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April 04, 2008

"Ebenezer Baptist Church, Atlanta, Georgia" (c) 2007

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"Ebenezer Baptist Church, Atlanta, Georgia" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

    "...Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." - Martin Luther King Jr., in Memphis, Tennessee, April 3rd, 1968

    [Rev. King's last words, to the musician Ben Branch on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel, Memphis, April 4th, 1968:  "Ben, Make sure you play 'Take My Hand, Precious Lord' in the meeting tonight. Play it real pretty."]

February 17, 2008

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

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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 15, 2008

"Lincoln in Time" (c) 2008

Lincolnintime2"Lincoln in Time, Washington, D.C." © 2008 Stu Jenks

Mom and I may have just seen the name of a distant cousin of mine, on the walls of the Vietnam War Memorial. She's not really sure. She says she'll check. I choked anyway, for a relative I never knew, taking a picture of James J. Jenks Jr.'s etched name in the reflective black marble. Mom seemed somewhat unimpressed with The Wall. You have to understand. She grew up with the Jefferson, Washington and Lincoln Memorials with all their size and grandeur. (Literally, she grew up with them, having been born and raised just across the Potomac in Alexandria, Virginia.) A black gash in the earth she doesn't quite get, being Old School as she is. But I'm a baby boomer, a man who publicly protested the Vietnam War when I was a kid and who pretty much hates all stupid wars, Vietnam being on top of the list with The Civil War being a close second and The War on Terror, a not too distant third. I get The Wall. But no judgment toward Mom. She is who she is, born of a generation that loves the large visual stroke, not so much the subtle symbolic gesture.

We leave The Wall and walk the short distance to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

"I'm going to go up and take a few pictures of Abe. You be alright here for a few minutes?" I ask.

"I'm fine. Go ahead," says Mary.

"You don't want to come, do you?" thinking Mom's having a hard time just navigating the curbs much less the tall steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

"No. No. I'm fine."

The sun's an hour from going down. It's clear and crisp this Christmas week in D.C., but not too cold. Canada geese fly overhead. I climb the stairs to where the large sculpture of the Seated Lincoln resides. People are everywhere, and they seem to be folk from many lands. I hear French, German, Japanese, Australian English and what sounds like a Middle Eastern language. Everyone and their mother's son are taking pictures of their families at the feet of Lincoln. It is a cluster fuck, but a pleasant one, a happy frenzy. I then walk to the southern part of the monument where the Gettysburg Address is carved large in the walls. Hardly anyone is here. Just one or two of us. I find the shot and take it. I then take it twice and three times. I want this shot, more that I wanted The Wall shot. The word 'Devotion' has struck me this time, etched in a very large, very beautiful font. I back away from the wall and take a few minutes to just be with the words. All the words.

I quietly thank Abe for all he did, as I leave, and head down the marble steps to Mom. She's just where I left her.

"Ready, Mom?"

"Yes, I am."

"Having fun while I was gone?"

"I was starting to get cold. That bench is icy cold."

I smile. "Well, let's head back to the truck."

"OK."

Mom doesn't move too fast these days and it helps her to take my arm as we walk. It feels nice to have Mary on my arm. Being the good son and all. As we slowly stroll, Mom tells me a story from her childhood.

"When I was a teenager, we used to take the bus over from Alexandria on Saturdays. You know we didn't like Lincoln too much. So my friends and I would climb up into Abe's lap and shake our fingers at him, saying 'Shame on you, Abe. Shame.' We were the only ones here. Just my friends and I." She pauses. "No, son, this isn't my favorite Memorial."

"Which one is your favorite?"

"I'm quite fond of the Jefferson Memorial myself," she says with a little smile on her face.

As we walk I think of when my mother was a kid. It was the 1930's. Washington, D.C. was a small town then. Truly. It wasn't until World War Two that D.C. became a city. And my mother isn't exaggerating. She and her girlfriends were here by themselves. Just some Southern girls who didn't like the man who started the War of Northern Aggression. Mom clutches my arm as we slowly walk to the truck. I smile as we walk.

Mary Elton Saum is a Daughter of Virginia. Always has been. Always will be. And will continue to be, after she's dead and buried. It's a good thing.

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December 05, 2007

"Stu's New Mexican Fun Facts" (c) 2007

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"Stu's New Mexican Fun Facts" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[Images: "Doubting Thomas, St. Francis Cathedral, Santa Fe, New Mexico" & "Plastic Medicine Wheel, Carrizozo, New Mexico"]

1)        Went to Taos. Well, drove through Taos really. Stopped at The Pueblo briefly and paid money for admission and for each of my two cameras that I brought into the village. White people gawking at Red people. Was bizarre to say the least. Took a couple shots of the old graveyard and split. While driving out of Taos, I listened to National Public Radio. They were having their semi-annual fund-raising campaign. (Had actually been listening to the fund-raising on NPR for my whole trip, through Wyoming, Nebraska, South Dakota, Montana, and Colorado. Wyoming had the best music. Montana had the most pleasant DJs. Nebraska had the kindest voices. Made sense.) I noticed something different, here in Taos, from the other stations I heard thus far. Lots of dead air. Then giggling afterwards. Then people talking and they didn’t make much sense. Hmmm. I think they need to put down the spleef in Taos, or monitor their medication a bit more closely.

2)        Had a plan to see the Sante Fe Plaza and visit St. Francis Cathedral again. It had been twenty years since I was last in Sante Fe. Back in the day, you could see the Cathedral from a distance and get your bearing quite easily. Not now. Luxury hotels, taller or as tall as the church, surrounded the Plaza. I had to actually ask someone where the Cathedral was. Had a delightful time inside of St. Francis, though. I prayed, I shot, I just look around, I prayed some more. Hadn’t changed much in twenty years and still felt like the sanctuary that it is. I thought of sticking around for dinner in Santa Fe but I didn’t. I wasn’t wearing the right clothes for a nice meal there, nor did I feel like I belonged. Saw a huge smiling bronze pig out front of a fancy gallery. Grinning, from jowl to jowl. The North Carolinian in me just sees that as a silly way to spend money.

3)        Went to a 12 Step meeting in a bad part of Albuquerque, just at sunset. Good people, bad neighborhood. Felt like I’d been to church twice that day.   

4)        Spent the night in an anonymous motel in Socorro. Had good coffee the next morning at a café just off the town square. Every town in America has a café now, that has good coffee, fresh baked goods and a friendly staff. And they ain't Starbucks. Gives me hope for America.

5)        Drove by the Trinity Atomic Bomb Site. Again, didn’t really drive by it for I quickly realized I wasn’t supposed to be on that government road and hastily turned around, but it was just over that hill. Just being close still gave me the willies. The world changed forever over there, on July 16th, 1945 at 5:29 in the morning.            

6)        Midmorning, I went hiking into the Valley of Fire, a place of recent lava flows, only 1000 years old or so. Didn’t hike far. Just a ways in, played the mandolin for a while and took in the sharp blackness that is the Malpais. The wind blew cool and the acoustics were flat in a pleasant way.

7)        Just south of Carrizozo, I saw some amazing clouds that looked like huge jellyfish flying in the sky. I took their picture but it didn’t translate at all. Sometimes you just have to be there. While walking along the road looking at those clouds, I found an old hubcap among the sage. The paint had peeled away from much of it, yet the cheap chrome still adhered to the center of the plastic wheel. I took a picture, then picked up the hubcap. I saw an object I could make with this wheel and with a few bits of colorful cloth. I dusted it off and took it back to the truck. (It now leans against a leg of my small dining room table. All cleaned up and waiting for the time I tie some cotton to it, but right now I just like looking at it on the floor as I leave my kitchen. Maybe after the New Year, I’ll fiddle with it.)

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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 23, 2007

"The Neo-Cons and the Con-Temps " © 2007

Buffalohunterbyarneson "The Neo-Cons and the Con-Temps " © 2007

Top Image: "Last of the Great Buffalo Hunters" (Detail) [Paint, Leather, Ceramic, and Glue on Wood] (c) 1987 Robert Arneson, Denver Art Museum. Below Image: "Feather Sculpture #2" (Zoom Fuzzy Detail) [Willow, Feathers, Buckskin] (c) 1994 Truman Lowe, Denver Art Museum.
 

Contemporary Artists are the Neo-Cons of the Art World. Not that much difference between them and George Bush and his minions.

Now that I have your attention, let me explain and let me define a few terms too. And maybe give you a message of hope for the future of Art too.

Modern Art is pretty much everything from the late 1800's up to the 1970's. From Picasso to Pollock. Also Matisse, Calder, Warhol, Christo, Arneson and everything good and powerful in between. Modernism dealt with the ideas of abstraction, emotion, and life in the modern world, but it still had an eye for design, color and form. Contemporary Art, on the other hand, is Stuff that is called Visual Art that comes out of New York, Los Angeles, London and a few other U.S. and European cities since the late 70's and 80's. It's about some sort of idea about something, usually shocking or political, and has absolutely nothing to do with Beauty and very little to do with Design. The idea is the thing, what the eye sees is secondary. Most everyone who isn't involved in the Art World thinks it's pretentious, or meaningless or ugly, or all the above and most times they are right. Those inside the Contemporary Art World see it as cutting edge and original and forward thinking, and they are only right about it being original. Each bowel movement is different from the next. Same can be said about most of this shit.

People say it's not Art. They are wrong. It's Art. It's just bad Art.

[Brief aside: It's seem bizarre to me that people call Bad-Art, Not-Art. If you go to a crappy movie, you don't come out and say 'That wasn't a movie.' If you go to a concert and it sucks, you don't say that it wasn't music. You just say that it's shitty music. Only visual art has this distinction and it think I know why. Because people hold Visual Art up to a higher standard, to an almost religious height, which makes sense since some of the most beautiful Art ever made was spiritual. We have higher expectations of Visual Art. It must be beautiful or at the very least well done and well produced. It must be transcendent. It must not be merely entertainment or a joke. It must be not just a bumper sticker or a sign that someone needs therapy. It should lift us up to be better or at least lift up our spirits a bit.]

And sadly, Art which was the primary source of human creation for thousand of years is now a distant 4th at best, behind Music, Motion Pictures, and The Internet. The number of people that go to an opening at a small city Contemporary Art museum or gallery on a Saturday night is less than the number of hits I get on my little Stu-Blog in a day. Not that my blog is all that wonderful but you get my drift.

And why are they, the Contemporaries, The Con-Temps, like the Neo-Cons and George Bush? Consider this. The Neo-cons look like Republicans but they aren't really. They are not fiscal conservatives. There are autocrats. They are bullies. They will break the bank. Same said for the Con-Temps. They looks like artists and act like they like art but they don't. They like themselves and people like themselves and no one else. They are an exclusive elite club, like the Neo-Cons, in which members can only enter if they fit a very narrow definition of Cool. Preferably Cool with a lot of Cash. The Con-Temps aren't interested in Beauty or Peace or Building Community. They are selfish and self-centered, only wishing to build in their power, ego and prestige. Same can be said for the political Neo-Cons. Chaos, be it War or economic downturn builds more opportunity to make money from cronyism and from buying low and selling high. Same with the Con-Temps. Cronyism is a key. You sell each other shit. It's a visual circle jerk in which everyone must grab the cock of the guy next to him. And finally, there is an orthodoxy to both the Neo-Cons and the Con-Temps. It's my way or the highway. Believe in my socio/political worldview or my narrow artistic worldview, and everything is fine. But if you don't, I'll bring you down with bombs, bribery, or vicious ridicule. All with a smile of the self-righteousness on their face. No 'live and let live' in these folk. No love and tolerance from them. But they may give you a sales pitch that says that they do love and appreciate you and your differences. Don't believe it. They are either trying to take something from you, or force something on you.

And I'm not just speaking sour grapes. I was what they called a Conceptual Artist in Art School in the 1970's. Leashing myself to trees. Burying myself in fire brick in the center of campus while the cameras rolled. Painting outlines of traffic dead on city streets in the middle of the night, and getting in trouble with the law. I had some Big Ideas, and I had my shtick, my rap about those Ideas. But looking back, I had a couple of good pieces but most of my work was unfocused, marginally produced and smelled of Marijuana smoke. But even back then I wasn't completely sold on the idea, that The Idea was king and that The Visual was a serf you raped in the fields. I was making yearly pilgrimages to the Hirshhorn Museum in D.C. to see Rodin's "Burgher of Calais" and "Balzac". I've loved Calder since I was a kid. And my experimental 8 mm films from Art School did have some heart, not just brains.

Of late, I'm shopping around getting a book published of my Art and Words. Not going so well but I have friends who are helping. I may end up self-publishing at some point, when I get an extra 5000 dollars from somewhere. Anyway, the reason I'm working on books is I'm tired of dealing with the Entitled Rich (and I'm not talking about the Generous and Soulful Rich, so to my two rich Michaels I know, I'm not talking about you). I'm tired of them talking down my prices, of being fickle and arrogant, and I suddenly realized a few years ago that it's par for the course these days in the Visual Arts. I'm expecting a pig to be a pony. And I like books for I can sell them to people like me: the Struggling Middle and Working Class who always have enough money for a good CD, a good movie or a good book. I want to be another good book they can buy.


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And I believe there is hope for Art. I hear that students out of high school are demanding that their university Art professors teach them how to draw better, sculpture better, craft better and if they don't, they leave and go to a school that will. I visited the Disney School of Animation in L.A. a few years ago and saw amazing draftsmanship on butcher paper hanging in the lobby after a critique. Master illustrators like Charles Vess are finally getting their due. Chihuly has a multi-million dollar glass chandelier in the Bellagio Lobby in Vegas. The elegant furniture of Scott Baker is winning awards. And Crane Day, weaver extraordinaire, can be found working magic with the mohair wool just ten feet from my studio door.

I think I'll to go to my studio now, and play my mandolin for a while. Play it through my Roland Cube with the Chorus and Reverb settings at 10 o'clock. My little ambient songs are quite pretty, I think, and quite Modern. And not Contemporary in the least.

 

 

November 17, 2007

"Long Road, Swift Bear & Hawk Man at The Little Bighorn" (c) 2007

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"Long Road, Swift Bear & Hawk Man at The Little Bighorn" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

       I'm not having a good time. Actually, I'm kind of pissed off. I'm beginning to wonder if driving hundreds of miles to visit here was such a good idea. But my gut said go, so I went.
       The day began great, with prayer bundles at Bear's Lodge and the drive on Interstate 90 across Wyoming was quite a delight. I love Wyoming now. Didn't know I'd be a Prairie Person but I am. The yellow grasses, the numerous streams and rivers, the antelope here and there and everywhere. And the women I've seen are quite fetching too. Not classically beautiful but a number I've seen have long hair, often blond with bangs, strong noses, and tight jeans with ranch stains on them. Men ain't bad either, rugged, clear eyed men, among the usual pasty suburbanites that you find everywhere in America. And the biggest surprise was I could get NPR all over the state, even in bum-fuck-nowhere, which is 90% of Wyoming. A generally polite people is what I found. (I had a nice exchange with a couple of Mormon missionaries at a McDonalds's in Gillette. Memorable quote: 'So are you a convert and lifelong?" asked the young man confusing me for a LDS. "Neither," I said, " I'm Episcopalian.")
       But there was some sadness as I drove. Antelope were ubiquitous, like pigeons in a park, but there was a noticeable absence of Buffalo. They were the kings of the Prairie, 150 years ago and now they are only ghosts, memories, and the occasional few like at Bear Butte, as remembrances of a time that will never return. Heavy sigh.
       The Big Horn Mountains rose to the west of Sheridan, as I drove on. Part of the Rockies. The Rockies are always good to see. Into the Crow Rez and before you know it, I was driving along the banks of the Little Bighorn River. I knew from my Montana road map that I could probably see part of the Battlefield from I-90 and as I looked up I could see the low prairie ridge, the flats along the river, Pine trees (?), a graveyard, and some government buildings, but it was the river bank that struck me and first pissed me off.
       "You were a fucking idiot, George," I said out loud as I drive the last few miles before I exited the Interstate. "How could you have fucking missed the smoke coming from hundreds and hundreds of Indian campfires? (They say there were close to a thousand lodges there, that day) Were you that god damn arrogant? You fucking idiot. You deserved to get you ass kicked!"
       I exited the Interstate but my anger didn't subside once I enter Little Bighorn National Battlefield. I did see a Prairie Dog town when I entered the park and that cheered me up for a minute but it didn't last. I was surprised that I wasn't sad, just more and more irritate. Pissed off that there is a National Cemetery at Little Bighorn, with only white military dead buried there, many who were not even at the Battle. A white obelisk on a hill marked the places where many of the 7th Calvary died. (But not really. Farther down to the north was the area when most of the whites died.) Most of the focus at the Park was on Custer, but in recent years, an Indian Memorial had been built, but the sculpture was quite ugly I think and even though the U.S. government had tried to honor all the tribes who fought and died, it felt forced and phony to me. But they tried and I read that the tribes appreciated the attempt. But still. This should be Lakota/Cheyenne holy ground, of a great victory against tyranny, not some sad memorial to an arrogant asshole.
       Now, I'm walking back to my truck after seeing Last Stand Hill, the Indian Memorial, and a few white headstones near the path. There were a couple of red granite headsstones, marking where two Lakotas had died but it wasn't nearly enough. Jesus Fucking Christ! This was the high watermark for the American Indian, their Frederickburg, their great battle victory, days before the American Centennial in 1876, where the tribes kicked ass and took names (and then it all slowly went to shit culminating at the Massacre at Wounded Knee in 1890.) I'm not naïve thinking that the victors don't write the history books but again, this should be a monument to a victory more than a memorial of a defeat. Fuck. I stop and pause. My gut says go to the end of the road. There is something there for you, it says. I sure as fuck hope so. I've taken one photograph and that may be all I take here. I could give a shit. I get in my truck and back out of the Visitors' Center parking lot, trying not to run over the slow obese white people that are in my path.
       According to my Park map, at the end of this road is the place where Reno and Benteen held their ground under siege. (After Custer and his troup had been killed, the tribes tried to kill the rest of the 7th Calvary under Major Reno and Captain Benteen. Reno had begun his attack up the river but was quickly routed and sent scrambling up to a ridgeline. Lucky for him, Benteen and his men arrived at what is now called Reno Hill just as the scrambling troopers of Benteen got there and that is what saved him and his men from the same fate as Custer. Benteen and Reno were under siege for the rest of the day and all of the next. The fighting was fierce on those two days. The Lakota and Cheyenne left on the third day. some Whites say it was because they heard that more Calvary were coming. Some Indians say that we just left because we were done. We couldn't kill all of them but that was OK. So we left. I choose to believe the latter.) I pass more white headstones where Calvary men had died as I drive south and it just pisses me off more. I want to stop and walk in the prairie grass but that is forbidden by the Park Service. We are in the center of the Crow Indian Reservation but all is see is white people, white crosses, white things.
       The presentation I heard at the Visitors' Center echoes in my head: that Reno was lucky that he didn't get massacred too. That archeological evidence proves that what the Indians have been saying for a 130 years is true, that what Custer did was foolish and not valorous, that he rode right into the heart of the gathering of tribes and unlike other times, when he out-powered and out-manned a village and killed all who were there, this time he was outnumbered by at least four to one, maybe nine to one, and simply had the Karmic Wheel roll very hardly on top of him. What goes around, comes around and it came down with a vengeance on Custer and his crew, on June 25th, 1876. That throughout the two days of fighting, 258 U.S. Soldiers were killed and that Indian dead may have been as few as 30 or as many as a couple hundred. We all kind know the gist of the story, but the one thing that I learned is that Benteen and Reno's troops came this close to being whipped out too. This close.

As I get farther away from Custer Hill, the less traffic I see. Fewer cars, fewer people. I talk with an Australian man and ask if he has seen any red headstones, those for the Native dead. He said yes, at the end of the road. My mood brightens a bit.
       The road ends many miles from the Visitors' Center. I'm all alone. I'm at Reno Hill. I'm feeling much calmer now. It's around five in the afternoon. I park the Pathfinder, and  grab my Pentax 35 mm with the SFX film and my Canon 30D with its four gig card. Maybe I'll take a few more shots. I'm a long way from any rangers or white folk or anything but grass.
       I walk to the south and as I get to the grass's edge, I see four or five red headstones fifty or so feet away. The grass leading to them is matted down. Seems a lot of people have walked to them. I stop and say a quiet 'O My God'.
       I take off the lens cap of my Canon and I walk to the nearest stone. When I get there I bent down and place my left hand on top of the stone. The granite is polished smooth, with a rounded, not flat top. I see the name Swift Bear. I think of all the bears I've seen and experienced in the last few days. Bear Butte. Bear's Lodge. Now, Swift Bear.
       And then I'm hit by The Loss.
       It's as if the land has come up through me, from my feet, up my legs, into my heart, into my lungs, into my eyes, into my brain, and I feel and see and breathe in the enormity of The Loss.

The Loss of the Buffalo.

The Loss of the Land.

The Loss of the Way of Life.

The Loss of the Indian.

 

Every tribe that is gone, every child dead from smallpox, every woman without a husband, every warrior killed trying to keep his family alive. All of it.

And I drop to the ground, hunker down with my left hand on the grass to steady myself.

And I cry. I wail. I make a lot of sound. I'm surprised by all the sound. I don't stop it.

I do this for a while.

 

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       Half-hour later, I'm heading back to the Park entrance. I stop along the way, for no reason, except to postpone my leaving. I'm having a good time now. I see another red headstone, this time for Long Road. A staff with prayer bundles tied around its length rests at the base of the stone. I take its picture. I place a hand on the stone and thank him for the sacrifice he made.
       I see another stone. I don't remember the name. I find the red prayer bundle in my pocket, the one I made at BR-549 Studio before I came on this trip. I hesitate. I'm not an Indian. I'm a White Guy. Is it right that I do this here, give a bundle here? I don't know.
       Then I feel a presence off my left shoulder. And then I hear a voice.
       "Thank You."
       I tied the bundle to a shaft of grass. I leave the lens cap on. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and smile at the setting sun.

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November 12, 2007

"Devils Tower National Monument, Bear's Lodge, Wyoming" (c) 2007

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"Devils Tower National Monument, Bear's Lodge, Wyoming" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

        Bing, bing, bing.....bing, bing. A musical hint I so badly want to send to friends back home via my cell phone, when I first saw this majestic peak in front of me yesterday. But alas, I haven't had cell phone coverage since Colorado.
        Hint: In a movie, I'm carving a mountain out of mashed potatoes. I'm Richard Dreyfuss. Where am I?

        25 years ago, I kept on driving on my way to the Pacific Ocean and didn't stop here. I regretted that for years. Today, I hadn't planned on stopping but I asked myself this simple question when I was a
couple of hours away. Question: When will I be within a hundred miles of Devils Tower again? Answer: Who the hell knows. I'm so glad I stopped. I haven't been disappointed in the least, in my twenty-four hours at this holy and funny spot.

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        Stu's Fun Facts:

1)      Devils Tower was the United States' first National Monument (Yellowstone was the first National Park). Teddy Roosevelt made it a Monument in 1906, for he didn't want this unusual igneous intrusion to be harmed or abused.

2)      The Monument is quite tiny by National Park standards (Yellowstone and The Grand Canyon are huge in comparison.) Just the Tower, the land below it, and parts of the Belle Fourche River are inside of the Monument boundaries.

3)      Devils Tower rises 1267 feet above the surround land. Straight up.

4)      The Monument contains a very large Prairie Dog town. Sweet Jesus Christ, they are the funniest, most mesmerizing creatures I have ever seen in the Wild. I promised my friend Annie that I will take her there someday simply for the Prairie Dogs, (which she can get easy access to from the modest but beautiful campground that sits on the banks of the Belle Fourche.) Annie loves baby creatures, little wild
animals. This place would be a Mecca for her.

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5)      Devils Tower is a holy peak for the surrounding tribes: Cheyenne, Lakota, Arapaho, Shoshone, Kiowa and others. Everyone of these tribes call the mountain, Bear's Lodge, or Bear's Tipi, or Bear's House or variations of that (even though one tribe does call it 'Penis Mountain".) But an ignorant arrogant smart-assed white guy showed up back in the day, and said that an Indian told him that the peak was
called "Bad God's Tower", so he called it "Devils Tower" and it stuck. No one, but him, had ever called it that before. The park system is thinking of changing the name to Bear's Lodge National Monument after being petitioned by the neighboring tribes. I'm on the tribe's side in this one. I don't think the French would like it too much of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris was called Black Magic Woman Church because a Nazi called it that in World War Two.

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6)      Also, numerous Indians are a bit pissed off that so many people climb Devils Tower. A couple thousand people a year do. A compromise has been reached by the Park Service. Even though they can't mandated that no one climb during the month of June (A heavily ceremonial month for many of the tribes) they have asked that people not climb the Tower during that time and they have gotten 90% voluntary compliance. (Separation of Church and State prohibits the Service from doing anymore than asking.) High marks to those who agree to stay off the mountain at least one month a year. Brief aside: It did bamboozle me when I saw the lamps of flashlights of those bivouacking on the sheer
face of the Tower, the night I spent there. Brief flash of light in the dark at 1000 feet above the ground. Very bizarre.

7)      Some say that Sweet Medicine, the Cheyenne Hero, was buried at Bear's Lodge.

8)      The Crows come to Devils Tower to worship and fast. They built small stone "dream houses" as part of the vision quests, structures that are as long and as wide as a man. A worshiper would recline in his or her structure, head to the east as part of his vision quest (Crows I understand are matriarchal, so I bet women vision quest too.)

9)     I had a couple of pretty powerful experiences with the Tower and its tall Grasses, its moist Sage, and its very big Day and Night Sky. I'm going to keep mum about them, but I hope you enjoy the images I took.

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10)     Lastly, odd as it might sound, the Prairie Dog town is worth the trip alone. Praying to God And To-All-There-Is, is all well and good, but laughing out loud at the antics of the Dogs is just as heaven-sent.

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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:

"I have seen in my mind that some time after I am dead...and may the time be long...light-skinned bearded men will arrive with sticks spitting fire. They will conquer the land and drive you before them. They will kill the animals who give you their flesh that you may live, and they will bring strange animals for you to ride and eat. They will introduce war and evil, strange sickness and death. They will try and make you forget Maheo, the Creator, and the things I have taught you, and will impose their own alien, evil ways. They will take your land little by little, until there is nothing left for you. I do not like to tell you this, but you must know. You must be strong when that bad time comes, you men, and particularly you women, because much depends on you, because you are the perpetuators of life and if you weaken, the Cheyenne will cease to be. Now I have said all there is to say.

Then Sweet Medicine went into his hut to die.

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September 07, 2007

"The Death of Stonewall J. Howell, Tombstone, Arizona" (c) 2007

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“The Death of Stonewall J. Howell, Tombstone, Arizona” (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

       Stony walked out of the whorehouse dissatisfied. He knew he would be, but he went anyway. Tomorrow is his 26th birthday, and it’s been a good week at his claim. Good six months actually. Anyway, he felt like giving himself a present and that present was Crystal. But while he was thrusting into her from behind, watching her breasts sway, he had a passing thought of Henrietta back home. He came quickly, gave Crystal a kiss on the cheek and paid her double her usual rate. Seemed rude that he had thought of Henrietta when he was inside of Crystal. Crystal smiled and kissed him on the neck and told him to come back any time.
       He’d left Henri a year ago in the Valley of Virginia. She still lives with her widowed mother on those fifty-two acres that they pretend to be a farm. Singing in the church choir every Sunday, she said in her letters. Wishing he would call for her, to board that train to Tucson, she wrote twice already. It just wasn’t time yet.
       Henri turns every man’s head on the Saumsville Road when she takes the wagon to town. The prettiest girl in the county. Top three at least. Bright smile and full lips, long blond hair the color of straw, cheeks like red apples, a body thin yet strong like a rail fence. The night before he left for Arizona he promised her that if he struck it rich, he’d send for her. They kissed each other long and hard on her front porch, their hands all over each other’s bodies, as if by touching everything, they would forget nothing. He’s made some good money now, but it hasn’t built a house yet. He needs to have a house for her to come to. He needs also to hire someone to help him start that house, soon at that.
       The muddy street is filled with cowboys and miners, going from hotel to saloon, spending their week’s earnings on whores, poker and whiskey. The Full Moon is almost directly overheard. He stops in the street and looks up at the Moon, thinking about Henri and thinking that all he really wants right now is a hot bath. He turns and as he’s walking across the street toward the Chinese bathhouse, he hears his name called.
        “Stony! Hey, Stony!”
        He turns. It’s Merle Johnson. The luckiest, stupidest, funniest man in town. He’s also his best friend.
        “Hey, Merle. How are you doing, this evening?”
        “Mighty fine. Hey, are you going to the The Grand to play poker tonight?” Merle seems a bit agitated.
        “I wasn’t planning on it,” says Stony.
       Merle looks a little disappointed, then bites his lower lip. He does that when he’s thinking hard. What’s the big deal? He usually only goes to The Grand a couple times a week, not every night.
        “Can I find someway to persuade you to come play poker with me tonight?” Merle asks.
        “Merle, what going on?”
        “Hell, Stony. Just come over to The Grand Hotel tonight.”
       “Just tell me what the fuck is going on. I need to get a bath and then I was thinking of turning in. Unless you got something special planned, I think I’ll pass.”
        Merle bit his lower lip again, then smiled to himself and shook his head.
       “Just like you, Stony, to spoil the fucking surprise. A bunch of us are waiting for you over there. Tomorrow is your fucking birthday, as if you don’t know, and we thought we’d throw you a little surprise party at Midnight. Both Bobbys are there, young Bobby Christiansen and old Bobby Lopez! Mexican Bobby came all the way from Fronteras, Stony, to celebrate your goddamn birthday.”
        “Bobby Lopez is here in Tombstone?”
       “Do I fucking lisp? Yes, Bobby Lopez is here. And Charlie McLean left his claim in Charleston for the night, to raise a drink to you, too.”
        Stony’s mouth dropped open.
        “Charlie came to town?” Charlie rarely comes to town. Only when he is down to his last pound of flour and his last jug of shine.
&nbs