Ooga Booga Nights

I pulled into The Hairy Mosquito’s parking lot with a blazing heaven of a sunset behind the silo in front of me. To the east of me the clouds were dark and were showing off a spectacular lightning jig. A storm was coming. That was clear. But the sunset on the horizon in the west settled me comfortably as the wheels of my car rolled in on the gravel.

When I stepped out of my car, I was out to find my friend who had gone for a walk down a tractor path. I walked by the side of the pawn shop and found artisans hard at work, carving away on stones, making arrowheads. They had tables of arrowheads for sale, all made out of different colored stones. Some of them were rather breath taking. I looked at them closely, my imagination suddenly binding them to the end of a shaft of wood with a feather tail, and placed upon a bow in the hands of an Ojibwa long, long ago.

A live band was playing on a sort of porch on the side of the pawn shop, and the music rang through the open prairie like something bound to be a memory from someone’s childhood somewhere in time. Watching the families sitting in lawn chairs behind their vehicles listening to the music, and seeing the children dance around with a bag of chips to share made me think to myself, “This is a memory… It’s not mine, but it’s familiar…”. I related to the senses it provoked. Tents were pitched just beyond in the trees, and the beat of the drummer’s drum and the strum of the guitar player’s guitar made me think of camping as a child. It made me think of going on vacation with my family. It made me think of going to church picnics. It made me think of going to baseball games, and barbeque parties at my parents’ friends’ houses. I’m not sure why, exactly, but it did. It all felt, familiar. And as the wind from a nearby, disregarded storm blew my hair away from my face, I smiled as I walked out to the back field to find my friend.

The sunset was too spectacular to ignore. I took a few photos, a couple with my friend in them holding up her hands to the sky. It was a divine feeling to be there with her, to be enjoying the company of fresh, evening Minnesota air out in the middle of openness that is seemingly open to everything in the universe. One horizon to the right glows gold while the horizon on the left is rolling in a fresh plundering of thunder and lightening. The wind began to rise wildly as the dark clouds eventually ate out the sunset. Trees were bending all to far, almost to their knees. The band packed it up and had to ship out early as the rain started to fall and as the wind was coming from two different directions. A cop car pulled in the driveway to tell us that hail was falling not too far away, and that we should seek shelter.

Standing in the pole barn, the one with the bull skull and feathers painted on the front door, we waited for the worst. This is tornado country, and it wasn’t too far fetched to believe that one might come roaring out of the sky. Making jokes of it I had said to my friend, “Well, if we get sucked up into the vortex of a tornado, at least we’re all dying together.” She laughed in a shocked sort of way and said sarcastically, “That’s a nice way to put it!”

I’ll spare you the suspense, Reader. There was no tornado. The wind was fierce for a time, and the rain fell heavy, but soon all cleared out and all was well. In fact, the wind had retreated entirely and the stars joined us for the rest of the night. This, is when the party truly began. The Ooga Booga Party. It is an ancient tradition, going all the way back to………….the 1970’s. It’s a bit of a hippy-ish ceremony of sorts, but also something surprisingly spiritual. It is a sort of hazing, a mild test, a way to prove yourself to the Chief that you are worthy of being part of the tribe. The tribe, of the Ooga Booga.

Should you take this seriously? Oh yes. Very seriously. This is not something to mess around with. I went through the Ooga Booga initiation back in the winter. I was excited to already be part of the tribe and watch newcomers go through it. Like I said before, I’m limited on what I can tell you about it. But I’ll do my best to make you a part of it, Reader.

The fire was lit. The new pack of tribe members to be were huddled in one of the buildings being told the rules they were to follow. The rules, I can share.

Rule number one: respect the chief.
Rule number two: you need a spirit name, but only you can come up with one for yourself.
Rule number three: don’t trust the coyotes.
You also have to have a gift for the chief. You also have to show yourself worthy by marking yourself with colors. In other words: tribal paint. Or, as was done to me back in the winter, mud and ash. And then? Off you go, one by one.

The drums pound hard in your ears as you approach the dancing shadows by the fire. The tribe is rattling maracas, and the Chief is decked out in furs and feathers and leathers. It is a great feeling of trepidation, especially when you’ve been told by others that there’s a chicken involved and you’re holding the last one they’ve got. But everyone who goes through it can say in the end, “I’ve never done anything like this in my life, and I’m so glad I did it!” It is definitely a positive experience, scary as it may be. But you have to be a little open minded. And you have to be courageous. Very courageous. I’m afraid, Reader, that this is all I have the liberty of sharing with you.

The evening ended late into early morning. It was time for me to leave. As everyone else was gathered around the fire, sharing the joy of being part of “the tribe”, I slunk off to go home. The gravel I drove in on crunched just as loudly driving away on it. I was tired. But I was supremely satisfied. I drove home with the thoughts of, “thank you, Fate.” It was a night worth remembering. It was a night worth tucking away into memory. It was the sort of memory that would, in the future, make me think of home. My new home.

Place #3: Not Merlin’s Rest

I suppose you could say that I believe in fate. I suppose you could say that. I must. I mean, every time something seems to work out more perfectly than I had planned it to, I say to myself, “Fate was nice to me today.” And when things go awry and I feel the threat of a storm cloud ruining what Fate had promised to be a good thing, I say… Well. I sort of throw a tantrum. But you want to know something, Reader? This past weekend I can happily say, “Fate was nice to me.”

I had plans to go to Merlin’s Rest, a genuine Irish pub down in Minneapolis. I sent out a massive invite on Facebook, practically (and let’s not ignore the adjective, “pathetically”) begging my friends to join me on this next adventure. After the tenth “Thanks for the invite! But I can’t make it…”, I felt my heart sink a little. I had thought the idea brilliant when I discovered this little, Irishman owned hotspot. I wanted a little exposure to some culture. I wanted to play make-believe, pretend that I had left the borders of Minnesota and found myself in some little Celtic hideaway; like (with a stretch of the imagination) a heel-kick and a skip and a hop away into the Shire. I wanted to order a pint and feel really, really small holding it in my little hands. I wanted to clink mugs with strangers, and puff on a gentleman’s cigar. I wanted to laugh, drink, belch and make merry. I wanted to do an Irish jig in my bare feet and swish around my skirt. I know... My imagination is sometimes nothing more than a guaranteed way to invite disappointment, but it’s these sort of make-believe thoughts that sprout stories, and I make no apologies for my fantasies. Throwing the disappointment aside, I had said in my invite that I would go alone, but when it came right down to it, going alone to a pub in the city just seemed a little ridiculous.

But I didn’t want to stay home either. I called one of my good friends. As Fate would have it, she was at a party that I most definitely did not want to miss out on. She was at a party that I would most definitely want to write about. So I dolled myself up, grabbed my camera, hopped in my car, and set out toward the open fields of Mille Lacs, Minnesota to a little hole-in-the-wall (or rather, middle-of-nowhere) pawn shop called, “The Hairy Mosquito”.

“The Hairy Mosquito” is more than just a pawn shop, and I’ve been there once before. I went with my friend back in the winter, to the same sort of party. It was an experience I shan’t ever forget. But I warn you, Reader. I’m sworn to a certain amount of secrecy, so I’m afraid I’ll be leaving you in a little bit of a lurch, and with a little bit of an empty hole in the plot: a little unresolved. Even my closest friends don’t know about it. But I will do my best to carry you through the experience without giving too much away. It’s a good story, so please: stay tuned. Keep reading…

Roseau, part 3: Going Home

Okay, Folks. The May Pole. I’d love to get into the nitty-gritty details of it, paint a fabulous picture of a bunch of small town families with flowers and ribbons in their hair, holding hands and dancing around a pole decorated with leaves, but in all frankness I’m afraid of boring you. That, and I’m feeling rather lazy on the matter. The real meat to my story, the real angle, the truth of the trip’s purpose turned out not to be the festival at all. It wasn’t the festival, nor was it the town. It wasn’t the little quilt shop that tried to sell me quilt materials even though I don’t sew, and it wasn’t the extraordinary library that took my breath away, and it definitely wasn’t the Walleye Wagon sitting in the parking lot selling fried fish to a man who, in my own opinion, was so round and large he looked like he just stepped off the page of a comic strip. These things are, yes, part of the color, part of the flow of telling a story, but the trip went beyond what I had thought it would. I was gravely depressed, but didn’t realize it. Not yet.

After a shower, I crawled into bed at 5:00pm. I was ready to pass out the second my skin hit the sheets, but I told myself, “No. Not until at least sundown…”. So I made myself stay awake. I was exhausted. After watching four hours of television, I turned over to go to sleep. In the quiet of the dark, my mind had suddenly woke up with thoughts that had been tucked away in the back of my soul. They came out like a flood, and my eyes flung wide, wide awake. I had opened the dam at that moment, for everything that I had been locking away for days was suddenly set free. I was angry by some of those thoughts. Very angry. And then I was sad. Then I was feeling unsettled, unresolved, and it tormented me. Before I knew it I was having imaginary arguments with all the people I wanted to speak my mind to. I was saying things I could never really say in person. You would think it would liberating, but it wasn’t. It was tormenting me. I tossed and turned for hours. I cried, which gave me heartburn and made me sick.

Eventually, I fell asleep around 3:30am only to be woken by my alarm clock at 6:00am. I had no desire to sleep in. My stomach was sick with the anxiety of wanting to get the hell out of there. After plenty of trips to the bathroom, feeling completely drained and far too empty to care about anything, I packed up quick and got into my car at 7am. It had just rained. The air was still damp and muggy, and the morning was just beginning to rise and say hello to the prairies. I filled up my gas tank, and drove on out.

It was the road, Reader. I’m no amateur when it comes to road trips. I’ve driven across the country several times in my life, seeing every breed of town from this side of Minnesota to the other side of Pennsylvania to the eastern shore of Florida. The road provokes a sort of confrontation with yourself. It’s the solitude, really. When all you have is you for company for six hours, you get to talking with yourself. And when you get to talking with yourself, you open doors to darknesses that are usually left shut up in every day’s distractions. It was the road, Reader. This is where the story turned out to be. On the road.

I began to re-think my move from New York to Minnesota when I was fifteen. I have convinced myself that most of my memories of it were not tarnished by the anger of having to leave my home, that they were indeed as horrible as I remembered them. But then I started to think about the high school that I had left behind. Was my new high school really any different? And worse? No. Teenagers were just as horrible in my high school in New York as they were out here. They were just horrible…in a different way. In all retrospect, I was just a very angry, depressed teen who had lost everything. That created a sort of hatred for, well, everything. Happy people ticked me off. Peers going to family barbeques, having Christmas with their cousins, having July 4th parties in their backyard, having sweet 16 birthday parties with friends, were all things, seemingly stupid things, that were taken away from me. And when I left Minnesota in my early twenties to find these things again, I had failed. I couldn’t figure out exactly what I was looking for, but I definitely knew that I wasn’t finding it. I was ungrateful. I realized this as I was driving that long stretch on 89 with no where to stop for anything in the middle of nowhere. I was, ungrateful. I did have friends in high school. It wasn’t until my senior year that I had them, but I did have them. The church we went to showed us love and became a part of us. I fell in love for the first time, here. I met one of my best friends, here. I went to prom, here. I have good, fun memories, here. I have my horse, here. I have friends who love me, here. I have a job I love, here. I have roots now. Roots. That is what I’ve been searching for these past fifteen years. Home. All I ever wanted was home. Without a home, it’s very difficult to identify yourself. And when you can’t identify yourself, you feel this perpetual horror of being lost.

Identity. My grandmother’s death had this unexpected paramount effect on me because having seen her only a month before had reignited an old part of me that I had long ago buried. Being in New York, with family I hadn’t seen in years, had reminded me of a version of myself that has long passed away. It was like a part of my soul had come back to life, and completed me. I had been so used to being without that part that I didn’t recognize the hole until it was temporarily filled. And then, it was over. And then, my family was reunited in her death, and for the first time in so very many years did I feel an overwhelming plague of home sickness. I’ve missed that connection, with family, with blood, with knowing who I am. This, is what plagues me about living here in Minnesota. It isn’t the people here. It isn’t the ridiculous food, or the stupid mosquitoes. It isn’t the flat, boring lands. It isn’t even the arctic winters that I hate so much. It’s the loss of my relatives, my heritage, my ancestry, my… identity. Family. I feel I’ve lost my family, and I don’t have one of my own to replace it.

This thought rendered into a severe pep talk of, “Get over it, Jess…it’s not like you’re an orphan…it’s not like you’ve had your family ripped away from you by Nazis…You have plenty of people in your life who are considered family all the same…not everyone has that….be grateful…be grateful…”. My mother had always said to me that being thankful, for everything, will set you free. It is the key to happiness. But we’re human. And American. Whining is what we do best. I remember when our dog went blind, and she adapted to it because, well, she’s a dog. She was in survival mode, not self pity mode. I remember saying, “Man, it must be nice not to be capable of feeling sorry for yourself.”

But such is the way of having a soul. There is both darkness and light inside of it, and it often battles each other leaving us in great piles of illogical messes. I was in a deep illogical mess on my way back from Roseau.

I tried to be diligent about getting more photos. On that long stretch of 89, going around a giant lake I didn’t know the name of, there was a giant tower with steps leading all the way up to the top. I wanted to climb it and take pictures of the sunrise on the lake, but… That never happened. I took a picture of the tower instead. I had stepped out of my car for two seconds to take it and was completely mauled by a giant flock of mosquitoes. I was killing mosquitoes flying around in my car for the next twenty miles. Travel tip? When driving by a lake in Minnesota, don’t stop and get out of your car.

I drove on. I was feeling a deep sickness, not only physically but mentally as well. I was falling into a shadowy funk, and couldn’t quite clear my head of all the things I was thinking about. You should know, Reader, that it wasn’t all about having to live in Minnesota and missing New York. In fact, those weren’t the thoughts at all. They were other things, too personal to put into words here, but it drove me into a sort of acceptance that I was depressed, that I was confronting certain sorrows and pains that I otherwise shove away. I recognized that I was burned out from work. I recognized that I was heartbroken. I recognized that I was angry. I recognized that I still had a long way to go in repairing the ever long list of my infamous flaws and short comings that make me hate myself so much. I was trying to find compassion for certain people that have hurt me, but in doing so I was recognizing that unconditional love is hard for humans. Why can’t I be more divine? I thought to myself.

Toward the end of my journey I saw a soft, golden light up ahead on my right. It billowed and glittered in the sun, growing form into what could have easily been an angel. I wanted it to be an angel. It was so beautiful and promising. But as I neared it, it grew smaller and rounder and more dull, and before I knew it I was looking at the front of a train. It wasn’t an angel, no. But the beauty of that celestial golden glow comforted me none the less. I held up my camera, took a snapshot of the train as it passed me, and that was the last picture I took. Everything was going to be okay. The world wasn’t coming to an end. The sadness and the anger would pass, eventually. It is the way of it. Life moves in cycles, round and round we go.

It was the road, Reader. It is life. The rest of the way I said to myself, “I just want to go home…I just want to go home…”. Home. I may have actually re-built it. I pulled into my driveway with a feeling of safety, security, and peace. I don’t love Minnesota, yet. But this was a good road sign none the less.

The End

Visit to Roseau, part Deux

Roseau (pronounced: Row-zo) is named “the friendliest place in America.” Considering my lack of faith in a Minnesotan’s idea of what “friendly” is (referring to the before mentioned prejudices of mine), this was also a key reason I wanted to visit this wee little town. Striving for years to be proven wrong about my personal opinion of “Minnesota Nice”, I believe I may have finally achieved it… sort of.

I drove into town. My body drooped involuntarily at the sight of it. This, is it? I think I was expecting a giant banner robed from stoplight pole to stoplight pole blaring the words, “Scandinavian Festival!”, and seeing mobs of people mulling over which exciting event to go to next (I blame my over active imagination on my high expectations of things…). I saw no banner, and very little sign of life at all. I sucked in my bottom lip and said, “Hmm. I’m in the middle of nowhere. Like, the real middle of nowhere.”

I remembered from my notes that Highway 11, which runs directly through the middle of town, was part of the seventy five mile “wildflower corridor” which boasts of millions of the Showy Lady Slipper orchid (Minnesota’s state flower). Apparently you have to drive quite a ways before actually seeing any of the flowers because I gave it a good five miles before being sorely disappointed. It was nothing but the usual crop field and farm equipment. I didn’t have the time or the gas money to explore any further. So I drove back into town and eventually came to the Roseau River where there, in a large parking lot, was clearly the festival.

I parked. I walked across the bridge of the river and came upon an old, rusty somewhat yellow car that had “Scandinavian Festival” written on the side of it, and a few wispy looking balloons flying from the top. (The photo does it justice.) I thought this unique, and funny. I liked it.

The festival was an assortment of local entrepreneurs selling goods, much like the State Fair but in a much smaller version. The first tent I went into was selling homemade, organic household products. There was everything from laundry detergent to body soap. I wasn’t ready to spend any bucks yet, so I moved on. Next door was a pair of artisans who could’ve given Paul Bunyan a run for his money in terms of apparel. One in overalls that drooped like a cartoon, and the other with a great, bushy beard and wearing nothing but flannel and denim. They were selling beautifully crafted log-cabinish furniture; the sort of lamp that is made from a tree limb and animal hide, and the sort of coffee table that is made from a trunk and sticks. It was beautiful merchandise, but my wallet wasn’t fat enough to consider any of it. I moved on.

I then came to a spectacular layout of some of the most beautiful pottery pieces I’ve ever seen. I wish I had taken more pictures of the merchandise, but I was afraid it would be impolite. Silly, I suppose. But that’s how I felt. However, I did buy something from this spot (see giraffe pottery in photos) and was very happy to have done it. The woman I bought it from was extremely courteous and kind. We engaged in conversation, I telling her how much I love giraffes and her telling how much she loves to draw them. Artist to artist, we both agreed on how beautiful the lines are on a giraffe, and I felt connected. It was nice. The piece I bought was rather heavy, and after wrapping it up nice for me, the woman was concerned about me having to carry it off. She offered to carry it to my car for me. This, was quite impressive. She was rather earnest in the offer, it wasn’t just an empty gesture. It was this very moment, I’m humbled to say, that proved all of my prejudices to be, well, exactly what they are: prejudices. I declined her offer, but thanked her profusely. Her business is called “Black Horse Pottery and Tile”. Her website should be up and running now: www.Bhorsepottery.com but if it’s not, this is her business email: Nathan011@centurytel.net. Her name is Karen. I’m not positive, but I believe it was she who told me that she takes her merchandise to the Minnesota State Fair. If she does, keep an eye out for her. Her pieces are well worth spending the buck.

“Black Horse Pottery” was my last stop of the day (I had rounded back to it to make my final purchase). The other tents had interesting things to sell as well, and I enjoyed perusing. I bought a table “candy dish” (for a lack of a better description of it…) that was made out of two, melted, folded up records. I bought a Swedish dishcloth with the Swedish red horse stitched into the corner, for my Swedish mother. Then I made way to the local baker. I was quite tempted to buy one of his pies, but was running out of dough (no pun intended….). I saw a strange looking package labeled, “lefsa”. It looked like a tortilla folded a bunch of times into a thick triangle. The baker was an elderly gentleman with very few teeth, and very kind eyes. I asked him, “What is this? What is ‘lefsa’?” He looked at me, and laughed. He said, “What?” as if I was asking him what bread was. I said, “I’ve never heard of this, what exactly is it?” He still looked baffled and answered saying, “It’s made with potato…I don’t know how to describe it! It’s… lefsa!” A woman came up to the table to pay for something, and it was obvious that the two of them had known each other for many years. He asked her, “How would you describe lefsa? She doesn’t know what it is…” The woman launched immediately into explaining all the ingredients, and then filled in the holes with a lot of, “Um”s, and then finally said, “You unroll it, put some sugar and cinnamon on it, and eat it.” I decided to buy it. It’s still sitting in my fridge, and I’m not sure if it’s gone bad or not. I’m sort of afraid to eat it.

As I was readying to leave my shopping and go check in before the 3:30pm raising of the May Pole, there was strange music coming from the stage tent. It was long after two minutes of the song playing until it had finally caught me out of my deep thoughts. Some woman, who was not the most gifted with a singing voice, was singing about a man named Ole to a Swedish polka jig. I was able to get a smidge of video of it, but don’t want to put it up on my blog without the woman’s permission to do so. I wish I could though… It was… the essence of Minnesota’s entire culture. A good thing. I’m not poking fun. It put good feelings into my soul.

I left from shopping the festival feeling a sense of accomplishment. I felt satisfied. I felt, proven wrong. I felt proven wrong in a good way. The people were indefinitely friendly, there’s no debate about that. Saying they’re the friendliest people in the whole country? That, is up to the eye of the beholder I suppose. But it was comforting to see a small town that was in no shape or form uncomfortable around an outsider. I was clearly from the outside. That was plain as day. Not only was it because I was wearing a black “I HEART NY” shirt, but it was also because I was there by myself. I was there by myself walking around taking random pictures. I was there by myself amongst a mass of people who clearly all knew each other, and from what I could tell, have known each other since birth. But they were nice to me. They were kind to me. They smiled and everyone I passed by said, “Hello”. You don’t get that kind of friendliness in this neck of the woods. It was refreshing. It was comforting.

I checked into my hotel, the AmericInn. It was a nice little hotel, a clean entry sitting room that was warm colored and cozy. Good first impression. I had no complaints about the services, but in all plainness of truth, I’ve stayed in much nicer places for the same rate.

I made myself at home in my room, and then debated on whether or not I really needed to go see the May Pole. I decided on, “You just drove six hours to get here... You didn’t do that just to do two hours of craft shopping…” So, I bucked up and went back out again. I was very glad I did…