Category Archives: memories

Peacock Pandemic

#myculturemystory, culture, memories, peacocks, travel, West Bengal, ,

It all started with the Emotional Support Peacock.

The news of its owner trying to wrangle her bird onto a United flight broke the same day our Communities Connecting Heritage program group left for Kolkata, India.  In our giddy state of excitement about the trip, we all giggled heartily about the ridiculousness of the idea.

When we got to India, we immediately began seeing images of peacocks – everywhere, including a huge photo of one near the baggage claim of the Kolkata airport.  Were peacocks following us?  Or were we just hyper sensitive to them in the near-out-of-body-experience of having flown halfway across the world on very little sleep?  

Well, it turns out, the peacock is the National Bird of India.  It also figures prominently in Hindu mythology.   As we traveled around West Bengal, I started taking photos of all the peacock images we saw.

 

My favorite was a saucy peacock depicted in a small scroll painting which I purchased in Naya Village, serving as the conveyance of one of the Hindu gods who is carrying an arrow.  (This is probably Kartikeya or Murugan, god of war, but depending on which story you want to go with, there could be some other contenders.)   

Our colleague Ananya in Kolkata recently sent us some English translations of baul songs, which we had been asking about.  As I read through the first one, I found – you guessed it – reference to peacocks.  Here is the excerpt:

“What color is your cottage/on the shore of this bogus world?/The frame of your home is made of bones/and the roof is thatched with skin./But the pair of peacocks/on the landing-pier/hardly know that/they will end one day.”

I’m not sure exactly what that means, though I know it has something to do with the bauls believing that god lives within us.  But it is beautiful poetry, especially the peacock part.

The very next song started with this phrase – I kid you not –

“If you wish to board an airplane/you must travel light/to be safe from the danger of a crash.”

Perhaps the United Airlines personnel who banned the Emotional Support Peacock from that flight had been listening to the bauls, as should we all.

West Bengal Chronicles, Part Five (and Last): Search for the Church and Other Kolkata Final Adventures

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The last day of our grand adventure in West Bengal had come, and after some administrative business in the Contact Base offices, we set off by car to the teaming commercial center of the Bara Bazar to find a historic Armenian church.   The driver got us to the approximate location of Armenian Street, after the first set of location negotiations among people on the street.  He let us out to fine-tune the directions on foot.

The next set of location negotiations took us along the busy main drag, lined with merchandise (ranging from cosmetics to underwear to toys to plastic containers of all sizes and shapes) from the sides of cars and the backs of trucks.  The more well established sellers lined the narrow streets which we hurried down in search of Armenian Street, which seemed to be at the center of a maze of alleyways.  The variety of colors, sounds, smells and the level of activity was exhilarating, but we did not pause for purchasing since we were on a mission.

We nearly missed the doors leading into the churchyard, which was wedged between shops and announced by a small plaque.  Inside the double wooden doors stood the large church and burial ground.  We were not allowed to take photos, so check out these to see what we were rewarded with by sticking to our quest.

Having whet our appetite for sacred building searches, we set out to find a synagog that was reputed to be nearby.  This took yet another set of location negotiations, leading to a staircase off the main street that seemed highly unlikely to lead to any sort of holy edifice.  But, having faith, we climbed up and found not one but two synagogs, the second even more large and impressive than the first.  There are apparently not enough Jews in Kolkata to maintain the synagogues, and the larger of the two has just been beautifully restored to be used as a venue for concerts and other public events.

After a quick tour of the synagogues, we set out for our final touring destination, the sacred river of the Ganges.  It being Valentines Day, the park we walked through to get to the Princep Ghat (flight of stairs leading to the river) was full of young lovers, and we even witnessed a proposal.  The breeze was fresh, the vista of the wide river and imposing bridge was majestic, but alas, we only had a few short minutes to gaze and contemplate.

All too soon, we dashed for the car and headed back to our guest house to pack for our return home.  We took a quick side excursion to one of Kolkata’s most tantalizing sweet shops, so that we could bring home actual sweets as well as sweet memories from our two weeks in West Bengal.

 

 

West Bengal Chronicles, Part Three: Songs at Sunset

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As the sun descended, and the warm day gave way to a fresh-breezed evening, our small group folded ourselves down on cloth mats in a open-sided hut fashioned of bamboo.  We had come to share music with bauls from Joydev Kenduli.

We had met the two brothers taking the lead on the visit, Sudhu and Kangal Das, earlier in our trip when they participated in the Sur Jahan festival in Kolkata.  I had instantly liked them — because they are infinitely likable, resembling two colorfully dressed teddy bears who smile a lot and sing like angels.  So, here we were in their village, listening to spiritual songs accompanied by stringed instruments, drums, and bells.

The approach to this peaceful oasis had come through a wave of choking dust kicked up along the wide dry river bed by what seemed like a never-ending sea of trucks.  I recall thinking that this could not possibly be the home of the bauls, whose music is joyous and meditative.  But, here we were, a short distance from the town, overlooking that same river bed from a whole different perspective.

Notice I said “sharing music” because despite the fact that most of our US-based group were self-professed non-musicians, we had been asked to sing an American song.  I was, not so secretly, dreading this part of the evening, but I was the one who came up with the song that we should sing.  Woody Guthrie’s This Land is Your Land fit the mood somehow, evoking landscape and espousing freedom, although with typical Guthrie irony.  None of us could remember more than the first two of the seven verses, but we all joined in bravely and the bauls took over with the instrumentals once they caught the melody.

I wanted that evening to go on forever, despite the fact that I was hungry and I really had to go to the bathroom.  Bodily needs could wait while the music floated on the air and we sat, swaying to the hypnotic songs and strings.  But we finally had to unfold ourselves and walk by cell phone flashlight back toward the harsh glare of the main road.  But, writing this weeks later, I feel as though a tiny piece of that evening lodged comfortably in my heart and will hopefully remain there for good.

 

Keeping Christmas

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The Dynamic Gingerbread Trio – Katie, Khamo and I – just finished our goopy, inedible creation, which we’ve been meaning to make for about a week now, or at least in time for Russian (Orthodox) Christmas (January 7).  Inedible because it is a kit that I purchased for $1.50 at after Christmas sales about five years ago.  The “ready to use” frosting was so hard that we had to revive it with hot water to make it usable, and it smelled nasty.

But who cares?  We laughed a lot, we got creative with frosting and garish candies, and we extended that holiday feeling into the darkest and gloomiest (and lately the coldest) part of the year.  That’s what “keeping Christmas” is all about.

We were also late, but not that late, with our tree, which has become a new holiday tradition at our house.   We spend Christmas (the December 25th version) with my mom, sister and brother in law in Hilton Head, SC.  It is usually about 75 and not feeling at all like Christmas, the only “white” part being the beach sand.  When we return to Arlington on the 26th, we start the ritual of finding a Christmas tree – on the street.

Yes, there are people who ditch their tree the day after Christmas, as sad as that might seem.  (They are probably the ones who put it up on Thanksgiving Day.)  Poor, forlorn trees thrown to the curb, sometimes with a bit of tinsel or some missed ornament clinging to them.  We pick one and give it a new life as our Christmas tree.  I like to think they are happy to have a second life in our living room.  Soon enough they will be turned into mulch, why not give them a little reprieve?

So, my advice, don’t let Christmas go too soon.  Keep the feeling of creativity, togetherness, and light as long as you can – all year if possible.  But maybe don’t wait five years to use your gingerbread house kit.

 

Falling for Southern France, Part Four (final)

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We returned from France over over a month ago, but still the memories linger and must have their due.  Here, the fourth and final installment finds us on our last full day of the trip in Sete, a small maritime city near Montpellier.

The first thing upon arriving is to find your way to the top – a challenging climb up steep streets and steps to the highest point, Mount St. Clair.  The elevation is a mere 574 feet, but the view is spectacular and lays Sete’s waterways out for you so that they make sense.  To the right, the Mediterranean.  To the left, Etang de Thau, a sort of large lake or lagoon.  And, in the middle, bisecting the town, a series of canals connecting the two.  Water, water, everywhere.

Because that climb up and back down will surely make you hungry, the next thing to do is to find a spot at one of the long string of canalside cafes.  If the weather is fine, as it was the day we were there, finding a seat around lunch time at one of the outdoor portions of the cafe may involve an awkward wait.  Seeing as most of these cafes seem chronically understaffed, also expect a leisurely experience once you are seated.

That said, the local seafood is worth it all no matter which cafe you end up at, and the menus are all very similar.  The most famous local dish is a sort of octopus pie which is called tielle setoise.  We got the last one in the cafe that day, and savored every bite of the salty crusty tomatoey minced octopusiness of it.   Mussels were also on offer, mine steamed and M.E.’s in a rich tomato sauce with sausage.   Water all around you, seafood inside your tummy…how much better does it get?

There is apparently a nice art museum in Sete, and a lighthouse which we saw from afar, but we didn’t make it to either.  We opted instead for wandering around the town, up and down the canals, poking into some shops and a modern art exhibition, snapping pictures of sites along the water.  Here, a pile of fishing nets.  There, a row of Crayola colored small boats for rent.  Trying to capture the essence of the last place, the last day, of our wondrous trip.

I boarded the train back to Montpellier that afternoon with mixed emotions.  Tomorrow we would be making the long trek back to our normal lives via train to Paris and flight home.  It would be good to be home, but I felt as though I was leaving a part of me behind somehow.  The intrepid traveler who “conquered” this portion of southern France.  The adoring Mom who got the rare gift of spending protracted time with her grown daughter and loving every minute of sharing this part of the world with her.


Adieu, France, and thanks for opening your welcoming southern arms to us.

 

 

 

Falling for Southern France, Part Two: Carcassonne

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Carcassonne – the word rolls off one’s tongue in a whisper.  To many, the Medieval walled portion of this bustling city is an item on their “bucket list.”  Others know it only as a board game.  It is a wonderful place to spend a vacation day.  (Next time I would stay longer, because it is hard to take it all in during just one day.)

We started our adventure by parking near the train station, which is close to the Canal du Midi – which figures later in the story – and setting out for the walled city.  In all the photos you see of the walled city (which is situated as every fortification worth its salt on a high and formidable hill) one would assume that it must loom up from the more modern part, and that you should be able to see it from everywhere you look.  Not so.

You walk and walk through the lower portion, past attractive shops, cafes and parks, and finally catch a glimpse of the ramparts high above, across the Aude River.  Your first thought is, how the heck do we get way up there?  Following the crowd that is inevidibly climbing the same way is one method.  A young person adept at smart phone way-finding is another.

However you get up there, you must climb steep pathways or series of stairs, but as usual in this part of the world, it is well worth it.  Once you reach the inner walls, you find yourself accosted by gift shops, tourist attractions such as The Torture Museum, and cafes touting the ever-present cassoulet (reportedly invented in this region of France and featuring enough types of meat to make you want to become a vegetarian after a close encounter with it).

You can merely stroll around the walls, which offer lovely views of the hills in the distance, or you can go the historical interpretation route of a visit to the Chateau Comtal, the inner residence of the aristocracy of the city, which is now a museum.  (Even on a non-tourist heavy weekday, the line to enter this inner sanctum is long and slow, especially around lunch time, so maybe take the advice of some Trip Advisors and get tickets ahead.  Also, some of the ramparts are closed between 11:30 and 2 for some strange reason.)

The chateau is a maze of enchanting stairs  and towers that you wish would go on and on forever.  Here, a view of over the tiled roof to the courtyard.  There, a peak through some arrow slits.  Windows open to the bracing wind of the Midi, and views of the mountains beyond.  Even though the useful interpretive slide show at the beginning of the tour reminds us that much of the walled city was reconstructed, it still feels as though you are transported back to the heyday of the 12th century, before a hoard of Northerners laid siege to the castle and brought its inhabitants (including those notorious heretical Cathars) to their knees.

I must admit, my whole experience was colored by the reading of Kate Mosse’s romantic historical novel The Labyrinth, which is required reading before a visit to Carcassonne in my mind (thanks, Hanna!).  Though reading these Goodreads reviews, you might be tempted to skip it, I recommend wading through if you like your historical background sprinkled with plenty of blood, lust, intrigue and time travel.

We finally, and reluctantly, left the walled city and headed back to the canal for another history lesson wrapped in a relaxed boat ride.  The Canal du Midi is part of a system that runs from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean.  You can take a commercial boat ride along it, or actually pilot your own canal boat for a leisurely holiday, which may be tempting some day with the right cast of characters.

As you glide down the plane tree lined canal a guide gives you excellent background information, you go through a lock to find out how those work, and you have a lovely rest stop at an old inn.  A whole different view from the rugged walled city, which you could not see from the part of the canal we toured.  It seemed something we had dreamed instead of actually having visited just hours before.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brunswick Stew Three Ways

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Brunswick stew is an amalgamation of vegetables, meat, and other stuff.  And it shall eventually be the subject of this post.

This past weekend, as part of our 27th anniversary celebration, my husband and I ventured westward out toward the Blue Ridges.  On Saturday we visited Staunton, Virginia (looks like “Stawn-ton” but pronounced “Stan-ton” by the natives), home of Mary Baldwin College, the Woodrow Wilson birthplace and library, and Blackfriar’s Shakespeare Theater.  We did not encounter Brunswick stew there.

The concoction was featured on Sunday, when we attended the 2017 Apprenticeship Showcase of the Virginia Folklife Program.  As per usual, one of the finalists of the annual Brunswick stew championship of Virginia, the Proclamation Stew Crew from, of course, Brunswick County, were there stirring their gigantic pot and offering generous helpings for $1.00 a bowl.  Who could resist?

This reminded me not only of the time the crew came to the 2007 Smithsonian Folklife Festival to slave over their hot cauldron for hours, but also a recent and not nearly as satisfying encounter with a so-called Brunswick Stew at a barbecue concession in the Charlotte, NC airport.  It was pretty terrible, consisting I think of all leftover bits of barbecue meat and veg from the sides that did not sell the day before all mashed together.

Which brings me to the final version of “Brunswick Stew” that I once inadvertently concocted during my Camp Randolph cooking days (see earlier post, Lake Effects, Part Three).  The former cook of Camp Randolph apparently used to cook up a full turkey dinner every Sunday (in the middle of the summer!) for the residents.  I compromised at a roast of some sort every Sunday, with turkey being featured every other week.    Still, turkey leftovers were rampant and had to be addressed.

One Friday, I took bits of turkey and mixed them up with the leftover stuffing, some vegetables, and gravy and served it as a sort of, well, stew.  “Marvy Brunswick stew!” declared one of the residents, and I had no idea what he was talking about.

Till years later, when I discovered the authentic Virginia version.  Because, though Georgians also claim the stew was first created there, in my opinion the Virginia version reigns supreme.

 

Musing on the Museum of Appalachia

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A couple of weekends ago, I was visiting my old friends Bobby and Teresa Fulcher in East Tennessee, one of my old stomping grounds and the inspiration for my novel, Seasonal.  Bobby, who had served as my supervisor on the Tennessee State Parks Folklife Project in summer of 1980, took me on a marathon nostalgia tour through the highways and byways of my youthful fieldwork days.  This included a tour of the Museum of Appalachia in Clinton, TN.

The Museum is a wonderfully eclectic collection of the stuff of life, with leanings toward old-timey, traditional items such as quilts, baskets, wittlings, weavings, and that sort of thing.  It is the brainchild and more or less obsession of John Rice Irwin, who I visited at least once during my summer research to get some leads.  Say what you will about John Rice (and some people have said a lot, not all of it positive), he amassed a collection of artifacts that boggle the mind and cause one to marvel at the unending creativity and skill of East Tennessee folk.  Interpretation is not a strong point, especially if one is looking for the unobjective curatorial view.  But, if you just want to see a whole lot of East Tennessee stuff from people’s barns, attics and hidey-holes, John Rice has assembled it here for your viewing pleasure.

I had interviewed some of the craftspeople and musicians represented, as Bobby pointed out.  Memories were cloudy on some of them, but others brought back fond memories, such as whiling away an afternoon chatting with former coal miner and woodworker Troy Webb and purchasing several of his amazing “water dog” carvings.

One object that captured my imagination was Asa Jackson’s Fabulous Perpetual Motion Machine dating back to the mid-1800s  The Museum allowed a gentleman named Dave Brown to study the wheel and sketch it extensively, resulting in a book, but apparently this has brought us no closer to knowing if the wheel, when in working order, really had the capability of creating perpetual motion.

The wheel for me is a sort of metaphor for the hyperactivity of collecting frenzy that John Rice Irwin himself must have been capable of before becoming too feeble to pursue his life’s work.

This item was not labeled and I still haven’t figured out what it might be. Any ideas??

The result is something that, like the machine, is a curiosity with no clear purpose but with a great wealth of largely untapped and possibly unending potential.  Just what will become of The Museum of Appalachia and its vast collection in the future is unclear.  So, if you find yourself in East Tennessee with several hours of leisure, make a visit while it is still intact.  Be prepared to be amazed.

Sound Memories I: Pop-Pop’s Song

Round Barn Press blog

Every now and then, I a little ditty pops into my head.  It is one of the few sound memories I have of my grandfather, Albert James Belanus, Sr., who died when I was about seven years old.  I remember him as a tall, slim Dutchman from Northern New Jersey with a shock of white hair and bushy black eyebrows.  He sometimes ate cold rice with milk and sugar.  He loved Christmas and he and my grandmother spoiled us rotten buying toys with their Christmas Club money.

Anyhow,  he used to sing a little song that I only figured out was a naughty song years and years later, after he was long buried.  I realized then why he got a twinkle in his eye when he sang it. I don’t think my sister remembers it, or maybe this was something between Pop-Pop and me.   It went something like this, in my memory:

A-sol, a-sol, a-soldier boy was he (repeat)

He had two pis- two pistols on his knee (repeat)

There might have been more, but that is all I recall, except for a sort of chorus that sounded to me like “And step, comarade, and step comarade, and step tra-la-la-la.”  Which led me to believe that maybe it was a marching song for actual soldiers, though my grandfather was never a soldier.

It never occurred to me to search for other versions on the internet.  (And I call myself a folklorist?)  But, here it is, and here, along with discussions about its origins and alternative versions.  (I can see now why my grandfather might have edited out some of the additional verses for my little ears.)  Seems as if it might have started as a soldier’s song and then made it’s way to the playground.  Where my grandfather learned it, we will never know.  But, it is so ingrained in my memory that I recall it more than 50 years later.

The power of music, the power of memory, the power of love.

Senses and Memories Part Two: As the Stomach Turns

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Earlier this week, I ate a weird combination of foods and ended up with an upset stomach. The next day, I turned to my go-to comfort food to calm it down:  noodles with butter and a generous sprinkling of salt, which to me is the definition of the term “totally bland but utterly delicious.”  

I also craved a Coke, and not just for the bubbles.  When we were kids, my mom used to give us “Coke syrup” when we had an upset stomach.  Yes, this was a thing back in the day, and you can still get it at sales outlets that market nostalgia like the Vermont Country Store.

  No scientific proof, apparently, confirms Coke, flat or bubbly, in syrup form or straight from the can or bottle, as an actual cure for an upset stomach.  But, as this web site points out, it may make you FEEL BETTER none the less, if, for instance, your mom used to give it to you as a kid for this purpose.  One trusts one’s mom to know what she’s doing when you are young, right?  When she said, “This will make you feel better,” in a soothing voice, you were bound to at least attempt to feel better.

What foods and/or drinks from your childhood ease a crummy tummy?