Every day starts with Wayne calling me on the hotel phone, never trusting that I've actually woken up. This is probably prudent. Then I stumble downstairs (I'm never on the first floor), and cram powder biscuits into my mouth until I can't swallow. This equals roughly a biscuit and a half. As best as I can tell, hotels no longer serve donuts. Then, I get a Styrofoam cup filled with orange juice from a machine that dispenses liquids with a sound like it's spitting mosquitoes in short, high-velocity bursts. Then, the five of us gather in the parking lot and spend a few minutes staring at each other; I've never been sure what this step is for, but we always hang out in front of the vans.
Then, irregardless of the current time, or the distance we need to travel, we go to find coffee to supplement the hotel breakfast coffee. Starbucks is the ideal choice. I will say I don't want anything, even a strawberry shake; then I will sit in the car and try to get a few more precious moments of sleep -- while Marlin will buy me a strawberry shake. Wayne will deliver the shake by rapping on my window four times with his knuckle.
We will struggle to get out of the Starbucks' parking lot, because I will hope that the van's turning radius has improved overnight. It will not have improved, and I will get wedged in a way that blocks the other vans. Wayne will get out of his car to direct me.
When we arrive at the site for the day, we will park. I will park poorly, because I will have hoped that the van's handling will have improved since Starbucks'. It will not have improved, and I will take up either 2 or 3 parking spots.
Then, we investigate our location. It will be either beautiful or condemned. My job is to check out four aspects: where the cameras should go, if we need speakers, where electricity is needed, and how the sound should be wired. These are exactly as interesting as they sound, so I'll skip over this part to preserve their innate mystique. The secret fifth responsibility is: "anything and everything else."
Wayne and Maria will set up our table of things-we-sell-for-gas-money and our table of stuff-we-give-away. Don and Marlin will supervise and talk with the coordinator, hammering out the fine details of the schedule; the schedule will be discarded entirely within the first hour.
One enduring struggle is about where the second camera should go. It must be within a few feet of the mixer if it's going to plug into it. The mixer must be close to Don's computer, which must be close to the projector, which must be in front of the screen. This would be easy enough, except that we have a procession and a recession, plus a large number of elderly people walking up to the mic -- there cannot be any loose cords on the floor to create a hazard. It's an added bonus if it's possible to set up the second camera in such a way that the view isn't terrible.
I hope that camera works out, overall. Even when it's wired into the mixer, the sound isn't perfect. In fact, it's got an enduring weird hum that I'm hoping will scrub out in post.
We will start late, and I will finish setting up seconds before we start.
Marlin will have been canvasing the crowd, looking for veterans. The opening procession includes veterans with a wide variety of flags (national, state, and tribe, at minimum), two men and two women carrying the Hoop, and a child carrying Brandi Jo. They will circle the crowd, if possible; they will only approach the center from the East. The word is that everything good starts from the East. Personally, I can think of only two things: the sunrise and Japanese electronics, but those are both good things so the East is fine for me. If at all possible, a drum group will play a flag song or an honor song. The drum song is symbolically very important -- I'd like to add that, empirically, we have yet to do a ceremony without a drum that wasn't also disappointing.
Someone's cell will ring during the opening.
The MC (often the local coordinator) takes the stage, and will likely somehow hold the microphone incorrectly. I will adjust the volume accordingly. This opening takes between 30 and 90 minutes, and is largely dedicated to thanking sponsors and attendees. There is about a 50% chance the MC will say some variant of, "I know there could have been more people here today, but that's not important. WE ARE HERE, and I thank you for being here." Often, local dignitaries are asked to say a few words. Almost always, an elder is asked to offer a morning prayer -- the form that this takes varies wildly by tribe and location.
Someone else's cell will ring during the prayer.
Don will be introduced. One can make at least a casual connection between how his name is pronounced and the overall quality of the event. "Coyhis" normally has two syllables, but it's been shrunk to one ("Koys") and bizarrely expanded up to four (Coe-Hoe-Hoy-His). Sometimes "Don" is mistaken to be "Dr."
Don will give his presentation. It varies a little each time, but follows a general pattern. When the Journey is done, I will probably make a video of his presentation to add to the White Bison website. It will also be posted here. His speech includes a short clip from a PBS documentary, which I'm almost sure falls under non-commercial Fair Use, but I'm still hoping no one calls us on. He's personal friends with most of the speakers in the documentary, and somehow that makes me feel better.
Don will, at one point, refer to elders as having "wrinkles under wrinkles" and suggest that they make an elder pin-up calendar. It will get a laugh from no more than two people, irregardless of the size of the room. Everyone else will find the image uncomfortable.
At this point, lunch will likely be served. I'm usually surprised by how elaborate this is. There is always a great surplus of food. Food, and lots of it, are given to everyone present -- with Haskell being the sole exception. I'm still a little bitter about that, which brings up a hidden lesson from the Journey: Forgiveness may set you free, but don't try it on an empty stomach.
Post-lunch, we move into the Panel. The quality of this section makes a huge difference on my perception of the event; this is almost always the weakest part. This is also a section where I differ greatly from White Bison in my perception; I repeat that I do not speak for them.
Why this section is called the Panel is a mystery, the only relation it bears to a panel or a panel discussion is that some people sit in a line. Seats in this line are given to the elders of the community, at least partially as an honorary position. They are each given time to share their thoughts individually; then the Panel ends without a question-and-answer or anything else you'd expect from its title. All too often, their thoughts are unrelated to what's actually going on; there's relatively little footage that's usable from almost six weeks of Panels, but lots of thoughts about Vietnam, how much money seventy cents used to be, and going swimming during the summer.
Often, the people who are on-topic are incredible.
I suppose this illustrates an aspect of Native culture that doesn't work for me: the assumption that age automatically brings wisdom. Just for writing that, I probably used up all of my karma; but I think Aunt Ollie is the only one reading this regularly, so maybe it'll be our little secret. I can see it working more easily in a traditional society during the period -- as Don calls it -- "a long time ago." There was a greater need for people to have expertise in various aspects of daily life. You couldn't just bead; you'd better know how to catch a fish and take care of a sick child, too. You wore many hats; and, as you aged, you got good at a lot of things. With age came experience and a lifetime of accumulated tips and tricks for doing things well.
Today? Today I'm not so sure. With specialization, globalization, and an interdependent society, it's pretty easy to do just one thing: say, for example, short order cooking. So, you spend your life as a short order cook, mastering it in the first year and just continuing on after that, confident that someone else will make electricity, heal the wounded, dig the ditches, paint the lines on streets, and program the new software. When you get done at the end of the day, there's no real incentive to get out and learn something new, to master more skills. More likely, you'll watch "Wheel of Fortune." When you get old, you're pretty much still you, just older.
This is not for a moment to say that we shouldn't respect old people. Everyone deserves respect; that's a basic part of the dignity of human life. What I find difficult is the assumption that being around for a long time naturally means that you have more to say than someone else. This is especially true in the modern world, where it's more possible than ever to work up a comfortable rut and grow old without diversifying or learning much new. For that matter, a lot of people's lives today don't even reward basic observation. How many people of any age can tell you nothing about the weather?
Clear the slate; I'm starting this part over with a new approach. Elders deserve every bit of respect in the world; their insight is invaluable. However, not all Old People are Elders. Some Old People are just people who got old. It takes Wisdom to be an Elder. I'm pretty sure there were a few spots on the Panel, over the weeks, that were given to Old People.
Wow. I am way off my original topic. Anyways, we spend maybe two hours on the Panel, where people speak irregardless of whether they have anything to say about boarding schools, families, or forgiveness. With what time is left, the microphone is opened up to anyone who feels they have something to say. I like this approach better -- targeting those with something to say -- but I speak only for myself.
The open-mic section is a complete wildcard, and has the largest range of possible outcomes. A scarce few people take this opportunity to hear their own voices. There's not many of them, but they each hold a special place in my heart as arch-enemies. Many people, in an amazing show of courage in front of strangers, are able to share stories from their past; most are heart-shattering. This, I think, is the part I was really hired to film. These stories are mostly hidden away, and they're simply devastating. There are often lots of tears during this section, from all ages and both genders.
It makes me wonder how much of the world is hidden away. This is the only opportunity most people have ever had to speak publicly about this. What if there were forums for other topics? How many stories are never told, and lost forever?
If there is a graveyard nearby, especially if it's clearly long-neglected, we will walk over there and apologize to the children buried (or dumped) there -- we're sorry that you faced such abuse during your lives; we're sorry that you were left here, away from your homes and families; we're sorry that the graveyards are often so overgrown and forgotten today. Someone from the community who speaks the local language is called forward to ask the spirits to be free -- if the spirits are really there, this invitation will be in a language they know.
I don't think it matters much if you believe this literally accomplishes anything or not; if you take part in this ceremony, you will be touched in some way. There were a lot of forgotten children, and it's a strange relief to know that someone acknowledges them: it's the release of a tension you never even knew was there before.
Finally, the ceremony ends with a chance for everyone present to make a short prayer in front of the Hoop. The way that this is carried out is decided by the local coordinator, according to local customs. Most often, this means forming a line that circles around the Hoop either clockwise or counter-clockwise; this usually includes making an offering of some kind of plant (tobacco is a frequent choice). But every place does things in their own way. Luckily, only one chose to send people up out of the audience individually to touch the Hoop, breathe in the smoke of burning sage, and sit back down before allowing the next person to stand. This particular approach took about two hours.
The ceremonies dissipate quietly, with people wandering away one at a time after praying by the Hoop. We will be far behind schedule, and the cleaning staff will want us gone. Usually, by this point I have packed my cameras and maybe my tripods. Maria starts packing our items-for-sale; Marlin and Wayne will carefully pack the Hoop, Brandi Jo, and the like; I pack all my equipment, anything electronic that we have, and everything left over. Don will be besieged by well-wishers and people wanting autographs and handshakes and the like. Don has gone this entire Journey with virtually no time to himself, as best as I can tell.
Each ceremony is supposed to get done somewhere between 2 and 4 PM. It will be 5 PM. It is always 5 PM when we end, no matter what we add or take away or change. We will have everything packed and stored by 5:10, at which point we will begin driving to the next town. The next town is likely somewhere between 4 and 6 hours away, and we will arrive in the dark, exhausted and aching, ready for a few hours of sleep before the alarms go off between 6 and 7 AM for the next day's ceremony.
They say nothing good is ever accomplished without sacrifice. We are our own sacrifice. And I think we're accomplishing something good.
The Basic Pattern
6/11 RED LAKE [Minnesota]
Patrick came along to help with this one, leaving me with more time to think and process. As a result, I resumed my long-since abandoned practice of taking notes during the ceremony, and may have more to say now as a result. Pictures will be few, as the lighting was lousy.
Patrick and I left home plenty early, which was probably good as we drove past our destination at least once before successfully finding it. When we arrived, the person I talked to didn't know anything about us, but there was a gym which seemed to be set up for a presentation, so I assumed we were in the right place and started setting up.
After ten or fifteen minutes, I started to worry. Security guards kept entering by the bleachers, watching us, then leaving. There was no sign of the rest of the group. The cameras were set, Patrick was working on sound, and I began assembling the lights.
Another twenty minutes went by. We couldn't find the light switch for the gym, so we'd been working in darkness all along. No sign of anyone. I used my roll of gaffer's tape to make sure every last wire was stuck in place. The event was supposed to officially start in a little over a half-hour. Patrick gave up on their sound system, which featured lots of heavily-frayed wires and bent plugs. We began setting up our own sound system.
And, then, validation finally came. It turns out we were in the right place all along; however, we'd entered during the narrow window when the door was unlocked to let the staff in to other parts of the building. Everyone else, along with some local volunteers, had been waiting by the front door for 20-odd minutes hoping someone would let them in.
Unfortunately, once they arrived it was decided that it would be better to have everyone facing a different direction than I had assumed we would use. All of my preparations were for naught and had to be stricken completely. All we really accomplished in that time, then, was deciding that the gym's sound system was worthless. Hooray for us!
On the whole, it was a good ceremony, and helped rebuild my energy and enthusiasm for the Journey. If you're just tuning it, I was in an emotional low spot for the last couple entries.
***It's probably worth mentioning, now that I think about it, that I do not speak for White Bison. I'm sure they met their objectives at each location, and were much better at seeing the positive. My objectives are always different from theirs: I want good film footage. My negativity is not their stance, it's mine. End disclaimer.***
Don changed his opening speech to discourage people from using up valuable time to talk about how great the local schools were. When I talked to him about it later, he didn't remember doing that. Curious. We had decided at a recent stop that a lot of the "everything was fine" people loved their boarding schools because it was a chance to get out of their abusive homes. The deadly irony here is that their homes were abusive because their parents went to boarding school. Those schools were very good at what they did; they even made themselves indispensable to future generations by removing all other options.
One woman ran away from home at 16 so she could join a boarding school in Oklahoma. For reasons unspecified, she later ran away from boarding school, making it all the way to northern Kansas on foot before being apprehended. Her search for a stable life was a difficult one.
One of the first speakers talked about how critical forgiveness has been in her life. This set an excellent tone -- the first speakers matter so much.
One elder, aged 68, still has marks running up and down her legs from being whipped by nuns as a child. The most moving part of her speech was when she broke down on the line: "And they pretended to be good people." It took two tries due to the flood of bitter tears. They pretended to be good people. Looking at it on paper, I realize sadly that it will never have the same effect as hearing her say it. It was chilling and heartbreaking the way she spoke.
Another woman was able to recognize the damage that her own anger has done to her, and how her childhood experiences shaped her life. This showed immense self-awareness, and it was pretty impressive. The crux of her story came when she was in a physical dispute with her white husband, and suddenly a lifetime of repressed, hidden pain and anger came rushing out. "To all the white people of the world, from me," she said to her husband just before she "beat the crap out of him" with a frying pan. This was a point of ultimate decision, for her. She had two paths: the easy one would be to continue as-is, becoming an increasingly desperate and bitter human being, the almost-impossible choice was to identify the buried anger and learn to forgive as a way of letting it go. The fact that she was able to speak today indicates that she's done something incredibly difficult and come out a much better person for it. As cool as that is, imagine how much better her life would have been if she didn't have a reason to shape her first 20- or 30-odd years around hatred of white people and acceptance of violence as a solution to problems.
To put it another way, it's amazing that you were able to hold your breath for that long -- but that doesn't make the fact that someone was holding you under water any less awful.
Looking back, it occurs to me now that men were pretty severely underrepresented. I wonder what that means. One of the men who spoke took me aside beforehand and made me promise to turn the cameras off, take no pictures, and write no notes while he was up front. I'm not sure if he was secretive or lost his nerve, because what he finally said wasn't likely to be something I'd write about (or remember), anyways. I suppose there's a valuable lesson in there about how important everyone's world is to themselves. Each of us knows only our own experience, and it's hard to remember (or understand) how something so important to you could be so uninteresting to everyone else.
The irony of writing that last sentence on a blog is not lost to me.
I had the impression there were some horror stories that stayed hidden. Almost everyone who spoke in Red Lake talked about "trauma" and their "experiences," but almost no one gave any specifics. Even the allusions seemed difficult for people to vocalize. This is obviously a hurting community. As I'm sure most readers of this blog are aware, Red Lake is the home of one of the deadliest school shootings in American history. Judging by people's reluctance to divulge details, it was probably also home to a lot of children who grew up knowing terrible things. When they had kids of their own, that trauma passed right along through their parenting. The tragic results are clear.
Usually, when someone is having a particularly difficult time speaking, Marlin will stand next to them, holding burning sage. Today, for the second time, Marlin replaced the sage smoke with the Forgiveness Staff. It calmed people considerably. Interestingly, it was never meant to be the Staff's purpose -- it was meant to stay stationary in its stand. Its use in this fashion was never discussed, and it wasn't used that way for the first several weeks. Suddenly, however, it just felt right; no one's ever questioned its use as a form of comfort.
One speaker gave their observations on how religion's use in the schools hindered moral development. What should have been taught, early in these childrens' lives, was: "Whatever religion you are, whatever you believe in, this is what you respect." In other words, dogma replaced an understanding of respect and basic goodness. I liked the way it was said.
One woman talked about going into near-shock (as an adult) when she realized that one of her friends was a nun. She'd grown up associating Catholics with extreme physical violence and little else. Only very recently has she been able to see any other side. This depresses me. There's a long-standing Catholic belief in accepting sinners, welcoming them to you and finding the good in them. I believe this. I also, however, believe that our best hope of redeeming our name is to expose and remove people like these corrupt nuns who broke childrens' bones to keep them in line. How does one reconcile those two impulses? We can't be a collection of the worst the world has to offer; but we can't presume to pass judgement on other mortals and must love even the lowest sinner. I like the sound of "lover the sinner, hate the sin," but our collection of sinners have done terrible, terrible things to children in God's name. It bothers me greatly.
Father Pat, the local priest for Red Lake and for my own parish of Nebish, was in attendance. Apparently, he's just been transferred, and this was perhaps his last appearance in Red Lake after 12 years. While he's a good man, and certainly works hard, he contributed to my gradual removal from church services at home due to a largish personal struggle he has: his almost complete inability to plan ahead. The last time I went to church at home must be about ten years ago. He hadn't planned a homily, so he flipped through a Reader's Digest to see if there was anything worth using as a topic while the entire congregation waited. I didn't go again after that day: it was a final straw for me. Not surprisingly, this manifested today, too. He gave a difficult and heartfelt apology to the people in attendance for the abuses committed against them by men of the cloth -- this was exactly the right thing to do. It appeared, however, that he didn't start thinking about what he was going to say until after he had already been handed the microphone. I have it on videotape: a full four-minute pause where he stands and thinks in silence. That's a long, long time to hold the mic without saying anything. Of course, when he did speak, he had good words to say; he usually does. They just weren't planned and everyone else was stuck waiting.
I wish Father Pat the best in his new assignment. He's a good man; I hope someday he's able to realize the damage he does to his own image by disregarding the value of other people's time. A little preparation would do wonders for him.
On a side note, if you haven't heard Don speak, find a way to do so. It's worth your time. Here's a picture.
It was a difficult space to work in, today. The lighting was poor, it was difficult not to get in the way, and there was no ventilation to speak of so it quickly become unpleasantly smoky. Someone with asthma might have had a difficult time breathing. Counterbalancing that, however, was the wild rice stuffing that was served as a side dish during lunch. It might be my favorite thing to eat so far. Man, that was good stuff.
During lunch, I also noticed that today was the first time since Arizona that I looked like I had a sunburn that was peeling. Every day up until this point, it looked like I had redish skin and severe leprosy. This is a good change of pace.
One thing that was particularly fun about this stop was how many people in the audience I recognized. With Patrick helping, I could take a somewhat-extended lunch and mingle with the crowd a little. There were probably nearly ten friends or family-friends that I was able to catch up with; it's important not to forget the value of having a circle of friends. Lunch was very soothing, that way; endless procession of meals with strangers in strange towns never felt as good.
I suddenly realized I forgot to add something to the White Earth post; specifically, Katie Houg was there. She's been a globetrotter for a year or two, now, and just returned to the States. She still smells a little of New Zealand, South America, and the numerous places in-between that she's been calling home. But everyone knows that this is REAL home. Welcome back, Katie.
The day ended with a disappointment. After all the sudden whirl, Patrick decided to formally back out of joining the Journey. I might have done the same, myself, if it had been an option when I first experienced the hectic pace and distressingly-malleable "planning" we live on. Luckily for me, however, I was in Oregon when I realized how difficult this really is; Patrick was only a few miles from home. So, he's going to visit his girlfriend and start his job, as planned. We move on without him.
I haven't seen much of Patrick the last few years; but each time I'm impressed by how much he's grown up. I think a trip like this might have given me some insight into the man who almost certainly isn't the same little boy I grew up with. He guarded his privacy during high school and college, and changed a lot. I hope some other opportunity comes up in our lifetimes.
Jiggety-Jig
Patrick drove me home after White Earth, giving me a chance to spend a night in my own bed. It was pretty surreal suddenly being home. There was no "break" with the previous schedule -- heck, the previous LIFE I had been living. One minute I was on my knees by the feet of a presenter, frantically trying to rewire their microphone so their voice stopped distorting; the next I was in my living room. It was surprisingly jarring.
Tigger had been buried the previous day. I went out and looked at the spot for a while, although there was little to see: just some disturbed earth, no different from the half-dozen holes dug by our puppy in the front lawn. Oorto seems skittish and hides from imaginary threats by crawling under furniture. Mom suggests that she misses the sense of security her physically much-larger brother provided. Poor Oorto. She seemed to appreciate any attention I could give her.
A week or so back, Patrick had offered to join the Journey as we passed through Minnesota. He would be a volunteer, and would even pay his own way with lodgings and meals. Well, lodgings shouldn't be a problem, as I had double beds to myself most nights, anyways. His goal would be to help me drive and keep an eye on the sound quality. When it was first brought up to the group, it was dismissed out-of-hand. Everyone was exhausted and overworked, and I think the thought of even a tiny increase in coordination was overwhelming. I passed the information on to Patrick, and he made other plans.
At White Earth, he helped out with photography and clean-up, and must have done something impressive because the issue was suddenly brought up again. In fact, he received a formal invitation to join. Now back home, he's on-the-fence about what to do. He's got about 24 hours to decide before we're gone again. I think he's smarting a little from the first rebuff, plus he's scheduled his new job to start and planned a weekend getaway with his girlfriend. To use Mom's pun: he'd go in a second if not for those reservations.
Hehe... good one, Mom.
Unfortunately, there's no sign of the tapes I ordered or the tripod I left in Anadarko which was supposed to be mailed to me. The rest of the Journey is going to have to be without a microphone stand; and I'll have $400 worth of tapes sitting in my room when I get back, plus I'll have to buy another $400 worth on-the-road. Grumble, grumble...
6/10 WHITE EARTH [Minnesota]
Car problems in Minnesota: "Didja check your oil?" (GOOD)
What I do remember is that my family drove down to attend; it was very good to see them all again. This is also the first time I'd seen Patrick in a long time, and he didn't seem terribly miffed that I'd missed his college graduation a few days earlier.
My mother is much smaller than Don.
Two elders look at... something?
The ceremony ended with the gift of two bricks to Don: relics from the ruins of the original boarding school in White Earth. I think I've captured the exact moment where Don realized he didn't have any idea what he was supposed to do with two bricks.
Seriously, though, we're going to take them to Washington, have them blessed, then bring them back. They will become part of White Earth's proposed "Healing Wall," based on the Vietnam Wall. Each brick will have a story or something -- these two will form part of the foundation.
6/9 FLANDREAU [South Dakota]
This was a somewhat-unscheduled stop. It wasn't part of our original intinerary, certainly, and never even got added to the White Bison website. As I understand it, there was a strong request from Flandreau that we stop by; even if just for a moment. This gets routed through several proper channels before it reaches our ears (and it reaches my ears a day after everyone else's), and we're left with a sense of a "strong request" without much information about who or where it came from: the city council, a corp of volunteers, the school board, or a single lonely shut-in who thought he was ordering pizza over the phone.
Caption: Flandreau was pretty awesome, I guess. Yeah.
Caption: Sid was great.
Rest In Peace, Wade Johnson
Far Right: Wade Johnson. Also shown: The other two members of the wiped-out base camp.
http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5j9XeNbDfzG_-BTaVgvW1u7avC7dAD98MKACG2
I didn't know Wade well, but we'd crossed paths a couple of times over the years -- enough that I recognized his picture almost immediately. He was very outdoorsy, and worked at the climbing wall. I think I might have taken a lesson on rock climbing from him, once. We had a film class together, although I'm not sure we ever spoke. I'm pretty sure he cooked some food for a fundraiser that I attended at one point.
So, I suppose I really didn't know Wade much at all; but even now, in another lifetime and several years later, I still have a clear impression of someone who loved adventure, who had great enthusiasm for the natural world, and who was just generally a good sort of guy. To leave that impression, after our brief time together, speaks well of him.
And he was, I just learned, a fellow filmmaker. A filmmaker in search of the story on that mountain, killed by an avalanche when he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. According to the paper, he was trained and skilled at mountain safety; one expert was quoted as saying, "Sometimes [. . .] you just get unlucky."
What could be more tragic? Struck down by bad luck on the side of a mountain. Just pure bad luck.
Rest in Peace, Wade.
Wagons East, Over the Exact Same Path
Leaving behind the worthless cul-de-sac that was (and is) Rapid City, we crossed the entire state of South Dakota, again, trying to get back on the path that we'd abandoned to make a special trip for some reason.
I listened to music, loudly, and screamed all the lyrics I knew. When we reached our stop, I slept in all my clothes and was out for a long, long time.
Things seemed better in the morning. I was ready to face the world again, and it didn't look quite so gloomy anymore.
Sioux Falls is home to Scooter's Coffee, which proudly boasts "The World's Worst Coffee and Tea," at least according to Don, Marlin, Wayne, and Maria. I can't verify it, myself, as I sat in the car listening to music that particular day. Scooter's Coffee was bad-mouthed for days, and has a chance of slowly growing into an urban legend.
Most mornings, we stop at Starbucks; irregardless of what I say or whether I come in or not, Marlin buys me a Strawberry Frappuchino. He's a nice guy, that Marlin. As best as I can tell, it's really just a shake -- except it's for breakfast, has caffeine, and costs more. I can't see myself going out of my way to get one, but if Marlin's going to keep handing them to me, I'm willing to count it as one of the perks of the job; besides showing how concerned Marlin is that I'm not left out of the morning coffee run. That feels kinda nice, too.
6/8 MOTHER BUTLER CENTER [Rapid City, SD]
To his day, I have yet to come up with a good thing to say about Rapid City, South Dakota. I've been trying for years.
Looking at my pictures, I guess some people spoke. I don't remember anything of what they said. Then it was time to drive back across the entire state of South Dakota for our next ceremony. I couldn't remember what I was doing on this trip. I wanted out. I wanted a full night's sleep. I wanted to bury my cat. I wanted to show up in a town and feel welcomed; to work hard for the benefit of appreciative people. I wanted badly to shoot some film in something other than "live" conditions; to not have my labors give fruit to hours of film with ugly backgrounds, inconsistent lights, and speakers who wander around while they talk, going in-and-out of focus and dropping out of the frame entirely if I happen to be tending the other camera.
Wagons West
Somewhere around here it started to sink in that our schedule was impossible. We needed to be on opposite ends of South Dakota, and we couldn't do it unless HQ finally bought us that jet we'd been asking for. So, with a flurry of increasingly stressed-out phone calls, it was decided that Rapid City, SD, wanted us more than Morris, MN, and we set out from the eastern end of the state all the way over to Rapid City. This was, mind you, a full day of driving done with the knowledge that we'd need to cross the whole distance again to get back on track.
Maria rode with me, ostensibly to cheer me up; I was pretty bummed out about Tigger. She had an amazing computer gadget thingy that gave her decent Internet in places where I couldn't so much as make a phone call. Realizing I'd need tapes, I dictated step-by-step instructions for finding and ordering the correct tapes through Amazon while she followed along. This distracted us for long enough that we were some forty-five minutes down the road before we realized that the other two cars had stopped miles and miles back.
It took a few hours to get everyone back together. We stopped for them, and they overshot, then we caught up to their new stopping place, but couldn't find them... Anyways, watch out for snakes.
edit: between this picture and the one from Genoa, I'm starting to get an appreciation for what lousy resolution Blogger supports. You can't read it, now, but that sign reads "Beware of Poisonous Snakes." I'm pretty unhappy, overall, with how Blogger handles pictures. I suppose that's what you get with a free service...
Double edit: Maybe these work better.
Addendum
The upstairs of the Industrial School in Genoa was divided into a number of sections, recreating the room were students made leather products (child labor), where they "studied" (about making leather products), and a few other important rooms from daily life at the school.
The upstairs was strangely uncomfortable, and I didn't like being up there alone. I can't quite put my finger on it, but something was wrong in some way. Even the photographs are kind of "off." When I look at this picture, I get the feeling that there's something in it I'm not seeing.
I don't like it.
6/6 INDIAN INDUSTRIAL SCHOOL [Genoa, NE]
We swung north afterwards, and made one brief stop in Nebraska. The poetically-named Indian Industrial School had been turned into a museum many years before; and we made a quick sweep of the grounds, saying prayers for the children who had died there. Evidence indicates that they were buried nearby, but their bodies have never been found. An unmarked mass grave is not out of the question -- it's a practice that's been done elsewhere, and there's no sign of so much as little wooden cross anywhere.
Life in The Kansas
I caught a couple of hours of sleep after the ceremony finished, then jerked awake as my slumbering brain finally put two and two together. Initially, I had thought the town, itself, was called "Haskell." Then, around noon, I had realized that it was actually "Lawrence." At 9 PM, while dozing, I realized why the name sounded familiar.
