July 2000
Surely listening to Rosalie
Sorrels sing along side the Boise River qualifies as a penultimate Idaho
Moment! How Idaho can you get: listening to Idaho's (if not the universe's)
most fabulous indigenous folk singer and storyteller on a fine summer evening,
sun setting on rustling cottonwoods along the river, shadows moving up
the backdrop of bare foothills behind the Shakespeare Amphitheater stage.
Even inadvertently missing
the first hour--whoever heard of a concert starting at 6pm--didn't dim
my enjoyment of the evening. Months ago I hit overload and anything
that requires dealing with times, dates, names or places is in jeopardy.
Thinking I was early, I was alarmed to see all the cars in the parking
lot. Can't be this many old folkies in Idaho! Then I noticed
the huge number of subaru station wagons and reconsidered. Maybe
not a Shakespeare crowd after all, judging from the looks of the rolling
stock (as dad used to call it.) Adding confusion was classical music
wafting on the breeze-- pre-program? Hustled on, long ago purchased
ticket in hand.
Lo, all these years I've remained
an unabashed folk music lover who never grew up or left the '60s folk scare
behind. Musically and personally, I remain a child of the '60s.
Now, it's not exactly give me the Kingston Trio any day (though I do perk
up!)--huh uh. However, give me an untrained, unaccompanied voice
or a shape note choir any day over Yanni with an orchestra, and I breathe
easier. Still remember hearing Sarah Ogun Gunning, Glen Orlin and
the Jubilee Choir singing while I was at the U of I (where "I" means Illinois)
in the '60s. Folklorist and Wobbly (I think) Professor Archie Green
(Only a Coal Miner, etc.) was let lose on a generation of
Illini and I was never the same. His passion for social issues, vulnerability
and heart tapped a chord in this heart, and I'm sure, many others.
After moving west, some time in the early '70s, I heard Utah Phillips,
then Rosalie Sorrels, first in Denver. Again and again, wherever
I've lived, I've returned to folk well for clear water.
The strings I'd heard from
the parking lot shifted into Irish contra dance music as I joined the crowd
of middle aged fogies, fascinated to see others who appreciate Rosalie.
I personally don't know another soul who enjoys her! Dance music
turned into a trio, and then, 2 hours of Rosalie and friends. As
the sun dropped we listened to Rosalie (with Nina, Johnny Shoes...) slide
from a Patrick Sky song that "sounded old" (demonstrating a quality
of folk music) to Kate Wolf, to a poignant Dori Previn and onto Malvina
Reynolds. How could it possibly get any better than hearing Rosalie
recite poetry, with a line about bird songs, only to hear a finch sing
its way across the sky into the cottonwoods! I exclaimed audibly
at this miracle, assuming we'd all heard the same thing; but looking around,
realized the magic was probably mine alone.
I saw rocks sweep up, out of
the Nevada desert as Rosalie sang "Nevada Moon". And when she sang
"One Last Go Round", a song I heard on Prairie Home Companion a few years
ago while driving across Utah, I absolutely melted into love with the spirit
of Rosalie Sorrels. So compelling, that song, it caused me, a few
years back, to pull off the highway to catch its words on a scrap of paper
(until a state policeman asked me to pull off further--my old police karma--see
Travels Dec 2000 for more). Like Rosalie says, she loves and sings
all kinds of music. I'd even like jazz if Rosalie sang it, I whispered
to my hapless neighbor, who, like me, was singing along enthusiastically
to practically everything.
The uniqueness of Rosalie's
voice, vastness of her repertoire, and richness of her stories stun me
every time. I never hear enough Rosalie. All superlatives are
understated. The mood of the evening was quiet, with talk and songs
of wrapping up life and the timelessness of love. Rosalie focused
on Malvina, but reached deep into our own lives and her own. On some
of our minds was, is the Last Go Round close? Rosalie looked well
and sounded strong. Later I realized she has much left to share and
sing: no closing chord indeed. We've much to learn from Rosalie's
loving, grounded presence. Truly an enchanted Idaho evening.
JULY 2000
OBON--western Style
Experienced a superb "Idaho"--ok,
Oregon-Idaho border--moment, Saturday evening July 15th, at the Obon Festival
at the Buddhist Temple in Ontario, OR. (Much easier than going to
Japan, this temple 60 miles NW of Boise.) Oregon or not, this year's
entertainment featured a new taiko group from the "Tri Cities", meaning
Twin Falls, Pocatello and Idaho Falls (if I got it right). Wearing
shorts and sunglasses, in the intense heat of the July evening, the largely
female team performed well, traditional and original compositions.
I recognized leader Micki from the wonderful Portland Taiko team workshop
at BSU last year; the group is doing good! One of the women's father,
an 80 yr. old gent (veteran of 40 some festivals the emcee later announced)
added hand held percussion. He's light as a feather, a classic Japanese
elder in my mind. Once again, I confused his lightness of body with
mental acuity. Later he and another elder Japanese woman accompanied
dancers, playing intricate rhythms together on a large, 2 headed drum on
a high stand. Hardly a feat for foggy minds or weak bodies.
It dawned on me that earlier in the evening I'd chatted with the same elder
woman and she had told me she had hurt her shoulder! Mea culpe.
A thousand hail Marys.
The grace of Japanese culture
is not exaggerated. It radiated, as this small, solid, traditional
Japanese community, centered at its temple, welcomed the diverse community
around them into their tradition. Hundreds and hundreds of visitors,
largely curious light skinned and light haired, came, as they have for
decades, to enjoy delicious food cooked and served by efficient, hardworking
Japanese families; to walk through the lovely temple, lined with lovely
3 element flower arrangements of the Ryusei-ha School, and to see the sword
display; and to enjoy an evening of Japanese dance, both performance and
community. Typically, I was more smitten by the use of cattails in
flower arrangements than the sword display (about which I know little).
Having never attended an Obon
festival (despite the opportunity to do so while living in Seattle) and
considering myself a folk dancer and sometime zen sitter, I observed all
with fascination and appreciation. (However, I was way too drained
from a day of hospice training, the drive and the heat to join the dancing
as I'd thought perhaps I might.) I was blown away by the diversity
of participation in the community dances: Japanese families (from
elders through teens and toddlers, often with what looked an auntie following,
keeping an eye out) intermixed with swimming hair blond kids; gangling
teenage boys and confident teenage girls snapping gum or wearing retainers;
and very young girls and boys dressed in kimonos. All danced mindfully
in a very large circle around the grounds. Without a snicker, those
who didn't have straw hats held paper plates during the Hat Dance.
I watched river sandals, Payless sandals, tennis shoes, traditional zori
with divided socks, plastic shoes, birkenstocks and platform heels step
by. Whatever works! Varieties of shorts and many lovely, colorful
kimonos, all flowed by. Elders led dances from the center.
During childrens' performance dances, an obviously respected elder woman
coached closely. Living treasures before us.
The highlight for me was a
traditional performance on center stage by 8 tall, slender elder men, waltzing
in pairs with a tenderness and grace I have not seen in America.
They wore pattern coordinated kimonos, with either flowers clipped on heads
or black mustaches. No squeamishness or embarrassment, only dignity.
Afterwards I realized how refreshing it was to be in a culture that felt
intact. An octogenarian emceed, now and then roaming off to follow
a great grandchildren with his digital camera. Children and teens
did as they had been instructed for centuries, watched by attentive grandparents
and family. The festival was not run by youth nor focused on youth.
It was a whole culture celebration, rememberance with joy. How healthy
it felt. As I become an elder, how very good to be with a community
that models elders fully functioning (working their tails off, actually),
at the same time honoring all ages. I was deeply touched and moved
that this culture from so far away so unabashedly shared their culture
and wisdom in the foreign land that is now their home. What a gift.
How these folks rooted admist
Mormon, Basque and cowboy culture, in the desert of Oregon- Idaho, is a
wonder, testimony to the power and wisdom of the Japanese, and to the human
spirit. And how, I ended up sitting by the one ethic person of the
two dozen of us in the hospice training that same weekend, was a delightful
synchronicity. I admired Sachie's spirit as soon as I entered the
workshop. Later, when she explained she had trouble expressing herself
because she is a Japanese speaker, I was jolted. She smiled deeply
as I told her I'd be going to her festival that evening, indicating she
knows it well. "Pray for me", she added, in her devout Catholic manner.
The drive home away from the
firey sunset, into the rising moon, was awesome. A thin line of full
moon peaked through linear clouds colored by forest fires, never emerging.
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