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March 26, 2008

"The Devil's Needle, Arbroath, Scotland" (c) 2005, 2008

Cliffsofarbroath7
"The Devil's Needle, Arbroath, Scotland" (c) 2005, 2008 Stu Jenks

[Excerpt from the story "Twenty Four Hours in Scotland"]


    6:30 a.m.

    I miss the sea. Christ, I've only been away from it for a day. I could smell it in Edinburgh last night, but I couldn't see it. I need to see it again.
    A9 to Perth, then catch the A90 to Dundee.
    Dundee. I like the way that town sounds, plus that city is right on the sea. Let's do it.

    7:30 a.m.

    Light now. Overcast. A bit rainy just north of Dundee. Hungry as hell. Got another cup of horrid coffee at a gas station back in Perth. I need some real food and a better cup of Joe.
    Then I see the Golden Arches and laugh out loud. What better place to get an Egg McMuffin and a big cup of strong coffee that at the McDonald's just outside of Dundee.
    Twenty minutes later, I'm fat and happy in the Mickey D. parking lot, sipping a good strong American cup of coffee. On my Michelin map, I notice the word 'Cliffs' just north of the little town of Arbroath. Bet I can see the sea from there.

    8:00 a.m.

    Clouds low. A strong drizzle. Not mist, not rain, something in-between. A soccer field's behind me. The clock tower of Arbroath a few hundred yard to my right. A paved path leads up to higher ground. And right in front of me is the English Channel. White caps roll toward the shore.
    I take a very deep breath.
    Grab the Rollei, the tripod, my smokes and lock the VW.
    The parking lot is quite large. Bet on the weekend, quite a few local folk come here, to play soccer or sit by the sea. Just me and another car are here this morning though.
    I walk across the lot and step onto the smooth asphalt path that appears to skirt the edge of the sea. Then I see a small sign, nicely carved on a plank of wood.
    “Beware of Dangerous Cliffs. Take Great Care.”
    I smile. How eloquent, how English.
    A minute later, I realized they aren't kidding. The path runs right along the edge. Sometimes, the edge is a gently descending hill that anyone could easily walk down, but more often than not, the edge is a sheer cliff face, a drop straight down at least fifty feet to wet rocks below. No fence. Just a park bench every so often to rest on. What a delight, to not be protected from my own stupidity, that if I fell to my death, it would be on me. And if I am safe, it's on me too. And just as important, the view isn't obscured by a silly fence of some sort.         
    Waves explode on the rocks below, showering a curtain of mist. Beautiful.   
    A sign points toward The Devil's Needle. And then I see the Needle itself, a large arch of rock that reminds me of the Canyonlands of Utah. Except the Canyonlands don't have this exploding ocean surf around them. I gingerly walk down a grassy slope toward the arch. Make a spiral in the sand and rock? No. Just shoot a straight shot of the arch and the channel instead. Heavy mist coats me and my camera as I take a few exposures. I try and time it so I get the raising spray in the shot, but I never time it just right. Not a biggie. I click off a few more exposures, and then pack up my gear, but stand a while, looking at the sea. Smelling the sea. The sea smells pretty much the same here, as it does at the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia or at Bahia Kino in Sonora, Mexico. Maybe a bit more earthy and peaty in its fragrance but basically the same. My glasses become foggy from the salty mist. I usually don’t like that, but today, I couldn’t care less.
    Then suddenly I slip on a wet rock near the edge, grab the ground quickly and stop my fall into the drink. I slowly rise to my feet and take a few slow steps back, away from the edge.
    Take great care, Stu. Do as the sign says.


    [Note: The above image is an unintentional double exposure. I got lucky that the horizon lines matched up. And finally I dedicate this image to the comedian/writer/talk show host Craig Ferguson who I think lived in Arbroath for a while, though I may be wrong. Glad you didn't jump off the Tower Bridge, Craig. Glad I didn't fall to my death, as well, back in 1985.]


February 23, 2008

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Fifteen: “Ed-Lil"

Edlilrevisited4
Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Fifteen: “Ed-Lil, Virginia” © 2002, 2008

    Dad's been dead nine months. Mom has to sell the river house, so she can invest the cash and survive on the interest. Dad didn't leave Mom enough money to live on. Dad didn't believe in life insurance.
    People loved my father, for he had a public persona of a funny happy-go-lucky smart old Southern man. But his private face was much darker. At home, he was a cynical loner, who greatly feared poverty and taxes, and preferred his own company than that of his family.
    But oddly, all that doesn’t seem to matter now, the man he was when he was alive, for I can feel him around me often. I can call him to me, simply by saying his name. He seems to be this pure good soul of what was once Stuart Jenks Sr.: loving, tender, accepting, and kind. And I feel that he actually likes me now which is sweeter than honey, I can tell you.
    Months ago, I had to send him away for a week because the new-glowing-light Dad was interfering with my grieving process of the newly-dead-Dad. I needed to be mad at Dad for a while, but when God’s-Light-Bulb-Dad was around I couldn’t feel the feeling and let it go. But I called him back after awhile, after I’d release the rage. And unlike the living Stuart, Ghost Dad understood completely.
    When I'm worried about money and going further into debt around my failing art photography business, I hear him softly say, "Don't worry, son. The money will come and if it doesn't, it doesn't matter. You have the love of your friends, the love of your Art." Other times when I'm filled with self-doubt and internal hatefulness, I hear him whisper off my left shoulder, "I love you just the way you are, Son. You don’t need to change a thing." A month ago, when Ghost Dad was saying another ethereal message of Love, I actually said out loud, "Who is this guy?”
    A little about Ed-Lil, though, The Jenks’ ancestral summer home on the Rappahannock River, that Mom is selling:
    It was bought by Papa Edgar Jenks, my grandfather, in the 1920’s from Johnny Mothershead. It consisted of a two story house with five bedrooms and a bath, and a one story house that had the kitchen, the dining room and a tool shed. My father deeply loved the Rappahannock River, the Ed-Lil house, and the people who lived along its banks. Loved them since he was a teenager.
    Every August, Mom, Dad, Pamela and I would come to the river for two or three weeks. I hated the river as a kid. Hated the mosquitoes, the fleas, the stinging jellyfish but mostly I hated being around my parents. They were so judgmental, so critical, so volatile in bullshit ways. I couldn’t wait to get back to Raleigh and back to school in September. But then, 25 years ago, I started coming here because I wanted to, not because I had to, and I always had a car, so I could come and go as I pleased, if things got too dark.
    After Dad retired from IBM, he built himself and Mom a modest three bedroom house next to the old houses. He then tore down the bedroom house and the kitchen and left the old dining room as his workshop. The dining room/tool shed was and is gorgeous, with its ancient tongue-in-groove wood walls, the old rusty gas fixtures from the 1920’s that still hang from the ceiling, and the tattered and stained white lace curtains that haven’t been washed since the Eisenhower Administration. The new smell of gasoline is added to the mix that come from the riding lawn mower that is parked on its stained hardwood floors. An old map of Richmond County is pinned to the wall. It’s been crudely attached there since before I was born. Change is good sometimes, but consistency and tradition are beautiful too if they are humble. That is one humble map. This is one humble room.            
    I'm standing in the old dining room this afternoon, with the lace and the tongue in groove and the old map on the wall. And a big rain is coming. Spirit Dad is here but I sure wished Old Living Stuart was here right now. Dad and I did loved watching big storms cross the river.
    The window facing the river looks great. So would a flame spiral next to it. Wonder if I can pull it off. It’ll have to be a short exposure, maybe ten seconds. I put all the red filters I have on the lens of my Rollei and hope for the best.
    I open the window, get out the Zippo and wait for the storm.
    A line of rain crosses the seven-mile width of the river. The river slowly goes away, replaced by a dark gray of Big Rain. Half way across the river now. Just a mile away. Almost here. Now it’s here. The storm is here.
    Loud thunder crackles in the corn fields behind me. Bright lightning highlights the lace curtains. Heavy dense rain blows in through the window. The river completely disappears.
    I open the Rollei’s shutter and ignite the Zippo. I paint a spiral to the left of the window. I close the shutter after ten seconds. I do this a few times.
    Then suddenly, in between exposures, a small gray finch flies through the open window, confused and wet and lands on the lens of my camera. We both just stare at each other. He's scared, fidgety and soaked to the bone. My first thought is 'Don't shit on the lens. Please don’t shit on my camera.' His first thought was probably something like, 'Where the hell am I? How did I get in here and who is that guy?' He doesn't fly away but stays perched on my camera for at least a minute. We continue to look at each other. I don’t care about bird shit anymore. I just care for the little bird. Suddenly he flies off the camera but now, poor thing, he can't find the open window. He’s feverishly flying around the dining room. I quickly grab a broom. I open the ancient screen door and prop it open with an old gas can. The finch is banging itself on the ceiling of the room, completely frantic now. I gently put the straw broom head on the ceiling and usher the bird to the door. He gets the idea before we get there. He see the open door and streaks out into the pouring rain. Success for both of us.
    I go back and paint another Zippo spiral, this one for the bird. The exposure feels right. I call it a day. I put the lens cap on the camera and sit in an old chair now, looking at a small lake that is forming under the old cedar tree out front.
    I love the River now. I'm going to miss it. But you got to do what you got to do. Mom needs money to survive, and she really doesn’t like living this far away from civilization anyway. She only came here to live because Stuart came here to live. Now, he’s gone. Now, it’s time for her to live where she wants, for her to have her own life. She’ll be living soon at a cute little house next door to the organist from church. Glen’s his name. He’s a good guy.
   

    “It's a sad dog that won't wag its own tail” - Stuart Jenks Sr., 1976.

February 22, 2008

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Fourteen: "That Everything of God"

Everythingpier3

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Fourteen: "That Everything of God" (c) 2001, 2008

 

    Haze on the Rappahannock just before dawn.

    A pinhole camera shot of the pier.

    A ghost image of me.

    The ghost of my father.

 

    Leaving tomorrow for Tucson.

    A last day at The River.

    Sitting on that same step as on the night he died.

    Still feeling him around.

    Thinking, that maybe what all the holy men and women say is true:

    That separation is an illusion

    That there is no difference between this world and the next, except for the point of view.

    That the ego's judgments create a wall that only exists in my mind.

    That the River flows, with and without my judging it.

    That Dad is here and not here and still here.

    That I'm here and not here and still here.

    That a part of a full spiritual life is knowing that being in this physical world is only a fraction of the complete reality.

    That by standing on this pier, I'm on the pier and I'm everywhere in the universe at the same time.

    That Love and Acceptance is in all of the worlds, in all of the universe.

    And that Love is the only thing that matters.

    And that it is in Everything.

    That my Dad is part of That Everything now,

    That he was always part of That Everything of God.

    And so am I.

 


February 21, 2008

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Thirteen: “The Pier Spiral, Richmond County, Virginia”

Thepierspiralrevisited
Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Thirteen: “The Pier Spiral, Richmond County, Virginia”
© 1999, 2001, 2008

    Damn.
    The last thing I wanted to do was get into a fight with my Mom. Words like 'Stop being such a god damned martyr!' and 'Quit trying to control how Dad is dying, will you?' flew out of my mouth.
    Bottom Line: Mom is just scared. She's not the asshole. I'm the asshole.
    While I was yelling at Mom, Pamela was in with Dad, quietly singing to him.
    Now, the fight is over. Pamela’s on the front porch swing. Mom’s at the kitchen sink, crying. I feel like shit.
    I go into see Dad who hasn't been awake since yesterday.
    "Dad, I'm sorry," I say to the unconscious man, "I'm trying to get along with your wife but it is hard. I'm trying. Really, I am. Again, I'm so sorry, Dad."
    I go out to the kitchen.
    "Mom, I'm sorry."
    "Just leave me alone, OK?" she says through her tears.
    I touch her shoulder. She cowers away. I remove my hand and take a step back.
    "I'm really sorry, Mom."
    She doesn't say anything. She just turns and walks away.
    I can't feel any guiltier for yelling at Mom. I've been keeping my powder dry for the last month, ever since I arrived to be with Dad as he dies, to be part of this odd makeshift hospice group of my mother, my sister and I. But the keg finally blew tonight.
    I go out on the porch and talk with Pamela for a while. She suggests I yell at her instead. I know she’s trying to help. It doesn’t
    A couple of hours pass.
    It's quiet at the River house now. Mom has gone into the bedroom to lay beside her husband. I'm back out with my sister on the front porch. We're just talking small talk now, smoking cigarettes.
    Then Mary comes out to the porch.
    "He's gone" she says, "It was so beautiful. He just stopped breathing. So quiet. So peaceful."
    "Are you sure?" I say.    
    [My first thought is pure selfishness. ‘Oh, Dad, not tonight. Don't die tonight. Not after I've had a big fight with your wife.' Now who is trying to control how Dad dies?]
    We all go into the bedroom. Not much different than other times, but it appears Dad isn't breathing at all. I place my hand under his nose and feel some air coming out.
    "Mom, I think he's still breathing"
    "He's gone," she says.
    I bend down closer to him and realize that his skin is beginning to change color. I ask for a mirror and put it under his nose. Nothing. He's getting whiter. I then know he’s dead.
    "Remember Stu, what you said? That we need to open the window to let the soul out?" Mary says.
    "I'll do it" says Pamela.
    I said this Window/Soul thing over a dozen years ago. It was just a bit of conversation. I think I was reading about Navajo Spirituality at the time. I don't really think Dad's soul will get trapped in this house, but I say nothing as Pamela opens one of the windows. Then I open a window just so they think I'm being compliant. I'm really in shock right now. Dad's dead. My Dad is dead.
    Mom then says it's time to dress Stuart. I've been dreading this moment since the day Mom told me that she wanted Pamela and I to help her dress Stuart in his favorite shirt and kakei pants after he dies. I thought it would be difficult to manhandle the old man, both physically and emotionally. But after being such a jerk tonight, I'm going to go along with whatever Mom says.
    Pamela is at Dad's head. Mary and I are on either side. We take off his nightshirt and make him naked. We grab his pants and pull them on him. We have to pull hard to get them to his waist.
    And at that moment, it all feels completely right. We are performing a ritual that has been done for centuries: The dressing of a dead loved one for his passage to the other side.       
    Pamela holds Stuart's head and we pull him up into a sitting position and put on his favorite plaid Dockers shirt, the one with the turquoise checks. We gently lay him back down. Mom buckles his belt. I'm standing next to Dad holding his hand. It’s cold and slack. A lifeless hand, but still my Daddy's hand. Mom leaves the room to call the minister, the nurse and the undertakers. Pamela stays a bit longer, then she leaves too.       
    Then it’s just Dad and I.
    I whisper to his body.
    "I'm so sorry Dad about getting into a fight with Mom. I'm so so sorry. If I could go back in time....." I trail off. I can't talk through my tears.
    Scott, the priest at St. Mary's Whitechapel is the first to arrive. The nurse and her husband are next. The undertakers have to come from Richmond so It'll be an hour plus before they get here. It's after midnight now. Dad died a little after 11. Everyone except me is on the screened-in porch making small talk. I was there for a minute or two but it felt a little disrespectful somehow. I kept thinking 'My father is dead in the other room and we're talking about the weather?' I seem to be going back into Dad's bedroom a lot, holding his hand, watching him change color from red to pink to white. I can't help but wonder if he's really dead. It's hard for me to wrap my head around the idea that Dad is truly gone. I hold his cold hand again. The undertakers will soon be here. I'll only have a few more opportunities to touch my father.
    I want to hold his hand forever.
    I'm in the kitchen getting a soda when the nurse comes up and says:
    "Stu, are you planning on being in the room when they take your Dad out on a stretcher?"
    "I might," I say.
    "I would really suggest you not be there for that. All you'll remember is seeing him put into the bag. That memory will overshadow all the rest. You may want to go upstairs or go outside when they do that."
Pamela walks in on the conversation and is getting the gist.
    "I'll go up stairs," she says.
    "I'm going to the pier," I say.
    The next hour is so weird. More small talk on the porch, but I can't hang there. I drift back to the bedroom to hold Dad's hand, then outside to have a smoke, to back to his bedside. At one point, the nurse's husband comes up and talks with me. I don't have a clue what he said.
    Finally at around 1:30 a.m., a black hearse comes up the drive and two men enter our kitchen. One is a very skinny man, in a huge black suit, that fits him like a tent. Next to him is large fat man with a small black suit, that fits him like a child's hand-me-down that’s two sizes too small. Wait a minute. They seem to have on the exact same size black jacket, the one-size-fits-all-undertaker's-jacket. When did I enter a David Lynch movie? When will the midget appear? Is Dali going to walk through that door?    
    The skinny man holds his hands together in that earnest sort of way. The fat one just stands there. They talk with the nurse and Mom for a bit and then go outside to the hearse to get the stretcher. I take this as my time to exit stage right, for the pier. I grab the cordless phone as I leave the house.
    Out on the pier, I call Annie to tell her that Dad's dead. I already talked with her earlier about the big fight with Mom. Annie's trying to help me not feel so guilty about it all. God bless her, but her words give me little comfort.
    "I feel so guilty about the fight," I say, "I wish Dad had died tomorrow instead"
    "I know, Sweetie." she says.
    Ironic that I have been so critical of Mom for wanting Dad to die on her schedule, and now, on the pier, that's exactly what I'm wishing I could do. Have Dad die a day after I'd been a jerk, so I can feel better.
    I talk with Annie a bit more, saying I'll call her tomorrow. I also asked her if she would call Len and Virginia (My mother's sister and brother-in-law in Tucson). That would be great, I add. And check on plane tickets for you and Len to come to the funeral.
    "You are coming, aren't you?" I ask.   
    "Of course," She says.
    "I really need you, honey."
    I'm back up at the house now. The undertakers are gone. So are the nurse and her husband. Scott the priest is still here. Pamela is nowhere to be seen. I tell Mom I'm going back to the pier. So glad that Scott is here. Mary loves Scott. She seems OK too, considering she’s lost the love of her life.
    I walk the couple-hundred-feet again to the pier, this time with my Dad's old Marine Corps blanket and the phone again. I call Michael, and tell him about Dad's dying. He's great as ever. We talk for a half hour and then I hang up and put the phone down.
    I've barely noticed the weather these past few hours but I sure do now. The wind has really picked up. Must be a storm in the Bay or a front moving in. The river is choppy. The wind howls.
    I then begin to talk to my Dad. The wind swallows my words but that's alright. I'm sitting on a step at the far end of the pier, looking out into the dark Rappahannock River.
    "Dad, I'm so sorry," I say to the wind.
    "I'm really sorry about yelling at Mom. Please forgive me. Please forgive me. Please." I just keep crying harder. I don't speak for a while. I just cry.
    Then I feel a presence. I don't trust it at first, but then I know it's him. I swear. It's Stuart.
    He then sits down beside me on the steps of the pier and put his arm around me. I could feel the light pressure of his hand on my shoulder. And I swear to God I hear him speak.
    "I forgive you, son."
    "You do?"
    "I do."
    "I'm sorry."
    "I know."
    "I love you, Dad."
    "Me too, honey," he says.
    I just sit there at the end of the pier with my Dad for a long time. I'm wrapped up in an old blanket. I feel his weight against my shoulder. I cry a lot. He doesn't say much more than he already has. I feel his love. I hope he feels mine.
 


February 19, 2008

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Twelve: "Grass, Graves and Fire: St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, Lively, Virginia"

Whitechapellively7
Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Twelve:

"Grass, Graves and Fire: St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, Lively, Virginia" © 2000, 2008

    Dad's cancer has shrunk but hasn't gone away. After almost two years of awful chemotherapy, we are pretty much where we started: that Dad has a bad lymphoma and he's probably going to die.
    I was up in New York City for a few days shooting and attending a friend's wedding. [Major emotional highlights were the Klezmer band at Craig and Barbara's reception; the delightful and generous devotees at the Hare Krishna Bed and Breakfast in the Lower East Side; and the many Monet haystacks at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.] I've just come down to Virginia for a brief visit with the folks, before flying back to Arizona.
    It's good and not-so-good to see Dad. I always experience some sort of internal emotional bugaboo when I'm hanging around my mother and father. All of us Jenks' are judgmental (this is good, that is bad, blah, blah, blah) but my mother and father have it down to an art form. Dad's mockingly sarcastic laughter at my going to their church tonight to shoot is just one example. Mom's subtle shaming sighs of disapproval are another. God love 'em, or to Hell with 'em. See what I mean? I inherited the virus too.
    Within twenty minutes, I’ve parked my rental truck in a gravel parking lot of their church.
    My parents' church, St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, is just down the road near the little town of Lively, Virginia. Lively is actually just a crossroads, with a drug store, a post office, and a bar called 'The Corner' that serves pretty good shrimp and really great hamburgers. The church is a few miles south of Lively at an even smaller crossroads. The church is the only thing at the corner of routes 201 and 354. It's a very small chapel that has been there since 1669. It thrived during Colonial Times, was vacant and abandoned for fifty years during Antidisestablishmentarian Times (when the Church of England was shunned by most new Americans after the Revolutionary War), was reborn in the 19th century, and is now an historic financially well-endowed little church in the middle of nowhere in Virginia.   
    There's no moon tonight but there’s plenty of good light shining in the graveyard that comes from a strong streetlight near the back of the church. The church’s sexton has apparently cut the grass today. What a delightful surprise. Large amounts of cut grass are scattered all around. I guess he didn't have a grass catcher. My good fortune. I walk around the cemetery looking for just the right stone, just the right light and find the stone and the light pretty quick. The smell of the grass is strong and pungent. We just don't have grass like this in Tucson.   
    I make a circle of cut grass on a tombstone. I look and find the angle, set up my Rollei, and practice making circles with my Zippo. I get the hang of it after a few minutes. I stop and take in the space: The ancient Oak trees that surround me; the graves of wealthy Colonial Virginia planters; the monuments of  a  movie star or two. 
    I think I know what I'm going to do. I open the shutter and enter the frame and begin to paint a flame circle above the grass. Cicadas sing loudly from the surrounding woods. I close the Zippo, and then go for a walk in the cemetery. This is going to have to be a long exposure. Probably a half hour or more. It's a strong streetlight but it give off less light that you think.
    Up the hill, I visit the four plots for the Jenks Family. No markers or graves yet. Two huge Oak trees grow just north of the plots. I won't mind having my ashes here some day. I walk some more. I walk to my rental truck to check the time. Fifteen minutes have gone by. I throw in a Peter Gabriel CD and light a smoke. After 25 minutes, I get out of the car, and return the grass circle. I close the shutter and repeat the process all over again. I paint a flame circle, walk about the graves, think about my Dad, and think about Death. Sometimes I don't think about anything at all.
    I didn't think about Death much until my Dad got sick, but I sure do now. I believe in some sort of Soul Survival, be it heaven or just a part of a big ocean of souls. I don't know, but I'm not scared of that. Actually looking forward to it, in some small way. Ok, maybe a little anxious but not bad. But I'm in my mid-40's, still thinking that my death is a good thirty years away. But being around Dad, who seems to be getting sicker and sicker, seems to be dying more than living, and this taking-for-granted-that-I'll-surely-live-a-long-time is leaving me a bit each day. When they found his cancer, it was no bigger than a pencil point. They cut it out, but it came right back, even larger. So they cut it out again, and that just made it mad and it spread like a weed. To his lymph nodes. To his lungs. All over. Now it's filled most of his left lung, all in a year or two. And if he hadn't taken the Agent Orange Chemo, he would have been dead months ago.
    It could happen to me, to you, to anyone. Cancer, that is. And Death is surely going to come to all us someday.
    But again, it's not Death or Heaven that I'm scared of. It's living an unfulfilled life, here on Planet Earth, of wasting the time I have, of not risking greater happiness or larger service to others, of not fully loving those who I love and not fully receiving the love they give, of not forgiving myself when I truly fall short of the mark, of not applauding myself when I get it right. That's what really terrifies me, that at perhaps age 77, I'll look back at my life with deep regret, knowing I should have eaten more ice cream, should have forgiven that friend, should have loved the imperfect Stu just a little bit more.
    Then again, I could die tonight, by accidentally hitting a deer with my truck on the way back to The River House, and avoid this imaginary-unhappy-old-me all together.
    Nah. That won't happen.
    I guess I'm going to have to eat more butter pecan, forgive Rocco, and love Stu more.
    Damn.


February 17, 2008

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Ten: “Altar of Repose, Maundy Thursday, Tucson, Arizona”

Altarofrepose5
Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Ten: “Altar of Repose, Maundy Thursday, Tucson, Arizona” © 2000, 2008


    The Altar has been stripped. The crosses in the sanctuary are all draped in black cloth. The choir chairs are now stored in a closet somewhere. The church is dark. It's 2:00 a.m. on Good Friday and it's my watch. The woman I relieved has just left. My camera and tripod are in a pew, and I'm standing in a side chapel at the back of Grace St. Paul's Episcopal Church. I have an hour to pray and shoot. Better get to it.
    I was here earlier tonight for the Maundy Thursday service. Some Christians live for Easter, or for Christmas. I live for Maundy Thursday, the most meditative service in the Episcopal liturgy. We arrived in the evening and heard the story of the Last Supper, of how Jesus told his disciples that they should love everyone, serve many, and be humble to all. The story goes that after bread and wine, Jesus washes the feet of his followers. Symbolically, the congregation of Grace St. Paul's washed each other's feet. Back in the day, the priest used to wash all of the feet of the parishioners, he being Christ, we being the disciples. I preferred the old way. Now, first I'm Jesus, then I'm a disciple, and we now only wash one foot per person, which seems just down right silly to me. Both feet or none at all, I say. But I'm just an artist, a mystic, an odd duck, who comes to the church of my birth infrequently. I really shouldn't criticize them. The Washing of One Foot is about as experiential as most Episcopalians get. They are doing the best they can, but sometimes I do wish that I had been born Black Southern Baptist. Now those folk know how to raise the roof for Christ.
    Sometimes I think the reason I like Maundy Thursday so much is simply because of an experience I had as a child. Mom took me to the Maundy Thursday service at Zion Episcopal Church in Upstate New York in the early 1960's. I guess I was around seven. After the foot washing and the communion and the stripping of the altar, they turned off all the lights, and then they rolled in this cannon. Yes, a cannon like the one they shoot off at football games when the home team scores a touchdown. Well, they rolled in a this cannon, pointed it right up the center isle, and shot it off. KA-BOOM. As a seven year old, I thought that was the neatest thing. Usually I had to be quiet in church, but that night they are shooting off fireworks. Neat-O.
    No cannons at Grace St. Paul's tonight. Strong incense but no cannon. Pity.
    Tonight, after we had delivered the host to the Altar of Repose in the side chapel, we were instructed to leave the church silently. No coffee hour. No shaking of the priest's hand. Just go thoughtfully and quietly to your car and go home.
    But for the hard core among the faithful, there is the Watch of Gethsemane.
    As soon as tonight’s service ends, someone will be praying in the side chapel until Noon on Good Friday. This is the Watch of Gethsemane, the pulling-an-all-nighter-for-Christ.
    On the night prior to being arrested, Jesus went to a Garden at Gethsemane to pray and he asked his disciples to come and pray with him. They came to the garden but they soon feel asleep. This made Christ mad. Then the Romans came, the boys woke up, ears are flying off of people, ears are being miraculously reattached back onto people, Jesus is dragged away by the Romans, and Christ had one hell of a bad day on Friday. You know the story. But before the Romans came, Christ prayed and really wished his disciples had stayed awake. So, today, modern Anglicans, stay awake too. Well, sort of. At least some of use lose a little sleep on the night before Good Friday.
    I'm here at two in the morning for a number of reasons:
    1)   I love being in the church alone, late at night and this is the only time I have the chance to do that.
    2)   I like praying and meditating in general. (I pray all the time.)
    And 3)   I’ve got a photograph in mind.
    I turn from the large sanctuary and enter the tiny side chapel. It's so beautiful, with many white candles lit all around and white lace meticulously hung on all the windows and walls. A one-person kneeler is positioned in front of the small altar that holds the bread and the wine, the Host. I close my eyes, then open them, then close them again. I can see it in my mind’s eye. I know what to do.
    I go and get my Rollei and tripod and set them up and compose the shot. Focus 2/3 back. Set the f-stop to 5.6. Get out the Zippo. There is a ton of light here. Half a minute exposure time tops. I open the Zippo and go to work. I flick the flint. I make a spiral. I snap the Zippo shut with a loud clack. I repeat the process. Once, twice, six more times. Time becomes timeless as it does sometimes when I'm shooting. Not always, but it is tonight. I take a deep breathe and close my eyes after the seventh exposure.
    "You have a shot," says The Small Voice Within.
    I pray the voice is right.
    I'll take it on faith.
    I open my eyes
    I still have to pray and experience the wondrous dark of the church before the next Watcher arrives at three. I quickly pack up the Rollei and the tripod and place them to a pew, outside of the side chapel. I slowly walk around the sanctuary. Down the center aisle. Up by the pipe organ. Around the main altar. Back down a side aisle. I breathe it in again and again.
    I return to the side chapel and the Altar of Repose. It’s got to be close to an hour now. Time to do a formal prayer. I kneel on the single kneeler, close my eyes, lazily clasp my hands, and pray.
    I pray for my ancestors. I pray for my mother and father. My sister, too. I pray for Annie and all the past women in my life. I pray for the recovering addicts and alcoholics, newcomers and old-timers alike. I pray for friends, near and far. I pray for the healing of strangers and the healing of loved ones. I pray for healing for myself. I pray for the best possible outcome for everyone. I pray with words. I pray with no words at all.
    My eyes open after a time and I see the Altar of Repose above me, with its crystal white light and its sheer white lace. I smile.
    "And God," I say quietly aloud, "Thanks for guiding my hand and my mind tonight, so I didn't catch the lace on fire." I chuckle. “That would be a bad thing.”
    I then hear a soft knock on the outside door to the church.
    Must be the three o'clock shift.

January 29, 2008

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Four: "Ancestors' Circle, Arizona"

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Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks


Chapter Four: “Ancestors' Circle, Arizona”
(c) 1999, 2008

    A postcard with an image of The Ikon printed on it, is mailed to a friend in Prescott, Arizona, who then puts the postcard on his refrigerator door. Steve Roach visits this mutual friend, sees The Ikon, and excitedly says ‘That’s the image for my next album.’ Steve then shoots me an e-mail. A few weeks later, I’m sitting in his studio, east of Tucson, talking about his new album, and about how much he likes The Ikon. Steve also wonders if would I like to shoot some flame spirals in his back yard. Being a fan of Steve’s for years, I’m trying to be cool, but it’s very hard. I’m talking way too much. (Hush, Stu, Hush!) I see a row of a half dozen brightly painted didgeridoos leaning against his studio wall. (Holy Christ.) As calm as I can, I say “Sure, Steve. I'd love to come and shoot.’
    At the next Full Moon, I’m in Steve’s backyard, with my Rollei and my Zippo. He has this circle of Anasazi pot shards in his back yard that faces the Catalinas. His next door neighbor, an retired archeologist at the University of Arizona, gave him the shards and Steve has made a five foot diameter circle out of the old pieces. I draw a spiral in the dirt and procede to light-paint the night away in the soft moonlight. The music from the newly mixed tracks of “Atmospheric Conditions” is playing from these little waterproof speakers Steve has hanging from his porch roof. I shot a roll of 12, often thinking it doesn’t get much better than this.
    “Ancestors’ Circle” is on the back cover of the Steve’s CD “Atmospheric Conditions”. The Ikon is on the front. Steve and I have lost touch over the years, but I hear he lives with his wife on horse property near Sonoita, Arizona and I bet he's recording a new piece even as we speak. Bottom line: It just goes to show, send a postcard into the world, and you never know what opportunities will fly back at you.

November 27, 2007

"The Right Prayer Bundles" (c) 2007

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"The Right Prayer Bundles, Bear Butte State Park, South Dakota" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

November 24, 2007

"Stuart Circle, Richmond, Virginia" (c) 1999

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"Stuart Circle, Richmond, Virginia" (c) 1999, 2007 Stu Jenks

[From Judith Dupre's book "Monuments", Random House, 2007]

       Off to my left is Stuart Circle Hospital. Inside are my father Stuart and my mother Mary. Dad may be dying.
       Dad is an ex-Marine who voted for Nixon three times and I'm an artist who voted for McGovern. But he has always told me that he loved me. Told me he loved me just a few minutes ago when I left the hospital for the night.
       The hospital is south of me, out of the frame. My Rollei is set up, pointing toward the monument of J.E.B. Stuart, at the far eastern end of Monument Avenue. I line up the shot, with the flood lit Presbyterian Church on the left, J.E.B. on the right and the circular traffic in the foreground. People are taking their time going around the circle. Richmond is a Southern city. Still wonderfully slow at times.
       I cock the shutter and wait. Waiting for the right set of cars to approach. The exposure will be only for a few seconds. There's a car at the light. I open the shutter. The car slowly rounds the statue and leaves the circle. Then another car, and another. I wait, counting seconds in my head. I close the shutter. I do this for a few more exposures, but soon stop. My heart isn't in it tonight.
       I walk to the rental truck, throw my Rollei and tripod into the back seat and drive around J.E.B. Stuart myself, listening to Emmylou Harris singing about losing love, missing Elvis, and living life, even as it fades away.
       I really wish Dad wasn't dying. I cry hard without making a sound.

       - Stu Jenks' recollection of taking this photograph, 1999, of J.E.B. Stuart monument.

November 06, 2007

"The All Souls' Procession" or "Do We Really Need More Cameras In The World?" © 2007

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"The All Souls' Procession" or "Do We Really Need More Cameras In The World?" © 2007 Stu Jenks

 

 

            Like how ingesting hallucinogens makes boring things interesting but conversely, how Acid tends to destroy the magic of a naturally ecstatic experience, so was having a camera with me at the All Souls' Procession like smoking a joint in church. I got a few images that I like but I took 300. (And unfortunately I had an operator/camera problem, when, at some point, I knocked my viewfinder focuser, so when I thought I was manually focusing things sharp I was actually manually focusing things soft.) And after seeing the clusterfuck of other photographers and videographers, both professional and amateur in and around the Procession, it made me want to do as The Firesign Theatre instructed me to do 30 years ago, which was to 'cut off the soles of my shoes, climb a tree and learn to play the flute.' Or at least retreat to my studio and play my mandolin for nights on end.

            OK, OK. I'll take my late father's advice and wrap my critique with positive statements, fore and aft.

The energy was phenomenal on Sunday night. I'm a pretty grounded metaphysical guy but there were definitely more that just the 15,000 living souls that marched from Fourth Avenue to the Stone Avenue Docks. I felt the presences of many spirits, first at the Docks at dusk while talking with Paul and Jefe, and later as I walked with the Seven Pipers bagpipe band. It was like a good fantasy and science fiction movie, with the spirits of ancestors, loved ones and even pets, flying lovingly overhead and throughout the crowd. I kid you not, and I was as sober as a deacon.

The organizers, performers, and volunteers were very charming, competent, and ever-professional, providing space, safety and spiritual artistry for all of us. They gave the throngs a great gift that night. Most of the other photographers like myself who had all access passes, were courteous and unselfish. Almost all of the walkers were devout, centered, and focused on honoring the Dead, both personal and universal. And many of the spectators who lined the route were appreciative and in awe.

That said:

Do we really need any more fucking cameras or photographers in the world?

Photographers from the crowd, both hobbyist and serious pros, were jumping into the devout, putting a camera in their faces, hitting them with the strong flash. They might as well as been hitting us in the head with baseball bats. Cellphone cameras, Point and Shooter and SLRs were popping all of us walkers with bright repeated light as if we were Paris Hilton coming out of a bar. Early on, I took some images of the Urn and I was guilty as well, of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I was politely told to move by one of the organizers and I felt appropriate ashamed and got the fuck out of their way. I didn't use a flash all night but just cranked up the speed to 1600 and shot with a wide-open aperture. Soon after the procession began, I faded away from the front and drift back toward the Pipes. I took a dozen shots with the pipers but mostly I just cried and misted up a lot while they played Amazing Grace or Scotland The Brave or any number of jigs. I had to seriously hold back from quaking when they played one particular reel.

            But the cameras! Sweet Jesus Christ Almighty! It was just too fucking much.

            I got to the Docks where the finale took place a little early and stood backstage for 30 minutes before the fire, the spinning, the dancing and the drumming began. I saw friends old and new who are pro photographers and they were very respectful and professional taking their shots and aware of the sacredness of the moment. I felt a bit shy myself, in my camo-kilt, not wanting to up stage anything at all, not wanted to be in the way of anyone. I think I succeeded in that. I was also aware of the other photographers, not wanting to be in each others' shots. I took around 200 images total at the docks and got about five good ones (Remember the focusing problem?), but now I wish I had taken much less. I was drawn into the drum-pounding, fire-spinning, soul-swirling moment often, but I would quickly pull my self out of the stream to shoot an image, and then it took a number of minutes for me to get back in the Soul Flow.

Having great backstage access comes with the responsibility and expectation of being courteous, patient and mature, and I was, up until a moment near the end, where I slightly lost my shit.

            One of the videographers there, wasn't really a jerk but he did seem to feel like he was the most important person on stage. During the performances, he seem to have his apparent need to ALWAYS be close to the action, hence he was ALWAYS in my shots. ALWAYS! I was just an annoyance for a while, for I could mostly shoot around him, but after his large black form moved into shot #35, I got pissed. First I just shook my head, and let it go. Then I rechurned the anger, thinking about how he might be fucking it up for those who are just trying to watch the performance, to see, unobstructed, the beautiful men and women hold the fire, or the large troupe of drummers playing their hearts out or the mysterious Poi People spinning fire. If he could fly, he would have been up with the women and the balloons. But I mostly let it go.

Then the last straw came.

            It was the grand finale, the Burning of the Urn. The Horned Man, who had pulled the Urn through the entire parade route, walked to in front of the scaffolding where the Urn was hovering thirty feet above the ground. A crane truck held the Urn, waiting to raise it high in the sky. Helpers light the Spiral that surrounded the scaffolding. The Spiral exploded into flame. The flames rose to ignite The Urn. The Horned Man stood guard alone in front. Anticipation was high. The crowd began to cheer. It was an amazing thing to see. I popped a shot from 30 yards away. Too early. I waited for the moment. The moment came. I pushed the shutter and then I saw him. The Videographer In Black, near the scaffolding, in my shot, in everyone's shot. A visual turd on the scene, at the climax. I waited for him to leave but he didn't. He just kept shooting tape. I took the camera down from my eye. I mumbled Mother Fuck. And I then yelled six words in his direction, knowing full well that it was too noisy for him to hear, with the Big Drums playing just behind me. But I yelled it anyway.

            "Get the fuck out of my shot!

            He didn't hear. I didn't really yell that loud. I shook my head. It just felt good to say it. I put my 30D in my eye and waited. Finally, he left the shot and I got mine.

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            I saw the visual greed of photography that night. I do it too some times, caught in the moment, forgetting there are other people, other things more important than a goddamn photograph. And we don't 'shoot photos' anymore in the digital age. We 'capture images'. And those verbs, 'shoot' and 'capture' denote a certain level of violation and violence. Whether we trap and hunt things with cameras, is it still right? Is it really necessary to have a record to show your friends? Isn't it ego for many of us? 'Are you jealous? Look what you missed last night,' we think as we shot the back of our camera to a friend. Again, I salivate like the next photog over getting a great image but I do try and be respectful of other people, of other photographers, and of other cultures (even though an anonymous Cheyenne recently flamed me on my blog about taking pictures of prayer bundles at Bear Butte, who probably wouldn't agree with my self-assessment.)

            It's no wonder I got out alone in the desert, night and day, and take pictures of hoops, spirals, and The Moon, of rocks, sky and prayers. I'm just uncomfortable today with the great invasion of photography in America. Another example, if you ask me, of the general lack of boundaries by White People and of a systemic country-wide Narcissism.

            I've said for years that I'm not really a photographer but just an artist who uses a camera. Now I'm having doubts about being an artist using a camera at all. I remember a photography teacher I had at Pima, who quit her job and went to medical school, asking 'Do we really need another photograph in the world?' and that was in 1997 before everyone had a cell phone camera. That tree and that flute of The Firesigns looks mighty appealing. The new mandolin on my horizon looks even sweeter.

            I questioned myself. 'Am I depressed or something?' I don't think so. I think I'm just grieving the loss of a culture of courtesy and kindness. And I'm just trying to find a way to bring a little light to a dark world, in my Art and Music, in spite of it all. It's just seems to be getting harder to find Softness, Innocence, Truth, and Beauty these days. Guess I'll just have to continue to make my own.

            So please don't see me as being overly critical of the All Souls' Procession and of all photographers. Anything but. Just one or two or two hundred assholes in the bunch and it makes everyone look bad. I'm sure for every rude photographer along the parade route who jumped in front of me to shot the face of a piper, there were ten on the curb who shot from over there, or who just took a good picture with just their eyes. The drummers on Sunday (and there were many in the Procession) pounded their beats loud, strong and passionate. The dancers swayed with great grace and skill. The Poi spinners made big circles of fire that all the ghosts loved. The human 'Beasts of Burden' were witnesses for us all. The acrobat suspended from the balloons flew like the angel she was. And most of all, the walkers with their huge paper mache heads, their floats shaped like dogs, their big black hats, their painted white face and black eyes, their glowing hula hoops, their bikes like horses, their camouflage kilts, their wedding dresses, their street clothes....all of them brought a joy, sadness, and reverence to Tucson's Long Dance For The Dead. And God bless them all for that.

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            [My Dad died six years ago and I miss him. A couple years ago I gave Adam a jpeg of a photo of my grandfather Earl, who I never knew, and I saw Earl projected large on a big screen at the Docks that night, along with hundreds of other images of the deceased. Thanks, Adam. Maybe next year I'll give you a photo of my father Stuart.

My Scottish ancestors were forced to leave Inverness in the 1770's during the time of the cruel Highland Clearances and I'm sad about that. That's why I wear the kilt and my Clan McLean tartan at All Soul's. Just in case you're wondering.

And I'm grateful to the men and women who made love before me, who eventually made my parents, who eventually made me.

            Finally I love you, Dad. Hope you had a good time on Sunday. All of the living sure did.]

 

 

 

 

November 04, 2007

"The Life of Sweet Medicine" (c) 2007

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"The Life of Sweet Medicine" © 2007 Stu Jenks & the Strange Owl Family

 

Below is an account of the life of Sweet Medicine. A plaque at the base of the mountain mentioned that Bear Butte (called Noavosse, the Good Mountain by the Cheyenne) was where the Cheyenne holy man and folk hero came to get the bundle of the Four Arrows, the Four Commandments and also left with a moral code. Sort of like Moses going to Mount Sinai. (Fun Archaeological Fact: The Cheyenne are believed to initially have been an Algonquin-related tribe in what is now New York and New England. Then they moved to modern day Minnesota and finally to the Northwest Great Plains.) I couldn't find much on what was the specific moral code that Sweet Medicine brought down but his story is very interesting. Tales of miracles, and immaculate conceptions and immortality. Sort of like a cross between Buddha, Moses and Jesus, but not. Dramatically shows the universality of the Hero Story that is told among all people.

My heart really goes out to the Cheyenne in particular. History shows pretty clearly that numerous times, many Cheyenne chiefs and holy men petitioned the Federal Government during the time of the Indian Wars, to stop all of the bloodshed and killing. Just let us have some land, some places to hunt and we'll leave the white man alone and you, us. Other tribal leaders and people like some of the Apaches and Lakotas fought to the end. Nothing wrong with that. But I identify more with the Cheyenne, personally. I think I would have tried to negotiate a lasting peace, rather than keep on fighting. But hell if I know. I'm a white 20th Century Man from the suburbs. Time and again, the U.S. Army ignored their overtures and simply killed them, men, women, children. I know it was a long time ago, but it still breaks my heart.

Finally, here are some more of my Bear Butte shots. You may have noticed in the last post, that I wasn't very specific about what and who was prayed for, by me, on top of that peak. Some things need to stay private. In a future post, you'll also find that true of my experience at the holy ground of Devil's Tower. I'll show but I won't tell too much. However at Little Big Horn, they will be an exception.

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The Life and Death of Sweet Medicine

(Told by members of the Strange Owl family on the Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation, Montana, 1967, recorded by Richard Erdoes) 

A long time ago the people had no laws, no rules of behavior- they hardly knew enough to survive. And they did shameful things out of ignorance, because they didn't understand how to live.

There was one man among them who had a natural sense of what was right. He and his wife were good, hard- working people, a family to be proud of. They knew how to feel ashamed, and this feeling kept them from doing wrong.

Their only child was a daughter, beautiful and modest, who had reached the age when girls begin to think about husbands and making a family. One night a man's voice spoke to her in a dream. "You are handsome and strong, modest and young. Therefore Sweet Root will visit you."

Dismissing it as just a dream, the girl went cheerfully about her chores the next day. On the following night, however, she heard the voice again: "Sweet Root is coming- woman's medicine which makes a mother's milk flow. Sweet Root is coming as a man comes courting."

The girl puzzled over the words when she awoke, but in the end shrugged her shoulders. People can't control their dreams, she thought, and the idea of a visit from a medicine root didn't make any sense.

On the third night the dream recurred, and this time it was so real that a figure seemed to be standing beside the buffalo robe she slept on. He was talking to her, telling her: "Sweet Root is coming; he is very near. Soon he will be with you."

On the fourth night she heard the same voice and saw the same figure. Disturbed, she told her mother about it the next morning. "There must be something in it," she said. "It's so real and the voice is so much like a man's voice."

"No, its just a dream," her mother said. "It doesn't mean anything."

But from that time on, the girl felt different. Something was stirring, growing within her, and after a few months, her condition became obvious: she was going to have a baby. She told her parents that no man had touched her, and they believed her. But others would not be likely to, and the girl hid her condition. When she felt the birth pangs coming on, she went out into the prairie far from the camp and built herself a brush shelter. Doing everything herself, she gave birth to a baby boy. She dried the baby, wrapped him in soft moss, and left him there in the wickiup, for in her village a baby without a father would be scorned and treated badly. Praying that someone would find him, she went sadly home to her parents.

At about the same time, an old woman was out searching the prairie for wild turnips, which she dug up with an animal's shoulder blade. She heard crying, and following the sound, came to the wickiup. She was overjoyed to find the baby, as she had never had one of her own. All around the brush shelter grew the sweet root which makes a mother's milk flow; so she named the boy Sweet Medicine. She took him home to her shabby tipi even though she had nothing to offer him but love.

In the tipi next to the old woman's lived a young mother who was nursing a small child, and she agreed to nurse Sweet Medicine also. He grew faster and learned faster than ordinary children and was weaned in no time. When he was only ten years old, he had already grown-up wisdom and hunting skill far in advance of his age. But because he had no family and lived at the edge of the camp in a poor tipi, no one paid any attention to Sweet Medicine's exceptional powers.

That year there was a drought, very little game, and much hunger in the village. "Grandmother," he told her, "find me an old buffalo hide- any dried out, chewed up scrap with holes in it will do."

The woman searched among the refuse piles and found a wrinkled, brittle piece that the starving dogs had been chewing on. When she brought it to Sweet Medicine, he told her, "Take this to the stream outside the camp, wash it in the flowing water, make it pliable, and scrape it clean." After she had done this Sweet Medicine took a willow wand and bent it into a hoop, which he colored with sacred red earth paint. He cut the buffalo hide into one long string and wove it back and forth over the hoop, making a kind of net with an opening in the center. Then he cut four wild cherry sticks, sharpened them to a point, and hardened them in the hearth fire.

The next morning he said: "Grandmother, come with me. We're going to play the hoop-and-stick game." He took the hoop and the cherry-wood sticks and walked into the middle of the camp circle. "Grandmother, roll this hoop for me," he said. She rolled the hoop along the ground and Sweet Medicine hurled his pointed sticks through the center of it, hitting the right spot every time. Soon a lot of people, men and women, boys and girls, came to watch the strange new game.

Then Sweet Medicine cried: "Grandmother, let me hit it once more and make the hoop turn into a fat buffalo calf!"

Again he threw his stick like a dart, again the stick went through the center of the hoop, and as it did so the hoop turned into a fat, yellow buffalo calf. The stick had pierced its heart, and the calf fell down dead. "Now you people will have plenty to eat," said Sweet Medicine. "Come and butcher this calf."

The people gathered and roasted chunks of tender calf meat over their fires. And no matter how many pieces of flesh they cut from the calf's body, it was never picked clean. However much they ate, there was always more. So the people had their fill, and that was the end of the famine. It was also the first hoop-and-stick game played among the Cheyenne. This sacred game has much power attached to it, and it is still being played.

A boy's first kill is an important happening in his life, something he will always remember. After killing his first buffalo a boy will be honored by his father, who may hold a feast for him and give him a man's name. There would be no such feast for Sweet Medicine; all the same, he was very happy when he killed a fat, yellow calf on his first hunt. He was skinning and butchering it when he was approached by an elderly man, a chief too old to do much hunting, but still harsh and commanding. "This is just the kind of hide I have been looking for," said the chief. "I will take it."

"You can't have a boy's first hide," said Sweet Medicine. "Surely you must know this. But you are welcome to half of the meat, because I honor old age."

The chief took the meat but grabbed the hide too, and began to walk off with it. Sweet Medicine took hold of one end, and they started a tug-of-war. The chief used his riding whip on Sweet Medicine, shouting: "How dare a poor nothing boy defy a chief?" As he whipped Sweet Medicine again and again across the face, the boy's fighting spirit was aroused. He grabbed a big buffalo leg bone and hit the old man over the head.

Some say Sweet Medicine killed that chief, others say the old man just fell down stunned. But in the village the people were angry that a mere boy had dared to fight the old chief. Some said, "Lets whip him," others said, "Lets kill him."

After he had returned to the old woman's lodge, Sweet Medicine sensed what was going on. He said: "Grandmother, some young men of the warrior societies will come here to kill me for having stood up for myself." He thanked her for her kindness to him and then fled from the village. Later when the young warriors came, they were so angry to find the boy gone that they pulled down the lodge and set fire to it.

The following morning someone saw Sweet Medicine, dressed as a Fox warrior, standing on a hill overlooking the village. His enemies set out in pursuit, but he was always just out of their reach and they finally retired exhausted. The next morning he appeared as an Elk warrior, carrying a crooked coupstick wrapped in otter skin. Again, they tried to catch him and kill him, and again he evaded them. They resumed their futile chase on the third morning, when he wore the red face paint and feathers of a Red Shield warrior, and on the fourth, when he dressed like a Dog soldier and shook a small red rattle tied with buffalo hair at his pursuers. On the fifth day he appeared in the full regalia of a Cheyenne chief. That made the village warriors angrier than ever, but they still couldn't catch him, and after that they saw him no more.

Wandering alone over the prairie, the boy heard a voice calling, leading him to a beautiful dark-forested land of many hills. Standing apart from the others was a single mountain shaped like a huge tipi: the sacred mountain called Bear Butte.

Sweet Medicine found a secret opening which has since been closed (or perhaps is visible to him alone) and entered the mountain. It was hollow inside like a tipi, forming a sacred lodge filled with people who looked like ordinary men and women, but were really powerful spirits.

"Grandson, come in, we have been expecting you," the holy people said, and when Sweet Medicine took his seat, they began teaching him the Cheyenne way to live so that he could return to the people and give them this knowledge.

First of all, the spirits gave him the sacred four arrows, saying, "This is the great gift we are handing you. With these wonderful arrows, the tribe will prosper. Two arrows are for war and two are for hunting. But there is much, much more to the four arrows. They have great powers. They contain rules by which men ought to live."

The spirit people taught Sweet Medicine how to pray to the arrows, how to keep them, how to renew them. They taught him the wise laws of the forty-four chiefs. They taught him how to set up rules for the warrior societies. They taught him how women should be honored. They taught him the many useful things by which people could live, survive, and prosper, things that people had not yet learned at that time. Finally they taught him how to make a special tipi in which the sacred arrows were to be kept. Sweet Medicine listened respectfully and learned well, and finally an old spirit man burned incense of sweet grass to purify both Sweet Medicine and the sacred arrow bundle. Then the Cheyenne boy put the holy bundle on his back and began the long journey home to his people.

During his absence there had been a famine in the land. The buffalo had gone into hiding, for they were angry that the people did not know how to live and were behaving badly. When Sweet Medicine arrived at the village, he found a group of tired and listless children, their ribs sticking out, who were playing with little buffalo figures they had made out of mud. Sweet Medicine immediately changed the figures into large chunks of juicy buffalo meat and fat. "Now there's enough for you to eat," he told the young ones, "with plenty left over for your parents and grandparents. Take the meat, fat, and tongues into the village, and tell two good young hunters to come out in the morning to meet me."

Though the children carried the message and two young hunters went out and looked everywhere for Sweet Medicine the next day, all they saw was a big eagle circling above them. They tried again on the second and third days with no success, but on the fourth morning they found Sweet Medicine standing on top of a hill overlooking the village. He told the two: "I have come bringing a wonderful gift from the Creator which the spirits inside the great medicine mountain have sent you. Tell the people to set up a big lodge in the center of the camp circle. Cover its floor with sage, and purify it with burning sweet grass. Tell everyone to go inside the tipi and stay there, no one must see me approaching."

When at last all was made ready, Sweet Medicine walked slowly toward the village and four times called out: "People of the Cheyenne, with a great power I am approaching. Be joyful. The sacred arrows I am bringing." He entered the tipi with the sacred arrow bundle and said: "You have not yet learned the right way to live. That is why the Ones above were angry and the buffalo went into hiding." The two young hunters lit the fire, and Sweet Medicine filled a deer-bone pipe with sacred tobacco. All night through, he taught the people what the spirits inside the holy mountain had taught him. These teachings established the way of the Tsistsistas, the true Cheyenne nation. Toward the morning, Sweet Medicine sang four sacred songs. After each song he smoked the pipe, and its holy breath ascended through the smoke hole up into the sky, up to the great mystery.

 

At daybreak, as the sun rose and the people emerged from the sacred arrow lodge, they found the prairie around them covered with buffalo. The spirits were no longer angry. The famine was over.

For many nights to come, Sweet Medicine instructed the people in the sacred laws. He lived among the Cheyenne for a long time and made them into a proud tribe respected throughout the plains.

Four lives the Creator had given him, but even Sweet Medicine was not immortal. Only the rocks and the mountains are forever. When he grew old and feeble and felt that the end of his appointed time was near, he directed the people to carry him to a place near the sacred Bear Butte. There they made a small hut for him out of cottonwood branches and cedar lodge poles covered with bark and leaves. They spread its floor with sage, flat cedar leaves, and fragrant grass. It was a good lodge to die in, and when they placed him before it, he addressed the people for the last time: