to smell anything through the thick air. How could I find a cool drink if I couldn’t smell water? I kept my eyes down, listening and sniffing. I kept my head down, wary of human beings who might wish me harm. Sometimes I heard the Hoopoes. They were perched high above me in old trees and darted down now and then to probe in the leaf litter on the ground. At least they are still here, I thought. What bossy creatures they are. But they are here and are a comfort in my loneliness. So many ducks and cranes seemed to have by-passed us this season. The bombs scared them off. They would scare off any reasonable creature. Hoopoes are not reasonable.

Sometimes I smelled dried apricots and plums or dried melon strips and sweet green apples. Sometimes I caught the scent of mutton or melon. A melon would do. There’s lots of moisture in melon. But how to grab one without being killed for the act? Sometimes, even keeping my distance, I was struck by a stone tossed by someone offended by my presence. The stones were accompanied by a loud hiss or oath. I kept a great distance between myself and the people. I know, I know. “Dirt under every hair.” How often I’d heard that in the past few days. I know I’m unclean. It’s not pleasant to be thought of in such a way, but that day, in that place it was true. I was filthy. Nevertheless, I’m one of God’s creatures, too.

I longed to engage my tormentors in debate. I knew what I would say to them:

What about the companions in the cave? It is a very famous story in the Koran. Did they not have a dog stretching his forelegs on the threshold, watching for them, protecting them? Did not the dog sleep together with the companions, guarding that cave, for three hundred years! Did not Allah guide them all rightly?

I would tell them the story told to all pups in order that we may love Mohammed and Allah even though we are challenged by many followers. The story is that a poor dog near death came to a follower of the prophet. The man saw the condition of the despairing animal. In order to nurse it in that desert land where water was so scarce, he ripped a piece of his robe, soaked it in a small pool, lifted the dog to his lap, and used the robe to moisten the muzzle and nose of the sorrowful creature. Though he was criticized by others for touching a dog, Mohammed praised him for his kindness to animals.

You see?

Further more, speaking of dirt, were you humans not created out of mud? That’s what I imagined saying.

But the Afghan people have suffered centuries of wolves and rabid animals finding their ways to their doorsteps. Many have known only the mad mastiffs guarding their villages and the fierce dogs guarding their sheep. They fear dogs for good reason.

I could not change this. It was easy in those days to lose myself in these invitations to useless ponderings. Some say Satan sends these thoughts. I know now it was just my own confusion. One can calculate one’s spiritual strength by the number of times one is disturbed each day. How many times a day was I disturbed? Too often.

God will show the way.

Remember that, I told myself. Remember, I want to live. Leave these big questions to God.

What had happened? I could hardly remember. My head felt as if it had been struck by a mud brick. My recent memories were in fragments, though some earlier ones seemed clear.

A little girl looked at me from behind a stall of vegetables as I wandered by. She had kind eyes. I stood for a moment and looked back at her. She was lovely but sad. If this were a different land I could approach her, comfort her with big sloppy kisses. I’d put my head in her lap and tell her that I love her. And I might have been scratched behind my ears. I missed being touched. But here it is not the custom.

Surely it will come to me what I am to do, where I am to go.

I called myself Babur. I couldn’t remember what happened to my head or why I was roaming about. But I knew I was Babur. And I remembered why I had that name. I had once heard some humans talking about a mighty king called Babur. They said, I thought, that he was descendent from the mongrels and I puffed up with pride. A king descendent from dogs of mixed breeds! But the humans had really said Babur was a Moghul king. He had not a drop of dog within him. I was a fool! Still I called myself Babur. The name meant “the tiger” I thought. So I was still proud of my name.

All right, Babur. You may as well confess all.

You see, this Babur, this dog that is myself, was a very arrogant animal. I strutted around with my head held high. Tiger. Then I discovered that my name is an ancient name for “beaver.” Ha. God had shown me up for what I was again. I kept the name. It reminds me every day of my struggle with pride. It keeps me aware of my silly affectations. Beaver, indeed. Oh my. What a fool I am. But I am on the journey.

That day, walking through the market, I was not puffed and strutting. No one knew that I was Babur nor did they care.

“Watch out where you’re going you tick ridden, plug ugly mutt. Are you in some entranced communion with the saints to stumble right into my garden of delights?”

A Hoopoe of ample beak and dramatic plumage was looking up into my eyes from an uncomfortable proximity. I’d never had a bird speak to me before. This was further evidence of my affliction I supposed: a talking Hoopoe. He had a fine crest that he spread into a fan for more effect. His wings were banded black and white. I could see this as he opened them wide and came even closer. I suppose he wished to intimidate me, crest fanning, wings yawning, and eyes fixed on me. The span was impressive, but when he relaxed his arms, he looked like a feather duster. I began to laugh. This did not go over with Msr. Hoopoe.

“G’wan now. Scat. Move along. But not in this direction.” He hardly needed to add that. Had I moved an inch forward, his beak would have gone right up my left nostril.

I did not intend to move so long as the Hoopoe was speaking even though I thought he was a mere apparition.

“Watch it now. You are in my leaf litter. Sit there by the well,” he brandished a wing in the general direction of a disheveled pile of stones. “If you will stay, I’ll find some remark to make to you from time to time. But get out of my leaf litter. And do not speak to me while I am at work. I’ll tell you when you may converse with me.”

The well! There was water? Apparition or not, I looked in the direction he pointed.

“Water?”

The bird pouted, not easy to do with a beak, and sighed. “I can see that this is going to be a tedious relationship. Yes, dog, there is water. You can have anything you wish for if you will only give up wanting it. You can be anything you wish if only you will still your mind. There is always food if you are able to digest it.”

Not only were his words imponderable, they seemed outrageously untrue. Was I being teased? Could it be that all I wanted really was there for the taking? Had I been blinded when I was hit on the head? I looked around, right to left. I sniffed the ground around the rocks where he pointed. I smelled nothing, saw nothing.

Abdul Haq: my Hoopoe friend was a servant of truth. I did not know that then.

Chapter II

The Beginning

First, the well. I imagined that drawing a bucket of water from a well would be no mean feat for a dog and a bird. But that’s not what Abdul had in mind.

Abdul fluttered about my head and screeched orders. I tried to follow him without becoming snappish or sullen. Though I could not smell water, I could see that these rocks marked the opening to a step well. The well, Abdul told me, connected to deep underground irrigation channels called karez. Water flowed into the channels from the high mountains of the Hindu Kush. There were glaciers there and sometimes heavy rains. The channels filled and water rushed into the channels. Haq said there were hundreds of these channels and that the well was very deep. No one knew how deep. No one knew how old. He instructed me to walk carefully along the stones that formed a rim around. He showed me that there was a steep, spiraling stairway that would take me deep within the shaft.

I began a tentative descent. Some stones were loose. Sometimes one fell and I could not hear it hit bottom. I felt my heart tugging at me to return to the top where the Hoopoe waited. All along the surface of the inside of the well were beautiful paintings of flowers. There were small niches in the walls and in these niches were barely formed lumps of fired clay. It was too dark to make out what these lumps might represent. The bird, above on the rim stones, yelled encouragement.

“Deeper, deeper. You have not even begun,” he said. I looked up. The well was dark within but I could see the light above and the bird, smaller and smaller, bobbing about muttering, singing, and generally seeming quite insane. Occasionally one of his feathers floated through the air, past my nose, and tickled me in passing. Down and down I went. Once I looked up and saw a shining planet overhead in the sky. I had heard once that one could see planets and stars in the day light from deep within a well. Here was proof it was true for there one was, bright as a lovely beckoning lamp in the dark. The Hoopoe was barely visible now, though occasionally I saw a semblance of his feather mop head nodding over the edge at me outlined by the light from the planet above him. I was frightened and wondered how I could ever return.

“Oh my friend dog,” he yelled as if he heard my thoughts, “You are on the path. Do not allow yourself the luxury of doubt.”

I reached the water. The rock I stood on was sturdy and broad. I felt certain that I could regain purchase on this stair step whenever I wished so I plunged. I swam for a moment. Ah the sweet, clear, cool water. I drank deeply. I splashed, paddled and dove under the surface. It was good.

“Oh, lonely dog. Oh love, follow me. Follow me and you will find yourself.” I heard a voice so sweet so full of breath and honey, I trembled. It was a voice like that of a soft furred animal, nearly whispering but loud enough to shake my soul. I felt myself falling through the water. I was so frightened that I squeezed my eyes shut. Then I heard a new voice calling to me: “Babur, Babur, Babur,” and this new voice I instantly knew was my own.

When I opened my eyes, I saw a huge array of stars surprisingly bright though hung in a still dusky, not quite dark, sky. I heard a howl, my own howl, a howl of mixed fear and delight, echoing in a vast stillness. And still I fell.

Then, with a great thunk, I hit firm ground. I lay dazed for a moment. But just a moment. For even as I lay trembling, wet, and confused, I saw an enraged donkey galloping in my direction.

“A dog a dog a dog” it brayed and ran full tilt toward me. “Kill it kill it! A dog.”

I cowered, and then quickly flattened myself out again on the desert floor. I felt that I was doomed. The donkey hated dogs, apparently.

Just as she reared back and prepared to strike me with her fore hooves, a large camel came between us.

“Quick,” the camel said, “Quick, dog, jump onto my humps. Quick now. No time to ask questions. Jump.” I accepted the invitation. The camel turned to look at me over her shoulder and fluttered her double lashes .

She was a lovely animal, the color of moonlight and sand. Her humps were two lovely hummocks of flesh and fur. I settled myself between them and hung on as gently as I could. She said, “Do what you must to stay there. You cannot hurt me.”

The donkey fell back. “Very well,” he said. “But keep that dog out of my way.”

The Hoopoe appeared above my head.

“We are ready to proceed.”

I had found myself, just as Babur, the king, had centuries ago, part of a wandering band, with mind awander; “in the grip of a tribe, a tribe unfamiliar”.

Chapter III

Who has the Map?

“The mule I sit on while I recite
Starts off in one direction
But then gets drunk
And lost in
Heaven.”
The Gift
Hafiz

“Now my sweet companions, the way is open,” the bird said. “We travel by night because it is cool. We travel slowly. We speak softly to one another. We will not fear. We will be brave and loving and we will learn. Come, come. Together we are wanderers, but wanderers with purpose. Follow me oh sorry dog, angry donkey, vain old camel, and I will lead you to the feet of the Hound of Heaven. Together you will see God.”

The donkey was somewhat appeased by the bird’s words and led off into the desert. Because she was dark in color and the sky was growing darker where there were no stars or where clouds obscured them, she quickly disappeared. The camel, with me on her back, followed the donkey’s footprints. The Hoopoe circled slowly in the sky above. Soon the moon came out, nearly full, from behind a cloud. Its light caught the gentle movement of the Hoopoes soaring wings and the white flash of his soft underbelly.

The camel was a cheery companion. She wore a band of leather hung with small brass bells around her muzzle and neck. She had two other necklaces worn low on her shoulders. These were studded with seed pearls and tied with brass bells. Even the camel’s ankles were adorned. Around each of these were golden bands with bells attached. Sweet music accompanied her every movement and a euphonious sound rang out when she walked or trotted. This she did with a gait unfamiliar to me for she walked with her two left legs then her two right legs. The rocking motion put me almost to sleep.
Between her humps, in the place where I rode, she had a many tasseled saddle made of leather and layered with thick Mauri carpets. These were woven of madder red and indigo blue and gold wool and silk. All the tassels with which the carpets were finished were golden. The carpets were lovely with rows of octagons and many eight pointed stars. I had a heavenly place from which to view the earth: stars below, stars above.

She was called Jamilah, a name that means beauty and grace. Her eyes were lined with kohl and her small beard was stained with henna. Even the two toes of each of her feet were painted.

She told me early on, when I wondered where we all might be going, that she loved the journey and cared not a whit for the destination. In fact, she said, she did not believe that one ever reached any particular destination.

She told me that the journey would not be an easy one for me. She could not bear to walk in a straight line for long. So, she said, she would occasionally be compelled to run wildly into hills or mountains just for the fun of it. These giddy fugues had often led her into delightful places she might never otherwise have known. However, when pressed for details, she could scarce remember any particulars of these little excursions.

Oh, Jamilah. My friend, my mount, my unfamiliar spirit. Beautiful Jamilah. Jamilah, you see, dared to be crazy in ways I never could be. I was a serious dog and thought all life must be taken seriously. Jamilah, while certainly responsible in all the important ways, could leave the path and take a joyful chance. As I rode, she took me with her to unusual places I would never dare to go alone. I often wondered if we’d ever find the donkey path again. I imagined frightening consequences. But gradually I learned to let her body lead me. I hung on to the carpets. I held her with all my strength as we galloped through the night into the wild hills where the leopards and the mastiffs roamed. I held and learned to crave the ride. After a few of these mad dashes, I could not imagine life without her. My camel was prone to break out in song and I learned to sing with her. I was becoming a new dog. And this was good for I had such scattered memories of the old dog I must have been.

As Jamilah and I traveled in this zigzag way through the seemingly endless night, I was amazed that the Hoopoe, Abdul Haq, did not correct us. He seemed quite content to flutter here and there whilst we took our leave. He seemed always patient and peculiarly serene when we returned. Occasionally he pointed out the donkey path to us.

After many hours and just before dawn, the Hoopoe came to us with a message.

“There is a tavern,” he said, “just beyond that hill ahead. We will go there and eat and drink and rest for just a while.”

We found the tavern easily enough. There was a small oil lamp tied to a mulberry tree. It was burning in the still dim light of early morning. There were a few tables set for the humans who might come by. But no people were presently about.

The donkey was already there when we arrived. She had found a bucket full of millet and oats mixed with mutton fat. There was a cool pool of water near the tavern stable and it was not the bitter saline water sometimes found in desert oasis villages. Jamilah went into the stable where there were great bunches of grass to eat. The Hoopoe found a pile of millet next to a large stash of leaves that hid surprises of grubs and worms. Jamilah, noticing my fear of the donkey, said it would be safe to jump down and drink while she and the Hoopoe were close by. I quickly spied a large bone, still bearing considerable hunks of meat and muscle.

We were all in paradise. As we ate and rested together, the donkey began an apology. Her bristled grey muzzle turned an pink with embarrassment as she spoke. She kept her eyes to the ground but I could see that they were filled with agony.

The Story of Aminah, the Donkey

“I am Aminah, called thus because I am a faithful and trustworthy beast. I may not be beautiful, but I am a good creature. As a new born, I was a most adorable donkey. I had a sweet, compassionate face. My legs and ears were long and I was fuzzy all over. In my youth, I was playful. I scampered about near the sheep and goats of my master and they were always comforted by me. I slept among the flock. I was loved by sheep. If some danger came near, I was alert and ready to trample the intruder, even to the death, to save my sheep. But times were hard and my master sold me to another. I worked for a while as a soldier donkey with Ishmael Kahan in the campaign against the Russians. When a fresh donkey was needed to carry supplies, I was ready. I was Aminah. But things were hard again and I was taken to a market in Herat there to be shackled and bid upon like so much horse flesh. In fact, there was horse flesh all around me. Pitiful specimens. All sold by poor masters who could not afford any longer to feed them. And there I was, the proud Aminah among them. My master let me go for so little money. He patted my muzzle, not so grey then as now, and I was led away. My new master was unkind. I was to be used to grind the wheat. I was harnessed to a great millstone and made to go round and round. I was blindfolded, you see, so as not to be distracted. And to keep me moving, a dog was ordered to nip at my heels and bark at me all day long.”

The donkey paused for a long moment here. She briefly glanced at me, then lowered her eyes again and continued.

“That dog was my curse. That dog was the focus of all the hate that grew in me and ate at my heart. Hate has blinded me as much as the cloth that covered my eyes. When I saw you, I remembered the hurt and the rage and I wanted to kill you. I realize that I will be chained and doomed to move around that millstone forever if I keep such anger in my heart. Please forgive me, dog. Give me opportunity to make amends.”

And I did forgive the donkey and told her my name was Babur and that I was a fool on a journey and not so very different from herself.

The Hoopoe, who had overheard it all, told us to stay closer together in the next leg of the journey. “Something may begin to rub off,” he said in his usual cryptic manner.

Chapter IV

The Crossing

There is no river at all, and no boat, and no boatman.
There is no towrope either, and no one to pull it.
There is no ground, no sky, no time, no bank, no ford!
The Kabir Book
Robert Bly

The only life raft here is love.
The Gift
Hafiz

We stayed the whole day at the oasis and slept and dreamed and told each other stories. I had my head on the Jamilah’s saddle and heard her soft breathing. Sometimes her lips fluttered gently with her breaths.

The Hoopoe told us that we would leave in the evening just as dusk came on. He said that there was a difficult river to cross. He said the moon would guide that crossing, and that until we got to the mountains, we would travel mostly at night. He said we would do this to avoid the heat and to escape detection. Humans, he said, were far more dangerous to us than leopards and mastiffs. The mountains, he said, had many caves. We could hide there if need be. And they would be cool places to rest if the heat was still oppressive.

It was a robust sunset. The sky was streaked with purple and crimson against a background of lapis lazuli. The colors fell upon us and bathed us with magic. The dusk came rapidly after and the full moon rose in the east. Our shadows would be long tonight.

The sand shimmered on our path as the moon rose higher. We followed a narrow road for a while, though it was rutted and full of potholes and seemed to have been altogether washed away in some places. The donkey was in the lead, easy to follow tonight. I followed on foot and after me was Jamilah.

Venus was low in the west and Jupiter was high overhead, as brilliant as a lantern. “In these skies,” the Hoopoe declared, “no one should ever feel lost.”

I began to understand that we had direction. The Hoopoe had referred to the mountains and caves. Jamilah bent her head down and whispered to me that because we were going north, north-east we must be traveling to the Hindu Kush. She seemed pleased.

Just as Jamilah raised her head, the wind started to blow in from the north, forcing us all to walk against it. The whirling dust prevented us from talking much because each time we spoke, our mouths filled with the stuff. The wind kicked up a haze of dust so thick that the moon and stars could hardly be seen. Behind the sound of the wind we could hear the sands singing as the tiny grains blew against each other. Yet the Hoopoe drove us on and would not let us consider turning back to the safety of the oasis and the little tavern. Jamilah and I came, suddenly, upon the donkey standing still by the side of a turbulent river.

We all stared at the rushing water for a moment.

“This river,” the Hoopoe announced, “must be crossed.”

We looked to one another. I had been able to swim in the well. But I didn’t know if I could swim in a rapid river. There were no steps, nothing to hold. And the current was strong. There was foam and froth and sticks and limbs floating along the surface.

The camel studied the river. The donkey sat down. Only the Hoopoe seemed optimistic. But of course, he could fly.

“You will find a way,” the Hoopoe said.

Jamilah was solemn, “We must build a raft. I have seen the reeds that grow near these desert rivers. We will collect reeds and with them we will build a raft.”

“Of course,” the donkey said. “I would have said that myself but I thought it obvious.” The donkey instantly looked ashamed of her own remark. Her muzzle glowed red. Too long out of the company of kindness, she had now begun to notice her sharp, protective lances. We set out to find the reeds.

Jamilah and I returned with reeds within a short time. Jamilah was tugging a huge pile of reeds she had attached by ropes to her saddle. I had a large bundle in my teeth. But Aminah the donkey was not about. Jamilah and I went off to find more reeds and soon returned with another great load. But still Aminah had not returned.

The camel and I decided to search for her.

There was no wind now; the last of it had cleared the sky of clouds. We could see clearly in the moonlight. We came around a large boulder by the river and there found the donkey lying on her back staring at the stars. In spite of the bright full moon, the donkey had noticed a shower of meteors. She was in a swoon. Her delight was seductive. The camel kneeled and peered up into the sky. I rolled onto my own back next to the donkey, feeling safe with her since our talk. We all yelped with joy as the bigger meteors streaked across the horizon.

Suddenly a dark form came between us and the brilliant light show. It was the Hoopoe. He hovered above us.

“To the task, to the task, foolish creatures.” the Hoopoe said. “The raft must be made. The journey must not be forestalled.”

We rolled up and onto our feet and went back to the pile of reeds.

We worked methodically and silently throughout the night. We wove the reeds into a stiff, serviceable little raft. It was big enough for a donkey, a camel, and a dog. The bird seemed pleased and added strings of grass and other bits of stick to the project.

While the meteors continued to punctuate the dark and the moon moved past the zenith in its path to the western horizon, we eased the raft to the shallow shore of the river. We stepped carefully, for the rocks under the water were slippery. The camel had found a sturdy pole with which to push us off and steer us. With a giant whoosh and a push from the camel’s pole, we were moving in the river, propelled forward in the direction of the other bank, but at the same time we were being carried down river. Jamilah put her shoulder into it and we made slowly for the far shore though rushing along with the current at the same time. The donkey and I yelled encouragement. It had seemed that we would make it when the raft began to break apart. A large chunk of reeds, the chunk upon which I stood, fell to pieces and I was in the water.

I pumped my legs, paddling as fast as I could. I kept my head up to keep the raft, the donkey, and the camel in sight. I could hear my friends calling to me. I could see the Hoopoe flying high above me. I could see the donkey and the camel, now walking on to the shore. They had made it. Jamilah waded back into the water holding the pole out to me with her teeth. I used all of my remaining strength for a final push. I was gasping. Water was coming in my nose and my mouth. But I kept my goal in site. I snapped at the pole and held it tightly with my teeth. Jamilah trod backwards out of the water, onto the shore, and back up the bank, all the while dragging me along.

Jamilah and Aminah, my dear friends, embraced me and licked me all over with their great tongues and picked the twigs and sticks from my fur. They told me to lie down for a while and rest.

As I rested, the donkey began to gather what was left of the reed raft together and put it on her back.

“I will carry this raft for the rest of the trip,” said the donkey. “We will have no trouble making a crossing again.”

The Hoopoe swooped in and stood on Aminah’s head. “What are you doing?” the Hoopoe asked.

“I am carrying the raft that will allow us to cross the next river,” the donkey said.

“Fool. The raft did not allow you to cross the river. Your brains and dreams and souls eliminated the obstacle to your journey. The raft was just a tool. Leave the raft. It was for this crossing. You will not cross the same river twice. The raft will be a burden to you. Leave the raft for the next one who must make a crossing.”

We picked ourselves up and continued our journey, tired but wiser animals.

Chapter V

Dawn Comes

The moon slipped below the western horizon as bright hues of blue and orange made the sky blaze as if there were a fire in the east. There were no words for what we felt then. We had been up all night meeting danger, fording the stream, clinging to life, and saving our souls. And now, at this enchanted moment, we danced. I ran in great circles around the others, yipping and snapping at the earth. Jamilah galloped across the desert floor toward the nearest hillside followed by the donkey, Aminah, braying and kicking her heels. I followed them as quickly as I could. There were, as I have said, no words for what we felt; there was no right or wrong or best or better way to be. Something had happened to us all and we were drunk with love of each other and of the morning. The journey seemed delightful.

We walked on and came suddenly to a valley of lush grass. The fields were irrigated by thin ribbons of water that cascaded down from the high hills that surrounded the valley. We had, during the night, left the desert and begun our ascent.

Some friendly cattle lived there in the valley amidst the grass. They called to us: “May you never be tired. May you always be in harmony.” We called back the same to them.

The steep sides of the valley were terraced and planted with walnut and apple trees. As we walked deeper into the valley we came upon a flock of pleasant fat tailed sheep. “May you never be tired,” they called to us. “May you always be in harmony.” We called back the same to them. We came upon a little settlement where shepherds had recently pitched their goatskin tents. A stream ran nearby and there were the cold remains of a little dung fire. Near by there were trellises that bore ripe, full bunches of grapes. There were ancient pomegranate trees, their low branches laden with fruit. There were apricot trees There were wild roses in bloom. We found flat wheat bread to eat, left behind by the shepards, drank deeply from the stream, and settled to rest the day there.

The Hoopoe said he would watch for the humans but believed we would be safe until evening. The humans, the Hoopoe believed, had made butter from the milk of their flocks and were off on a journey to trade the butter for hats and shirts and other things they loved. He had seen a small convoy of sheepherders carrying large tubs of butter on one of his fly overs. By their clothing, he imagined that they came from this valley whose customs he knew. He lighted briefly amidst them and listened to them talk as they put down their heavy panniers and rested for a moment. The Hoopoe was convinced that these were their tents. I wandered near the stream with this good news and fell asleep under a willow tree. I had never felt so peaceful, so blessed, and so refreshed.

At dusk, the Hoopoe bid us wake, drink, breakfast, and commence our journey. We were headed toward the mountains now, there was no mistake.

The sun went behind the distant hills and we noticed that the air here was considerably cooler than the desert air. Though we were well rested and amply fed, we all shivered. But it was more than the chill that made us shiver. We could hear wolves in the distance. As we walked we gained elevation and the sound of the wolves seemed closer. Wild pigs roamed this territory, as well. I did not fancy a meeting one of those on a dark night.

I had been trekking along on my own feet since before the river crossing. But now, I jumped upon Jamilah’s back and stood there on the saddle so I could watch the path ahead. The donkey, as was her custom, was some distance ahead. She, too, seemed more cautious than usual. Jamilah had an idea. Rather than imagining that we could make ourselves invisible to the wolves, she suggested that we make ourselves seem to be many more than we were.

“Let us sing and talk loudly with different voices as we jog along,” she said. “Let us be noisy and obnoxious. Let us exaggerate our presence.” No wolf would be so foolish as to strike an entire caravan of fools.”

And so we did begin to sing and talk and shout and laugh out loud. Jamilah took up a rapid gait so that her bells chattered ceaselessly.

The donkey brayed and bellowed. I snapped, growled, howled, and barked in turn. We created a cacophony of sound that flushed partridges and terrified snow cocks.

Soon we were far out of the valley. The moon was high again in the sky and we could see above and not so far beyond us the ice and snow on the Hindu Kush peaks..

Much to our alarm, the Hoopoe, who had been flying ahead of us, set a course that seemed to take us straight up into the mountains. We began to scramble over the scree on the lower slopes in order to keep the bird in sight. The moonlight, unobscured by clouds tonight, made our long shadows bounce about over the uneven rocks. Sometimes, we could not tell if these were our shadows, or the shadows of some other creatures tracking us.

As the camel, with me on top, stepped gingerly along a narrow path on a ledge, she stopped abruptly. The donkey ahead of us was standing stock-still. Her ears were laid flat back against her head. Her knees trembled. She said nothing. The camel, being taller, and I, being on her humps, could look over the frightened donkey’s head. There on the path facing the donkey was a gigantic goat like creature. It surely was a large male goat but its horns, at least a yard in length, were enormous ridged things that curved up and over his back. The hair on his body was patchy, worn to the skin here and there, as if the goat had traveled through thickets of briars and rubbed against rough boulders on his journey. His eyes were tired and sad though he attempted to look fierce and strong. The camel, who was far more traveled and worldly than the rest of us announced, “It is an ibex.” She then called out to the ibex in its own language. “May you never be tired,” Jamilah bellowed, “May you always be in harmony.”

The ibex suddenly jumped up through a rough and narrow break in the higher rock. It balanced beautifully on its small hooves and stopped for a moment to tear off a few leaves from one of the few trees that grew on these slopes. Then it looked down at us and began to speak in a language that we could all understand.

The Story of Basil, The Ibex

“I am Basil, the brave. I come from the north, from the mountains of Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. I lived among my friends and kin. There were usually ten or twelve of us traveling together in the high mountains just at the tree line. The peaks and crags were our refuge. Few could reach us there.

On these mountains, we grazed, lazed about in the sunshine, and gamboled over rocks and through the defiles. There was plenty to eat.

Sometimes a hunter would come from the valley. We understood that the people occasionally needed our meat or hides or desired our hair for their weavings. We had lived with this knowledge for centuries The hunters were few, however, and though we mourned our losses, they were not frequent. And the hunters honored us. We visited their tombs sometimes, stealthily of course. Atop their tombs were mountains of the horns of our own ancestors. Our pilgrimages to the hunters’ tombs were to glorify and show respect for our own dead. We sometimes brought branches or spring flowers to lay there by their beautiful, massive horns. We grieved and remembered. And accepted the way of the world.

One day we saw a giant bird flying over our mountain. Inside the bird were humans. They seemed to be looking at us through glass. We feared them. We ran down the mountain to the woods for cover. The bird flew away. But our refuge seemed less safe to us and we were wary.

One day in our wanderings we noticed, just below us, a group of yurts. These did not seem to be the yurts we were accustomed to seeing. There were no flocks of sheep or goats nearby. We could see smoke coming from the stoves within the yurts. There were other tents, too.They were quite fancy colored tents made of a fabric we did not recognize. As we hid behind large boulders and watched, humans came from within these dwellings. Fires were started without wood and food was prepared as if by magic. Some of the humans did nothing but eat. They were large, light skinned men, dressed in red shirts and vests with many pockets. They wore caps with bills upon their heads. Other humans seemed to be their servants. They were thin and dark men, sturdy mountain men, the men we were accustomed to seeing. These men cooked food and gave it to the burly pale ones. Then we noticed one of the capped ones looking up the mountain through the glass. We ran quickly to a higher place. But even from this distance, we could hear a voice echoing through the canyons: “There they are. There they are. Let’s get going.”

The humans were relentless, then. The big bird seemed to find us wherever we were. The humans carried things we had never seen on the old hunters whom we knew. Things they had made of metal and glass. Things they had that buzzed and beeped. They seemed to send messages to one another. They seemed somehow to know where each other were and where we were.

Finally they came from above us on foot. As we struggled to run, we saw one of them to our left flank and two or three to the right. We could only run down, the most awkward running for us because our front legs are shorter than our rear. One of our number, a young fellow, slipped in his fear. A human raised a rifle to his shoulder and shot him. Our friend had fallen, but the human shot again and the others cheered.

Our friend and our companion lay wounded on the rocks. His life was going from him, and he from us. And as we stopped to mourn, more shots came. One by one my friends fell. The heavy men in boots, the men from some strange place, drew their knives and made for my dying companions. I ran from them. I chose to live. I left my friends. I ran and ran and ran. Over passes, beyond reason, beyond knowing. I am Basil but I am not the brave. I was a coward. I left all whom I loved that day.”

Basil was weeping now. All his magnificence was bowed in the telling of his story. We begged him to come near us and be comforted. Oh, Basil, I thought, how like all of us you are. We carry the sorrows of our losses within us, heavy packs of grief and despair. And always the question, could I have done more?

The goat came down from his perch and rubbed against us. He was so lonely for his little flock. Jamilah was particularly gentle with him. “Like the calluses on my knees, we develop thick protective layers. Much is hidden. We don’t wish to feel so deeply, perhaps. Basil you are our friend now. You may stay with us so long as you wish. We will journey on together with the Hoopoe as our guide.” The donkey nuzzled my own ears as Jamilah embraced us all.

As if on cue, the Hoopoe dove toward us in great spirals from high in the cloudless sky.

“Do not tarry longer. I have surveyed the territory. It is time to move on. You are all ready now. Whoever wishes to explore the Way, let him set out.”

Chapter VI

The Final Push

He knows, he knows the truth we seek,
That hidden truth of which we cannot speak.”
To go beyond all knowledge is to find
That comprehension which eludes the mind
And you can never gain the longed for goal
Until you first outsoar both flesh and soul;
But should one part remain, a single hair
will drag you back and plunge you in despair
No creature’s Self can be admitted here,
Where all identity must disappear.
The Conference of the Birds
Farid ud-Din Attar

Never let success hide its emptiness from you, achievement its nothingness, toil its desolation. And so keep alive the incentive to push on further, that pain in the soul which drives us beyond ourselves. Whither? That I don’t know. That I don’t ask to know.
Dag Hammarskjold quoted in Thomas Hornbein
Everest: The West Ridge
The Hoopoe set a course.
It was dawn, but the Hoopoe said it was safe now to travel by day.

The climb would be difficult. We could carry no more burdens with us. We were passing into another world now. The jumble of rocks would be left behind us. Ahead were the serác, towers of ice surrounded by frigid crevasses. We could see them glinting in the morning light. There were huge falls, large glacier like deposits broken from high banks of ice and stone. This frozen landscape would be treacherous and unpredictable. Rocks tumbled around us every time the earth groaned or rumbled high ahead of us.

We walked slowly, in a line, up and up. Here we were, four four-footed fools, animals without ropes or ladders, only our hooves and paws to carry us.

Clouds came in during the early afternoon’s climb and these clouds, full of ice particles, made the snow and rock beneath our feet seem to glow a strange pinkish white. As more clouds gathered, it was hard to see far ahead. We were seeing as if through gauze. My whiskers were frozen. Snow clung to my frozen outer coat. But my inner coat was dry and warm. No, our bodies were not so cold. But our eyes stung with the ice and our noses and pads suffered, as much from the sharp granite stones underfoot as from the cold.

We stopped to drink from snow melts in giant granite basins. We rested now and then on these outcroppings, enjoying the occasional sun breaks. Still the bird bid us upward. Our breathing was difficult now. We drew long, raspy breaths through our moist, warm noses instead of our mouths so that the air did not shock our lungs. Finally, the sun began to set behind a distant western slope and the Hoopoe bid us bed down for the night. We had less than two hours before total darkness, a dark we feared even though we knew the moon was still large and would give us some comfort in the night.

We mounded snow in an area that seemed safe. The mound we made was big enough so that we could tunnel out a cave in which we all could sleep. In the cave, we construct a platform of hard snow on which to sleep. We made the platform inside the cave as long as Jamilah, the biggest of us, and built it higher in the back, away from the entrance, so that our heads would rest in the place with the warmest air. We prevailed upon Jamilah to take off her rugs and place them over the entrance of the cave. We took her bells and hung them across the entrance so that we might be on notice if any other creature tried to seek entry.

As we completed the cave and prepared to crawl through the rug opening, we could just see a few stars above us in the deep velvety sky. The clouds had cleared and the air had a crisp, bright quality. It was mesmerizing for we were all short of oxygen and entranced by our day and the adventure. We were hungry, but, oddly, we did not crave food.

As we settled to sleep, I could hear a soft cry from the camel.

Jamilah’s Story

I am Jamilah. My rugs. My bells. Oh my beauty, all gone. I am nothing now but a ragged old camel. The henna on my beard is faded. The kohl on my eyes is washed away. My eyelashes have gone straight. My teeth are yellowed. My pads are cracked. I seem to be in perpetual molt. All I have been has left me. I was a desired camel, a camel to be reckoned with. What am I without my bells and rugs? I thought it was you, dog, and donkey and ibex who had lessons to learn. I was just along for the ride. But now I see what I have to lay aside: youth and vanity. Oh how hard this is. Tomorrow I will stand naked and unadorned. Will you still love me?

Jamilah was a camel who had seen better days and the journey had taken its toll. And what did it matter? Jamilah was not her eyelashes or rugs. Jamilah was a beautiful soul, a generous friend, a camel who would give up her life for any one of us.

And because of her words, we understood the journey. Just as Jamilah must surrender vanity, Basil must give up shame and the need to be brave, Aminah must give up anger and hate, and I must leave behind my pride. All of these burdened us and kept us from knowing truth and our true work.

The next morning we woke rested and exhilarated. It was a beautiful dawn and the sun gave us new energy. In fact Aminah, who feared that we were moving too slowly, charged ahead bellowing and breaking trail. We could not see her or keep pace.

But still we moved steadily. The Hoopoe circled overhead.

Chapter VII

The Summit

You have slept for millions and millions of years.
Why not wake up this morning?
The Kabir Book
Robert Bly

We climbed for another hour or two, but now the way was easy. The world we entered was full of beauty, even more beauty than we had seen before. There were towers of ice and granite all around us. There were waterfalls frozen solid, caught in mid-flow. And now, at this altitude, all was quiet. We were all humbled and silent, overcome with the wonder of this place, this sacred place. The donkey walked slowly. The ibex’ head was bowed. And I felt nothing but absolute serenity. The camel who had feared giving up the mask she wore, was full of joy and moved with a new strength. What were we doing here? Why had we been lead here? We did not come for gold or gems. We’ll find no earthly treasures here. We came, we knew now, to meet ourselves for there as we attained the summit was a giant wall of ice, clear and clean as a mirror. As we came to gaze upon it, we saw reflected images of ourselves. We were ragged and torn, uncombed and unwashed, and bleeding here and there, but free and pure. The journey had brought us to our deepest selves, devoid of all imaginings. The Hoopoe perched atop the wall and called to us.

“The journey is complete. Well done.” he said and flew away.

Epilogue
…the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.

from
The Journey
Mary Oliver

I do my work now with a new passion. Yes, I found my way home again. Sometimes, when Ayubi and I are out looking for mines, I hear a little whistle from a tree branch or from behind a rock. It is the Hoopoe. She reminds me of our journey. She reminds me of all that I have learned. I stand quietly and listen and remember. Ayubi doesn’t question me. He scratches my ears and whispers so that no one can hear:

“If only dogs could talk! What a story you must have, my boy.”

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Crystal Ashley for the idea and for reading early drafts; to Mary Oliver for the inspiration of her poem The Journey; to Ralph Waldo Emerson and the transcendentalists at least some of whom believed that a conscious, intuitive being could come to understand all that there is to understand; to Unitarian minister Art Vaeni for his homilies; The Buddha and The Koran; the Conference of the Birds by Farid ud-Din Attar, which provided a model for Babur’s journey and, of course, the fabulous Hoopoe; to Hafiz, Kabir, Joseph Campbell, and Fr. Anthony de Mello. Babur’s journey is inspired by stories from these sources and by spiritual literature from around the world. Thanks to Thomas Hornbein and Willi Unsoeld for their journey to the top of Mt. Everest and Hornbein’s book about it.

Posted in Stories | Comments Off on Babur’s Wonderful Journey 2009