Monthly Archives: July 2013

Kemmerer’s Music Festival – Oyster Ridge

Are you looking for a barrel of fun for the weekend? Not much money? Need a break where you can be yourself and feel perfectly comfortable? If you are in or near southwest Wyoming the Oyster Ridge Music Festival http://www.oysterridgemusicfestival.com/index.html is the place for you beginning Friday, July 26. This weekend marks the 20th year of the festival that swells the host area to nearly twice its population and gives the music lover an opportunity to sample the up-and-comers of  bluegrass, folk, blues, country and rock – most of it a mish-mash of many combined styles – musical bliss and it’s free!

Early on the going got pretty rough for the free music festival. The little town of Kemmerer, Wyoming is a sleepy haven of coal miners and ranchers speckled with a smattering of public service and government workers; not folks that typically engage in social musical entertainment. I recall driving by the Triangle Park in the late ‘90s, knowing that the music festival was in “high gear” with nary a soul in sight, the lonely band on the stage singing into the empty space. I looked on feeling sad and guilty, sad that yet another local celebration seemed to be dying before my eyes and guilt that I wasn’t contributing with my presence. I returned home after some errands to announce to my husband that we should be in the park supporting the musicians and the community.

“Maybe next year.” He said and went on with the work at hand.

“There might not BE a next year!” I retorted with some desperation.

Lucky for us there was a next year. We spread a large quilt on the grass of the park and positioned the family around to partake of the music. We delighted in the entertainment as we whiled away a Saturday in the summer sun. By evening everyone was up dancing barefoot in front of the bandstand. We went home with dirty feet and singing souls . . . we were hooked.

In the following years, we dropped all projects and plans so that we could wallow in the “Oystergrass”. It wasn’t long and we were volunteering, my husband at the beer booth and me at an information booth. When family came to visit we would drag them along drawing them into the musical revelry. Over the years we eagerly awaited ORMF saving back vacation days to fully enjoy the three days of music and merriment in the park – with an extra day off to recover on Monday. We watched as former residents would return for the community celebration, and always delighted in the many friends that gathered together over blankets and beer.

I brought Oystergrass to West Virginia with me on a bumper sticker that went the way of the dodo when my car was rear-ended several months ago. (Heidi, I need a new bumper sticker!) I also found a way to reuse those music festival t-shirts that had become ragged around the edges from so much wear – pillows. Leaving behind the people of Kemmerer and especially the Oyster Ridge Music Festival was more difficult than I could have imagined. There is a big blank space in my calendar for this coming weekend, an emptiness that I long to refill. Hopefully next year I can revisit and revive, but until then I will need to get by on the spirit of Oystergrass that I brought in my heart, the friendly spirit that gathering around music can bring. I hope to sprinkle it around the neighborhood a little and watch it grow.

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Sights and sounds of ORMF: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=GT7sXYiO9Bk

Frontier Treasures

Today was the first full day of the 2013 “Daddy of ‘em All” a title that probably means little to those outside of rodeo fans and the populace in and around Cheyenne, Wyoming, or maybe I don’t know the popularity of this annual extravaganza. The western celebration of rodeo, night shows, parades, pancakes, and a miscellany of carnival and hoopla is Cheyenne Frontier Days and it becomes part of your life in southeastern Wyoming. This ten-day event marks the middle of summer and it blisters with action nearly 24-hours each day.

As a child I eagerly awaited Frontier Days each year. It was a time filled with activity and wonder. I excitedly watched the parade from the downtown sidewalks admiring the trove of beautiful horses. I scrambled for bits of “gold” and “silver” thrown from the mining floats and thrilled at the mock outlaw shootouts. Every year we would stand waiting, for what seemed an eternity, to savor the sweet taste of free pancakes, ham, and juice served up by the local Kiwanis Club.  I have a few memories of watching the rodeos; these consist of dust flying and blurred images of legs – horse legs, cow legs, and legs of cowboys.

A child’s memory is a funny thing; it focuses on the immediate field of vision. That limited vision often gets a kid in trouble. My most striking childhood memory of Frontier Days is the visit to the “Indian Dance” which took place in the downtown streets. The tribal members would set up in the round and entertain the crowd with traditional song and dance. As the culminating event, the children in the audience were invited to join in the round and dance alongside the tribe members in their beautiful beaded costumes. I couldn’t have been much more than five-year’s old when I ventured into the swirling cloud of fringe and feathers. The drums thump-thumping, the women’s voices in high, hollow chorus and the throaty chant from the men filled my ears. I stomped and spun along with the crowd. When the dance was over I looked around for my parents, but they were nowhere in sight. The drumming continued, but now it came from my heart as panic ensued. I felt breathless and confused, the world was spinning, but I was standing still. My eyes welled up with tears. All I could see was the blurry figures of the tribe members, the beauty of their beaded costumes washed away in my frightened confusion.

Suddenly I was swept up in the arms of my father, who had never taken his eyes off of me. He came to my rescue and brought me back to the safe grasp of my mother’s gentle hand.

I don’t remember ever joining the dance again. I remained satisfied with the safe sideline activities, especially the parade. I loved horses and dreamed of riding one in that parade one day. I never did ride a horse in the parade, but I got something much better.

“Oh, look at that cute little boy on that great big horse.” My mom pointed out to the street at one of the boys from a local riding group. I didn’t think much of the boy at that time in my life, but the horse was great.

Many, many years later my mind’s eye looks back on the parade and the little boy who became the love of my life and is my husband today. Little did I know what treasure existed at the Cheyenne Frontier Days Parade.

See more about Cheyenne Frontier Days here: http://www.cfdrodeo.com/home

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The Rules of Golf

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There is a commercial on TV that features a popular professional golf player chastising a casual golfer who has just kicked his ball away from a tree. This cracked me up the very first time I watched. That commercial goes through my head every time I go out on the course. There are several beautiful golf courses here in Morgantown. I’ve had the pain and pleasure of playing three of them. Pain because I am a beginner and they are difficult for me to play and pleasure because each is lovely and I enjoy playing golf. This is a surprising phrase as I “never” thought I would actually go out and play the game. Rule #1: Never say “never”.

My first attempts at using a set of golf clubs came in high school. I was not an athlete; so when the choices available for our P.E. class were coed volleyball, field hockey, or golf, I determined that golf presented the least likely scenario for broken bones and signed up. Week 1: learn to grip the club and practice swinging at an imaginary ball – wow; I was pretty good at this already! Week 2: place a REAL ball on a rubber mat in front of you and hit it. This was my downfall; no matter how hard I tried I simply could not hit that little ball. Week 3 came and went; my classmates were learning different clubs and perfecting their swing, I still hadn’t hit the ball. Week 4: field trip to the local golf course to apply what was learned. I, however, was left behind at the school to continue to attempt to hit the ball. So, as you may have deduced, I never hit the ball. In the instructor’s words, “Maybe you shouldn’t play this game.” Rule #2: Learn in the right atmosphere with someone who can give you valuable insight.

In all my years in Wyoming I never attempted to play golf again, but I didn’t feel that I was missing too much. The weather was usually prohibitive and the courses that I was familiar with were not very scenic. My husband liked to play and enjoyed the game with his many friends all over the state.  So when he bought a golf glove, I wondered why; when he bought shoes, I thought he was going a bit overboard; and when he shelled out “big bucks” for a new driver and 3-wood – well you can imagine my dismay.

About a year ago I tried again to hit a little white ball off of a tee on a West Virginia golf course. This time I used a club from my youngest son’s junior set and had a few tips from my ever-patient husband. The club face came down and actually connected with the ball, it didn’t travel far but I was as giddy as if it had gone several hundred yards! Each consecutive attempt drew me further into a pastime that I hadn’t considered pursuing. Soon I had clubs (shared with my youngest), a hand-me-up glove (also from the youngest), and a good pair of golf shoes. Rule #3: Buy the correct equipment.

My husband and I play a few holes nearly every evening and we truly enjoy this activity together. I’m learning the rules and when scoring must take extra strokes for balls lost, hit out of play and into the pond. The game is a sine curve of ups and downs for me, but the challenge of developing my game within the rules is enjoyable.  Rule #4: Follow the rules and have fun.

As you can see these rules of golf apply in pretty much any situation. Take a chance and try (or try again), get good guidance and tools, and maintain integrity for the best experience. I consider this life lesson while looking down on my ball in the tall grass of the rough.

“Go ahead and fluff that ball up a bit, everyone else does.” My husband suggests as I pull my 5-iron from the bag.

I reply, “Rule #13 – The ball must be played as it lies.”

 

Popo’s Stories from Home

Dad was born in Morgantown, West Virginia; his beginnings are right here in the place that I now experience as home. He lived many of his formative years in the community of Parsons, West Virginia. Parsons sits among the hills at the confluence of the Shavers Fork and Black Fork creeks at the headwaters of the Cheat River.  Parsons is the place that my dad identifies as the roots of his life, what he would call his first home.

The word home identifies the place where you hang your hat, or take off your work clothes or eat your supper, but the meaning of home is so much more. Home may be where you feel most relaxed, or where you go to get renewed. Home may be where you started your life or where you are right now. Home, for most of us, is where our family gathers to share, and laugh, and cry. Most of all, I think, home is where your heart continues to venture whether in being or memory, it goes there when life is good and mainly when life kicks you in the teeth.

In all of the places that I’ve called home, my dad has graced the space within the walls with his stories. The better part of the tales comes from the times in his youth running among the hickory and beech trees in Parsons. He recalls the antics of family and friends in a less complicated world where the kids were kicked out of the house in the morning and spent the day fashioning adventures of every type from the pickings of the earth. Most of the stories would get us all laughing to the point where our sides were sore. Mainly, his stories painted a picture of a world that is all but gone now, memories of people who passed through his life and became, briefly, part of ours.

In my home, and that of all my sisters, dad is called “Popo”, a term of endearment he gave himself upon the birth of the first grandson. So the stories retold under “Popo’s Porch Stories” are his, with some minor fabrication where I can’t recall the details, or need to add a name or keep an identity private. This is the living tribute to a gentle man who continues to be a giant in the eyes of his daughters and his grandchildren.

Dad, I hope you like these in the retelling.

Popo’s Swimming Story

Grandpaw had lots of rules, especially when it came to Jimmy and me. This was probably due to the fact that neither of us stood taller than his belt buckle and our combined age was less than his dog’s. We knew the rule, but today was the hot, muggy West Virginia summer day that makes the rules melt right out of your head. Grandmaw and all the big kids were otherwise occupied, so we hiked down to the swimming hole on the Cheat River together. Like I said, this went cross-wise to Grandpaw’s rules, “No swimming alone.” Alone meant without the big kids or an adult, but no one was watching, so who would know? We’d spend the day in the cool water and be back by supper.

We reached the bank of the swimming hole and I stuck my big toe in the water. The cool feeling traveled up the bottom of my foot as I stepped in.

“Stop!” Jimmy hollered at me, “Are you stupid? You gotta take your clothes off so we don’t get all wet and get in trouble.”

Since he was a bit older than me, and a hair taller, I knew that his advice was sound. We stripped down to our skivvies, carefully laid our shorts and shirts on the bushes and then jumped into the cool stream. The water washed the sticky day off my skin. I splashed Jimmy and he dove under, in a flash my feet were pulled out from under me and I fell backwards into the drink. We swam and played like this without regard to the passing of the day. After a while my grumbling belly made me think that it was probably getting toward supper time. “Jimmy, I’m getting hungry. Maybe we should get home.” We reluctantly trudged up the bank and gingerly pulled our dry clothes off of the bushes. Our dripping skivvies would dry as we walked up toward home. We meandered along up the hill and started up the dirt road towards Grandmaw’s house. I heard a rumble behind us and turned to see Mr. Sidlinton in his Ford pickup coming up the road.

“You boys need a ride?” Mr. Sidlinton’s low slow voice rolled over his arm through the open window of the driver door.

“Yes, sir.” Jimmy immediately replied.

Looking us over, Mr. Sidlinton said. “Looks like you boys better jump in the back.”

We climbed into the bed of the truck. Once seated, we thought it best we get our clothes back on since we were now making very good time back up to Grandmaw’s house. It didn’t take long and the truck was rolling to a stop. I peeped over the side of the truck bed to see Grandpaw taking his boots off on the back porch.

“I believe I have something that belongs to you.” Mr. Sidlinton droned out the window to Grandpaw. “Take a look in the back.”

Grandpaw’s face appeared over the tailgate. His brow furrowed and his mouth moved into a deep frown. “You boys get out and meet me on the porch.” His voice was stern. He thanked Mr. Sidlinton and soon stood in front of Jimmy and me on the porch.

“You boys been swimming?” His voice was low and serious. I shook my head, no. I could feel my face tingling. The realization hit that my drawers were soaked – we didn’t have the drying time that was planned for the walk home. “Dickie? Jimmy? Are you boys fibbing to me? Why are your clothes all wet?” My head started to spin, I couldn’t keep up the lie, but Jimmy broke first, “But, but, Grandpaw it was so hot, and . . . “

“Jimmy, you know the rule. Get over to that apple tree and break me off a switch.”

Jimmy walked over and broke off a twig no bigger than his finger and presented it to Grandpaw.

Grandpaw frowned, “That won’t do and you know it, get me a better switch.” This time he followed Jimmy to the tree. I stood watching the show. This was getting good. I must have snickered, because Grandpaw shot back over his shoulder, “Dickie, you’re next.”

What!? Panic shot up from my feet to my head and back down again. I zipped into the kitchen where Grandmaw was still cooking supper.

“Save me, Grandmaw! Save me!” I cried mournfully all the while listening to Jimmie’s howling in the back yard. She didn’t have time to react, Grandpaw was through the door. I hid behind her skirt as he came in.

“That boy’s due for a switching so let me at him.”

I didn’t wait for the reply; I scurried under the kitchen table, my heart racing.

“Dickie, you come out and get what your due.” Grandpaw lumbered over to the end of the table, but I scrambled to the other side just as he reached under. I knew if he caught me, I was a gonner. He followed around the side, I could see his feet. So off I went, back to the other end. Back and forth this chase went on all the while I could hear Grandpaw’s deep, stern tone, “Dickie, you come out. When I catch you, I’m gonna tan your hide. Get out here and take your medicine.” It all ran together mixed with the thumping of my heart in my ears.

“You are never going to catch that boy and you know it.” Grandmaw chided. Little did I know that she was gasping with laughter at the scene.

“Well I’m hungry, and this is taking too long.” Grandpaw sat down in his chair to eat and I cowered on the other end of the table, watching for any movement toward me. The world slowed as I watched Grandpaw’s feet while he ate. I lay down on the floor and his feet started to blur.

I woke up to the dark, quiet of the house. Everyone was asleep. I climbed the stairs and slipped into bed next to Jimmy. My fanny didn’t sting, but the whole incident scared me near to death. My eyes fixed on the open window, I could smell the heat of the day coming off of the trees, and I thought of the cool water in the swimming hole as I drifted off to sleep.