Driving Audhumla

Is "Celtic" far behind?

I came home from the fancy new supermarket across the Oakland estuary from my loft reflecting on some of the peculiar food items I found for sale there. It seems as if the salty snacks category has proliferated. Now it's possible to buy items like potato chips and crackers in such flavors as "Cajun" and "spicy Thai."

Now I ask you, in my most curmudgeonly voice, exactly what is a "Thai" flavor? What particular taste would make you say "ah, that reminds me of the Thai cuisine"? And likewise, is "Cajun" a flavor?  I can certainly recognize Cajun music. If I see someone whose last name is Landy or Guidry or Hebert, I'm pretty certain that person has some ethic roots in Acadiana. And for sure I'd call boudin, gumbo, graton and the wet versions of jambalaya as examples of Cajun cuisine. (But certainly everybody knows that the dryer jambalaya made with a tomato flavor is a New Orleans Creole version of the dish). However, there's certainly no distinctive flavor I could point at as specifically "Cajun."

Given the ubiquity of "Celtic" as an adjectivial identifier these days --to wit "Celtic ethics." "Celtic tarot." "Celtic perfume atomizers," "Celtic clocks," and "Celtic cookbooks," I'm sure Celtic-flavored potato chips are but a marketer's brainstorm away. Any ideas how a "Celtic flavor" potato chip or cracker might taste?

Celtic Thai Cajun flavor cuisine potato+chips

My book stack

Ordinarily I've refused to participate in the various peer-to-peer memes circulating on various e-lists. But I'm a member of a Pagan blogging group that is circulating an idea I find compelling, namely posting a photo of books the blogger is presently reading. Here's a photo of another Pagan's book stack.

And here's mine:

My stack reflects my eclectic reading habits. So I thought I'd tell you a little bit about each book I'm presently reading, from the bottom up. At the very bottom is the catalogue from the recent exhibition at the Oakland Museum: California as Muse: the Art of Arthur and Lucia Mathews. I saw the show on the last day of the exhibition and was able to buy the catalogue at a special discount price. Printed by Northern California's excellent Pomegranate  publishing house, the catalogue has excellent reproductions of most of the pieces in the show.

Next comes a first edition of Ingri and Edgar Parrin d'Aulaire's wonderful children's book, The Terrible Troll Bird. I found this on eBay for just a few dollars, sold by someone who had no idea of the high prices first editions of the d'Aulaire's books are commanding. The book is in this pile because I haven't put it away since bringing it to the Pagan festival for the story-telling hour. (I told and read troll stories to the kids). The illustrations in all the d''Aulaire's books are simply spectacular, gorgeous full-color lithographs that incorporate many motifs from Norwegian and Saami folk art. Over the years I've collected all of the d'Aulaire's books, and have also tracked down a number of them to give to my barnebarn (grandson).

After that comes Bastard of Istanbul by Turkish novelist Elif Shafak. The novel is an attempt to deal with the painful and interconnected histories of Turkish and Armenian families in Istanbul and the United States. I just finished this book early this morning and recommend it highly. The next book, Swallows of Kabul,  also has a middle-eastern setting.   The book is about dreary fear-filled life in rural Taliban-ruled Afghanistan and is ostensibly written by Yasmina Khadra. But this is actually the literary pseudonym of an Algerian Army officer, Mohammed Moulessehoul. I loved this book, which is why it's still in the pile, and am haunting the Alameda public library for any other titles by Khadra/Moulessehoul.

My friend Thalia gave me my copy of At Home on This Earth, which is a collection of two centuries worth of American women's nature writing. This is a book I dip into and read an essay at a time. I haven't yet cracked open Ivan Doig's memoir, Heart Earth. I've loved Doig's other books, which I think evoke the west better than almost anyone else, and I would even include the revered Wallace Stegner in that list. I've read all of Doig's novels, and am curious to see how he handles the memoir form.

Alexander Chee's emotional powerhouse novel Edinburgh comes next in the stack. This was one of those books I just grabbed at random from the public library shelves. The novel traces the impact on a pederast choir director on boy choir from Maine. i don't know very much about Chee other than the fact that he's Korean-American and once worked in the A Different Light bookstore in San Francisco. But I will definitely be on the lookout for more of his writing. He must have a musical background for he writes eloquently about the process of music-making.

Impounded is another library book. It's a collection of the images documentary photographer Dorothea Lang made of the roundup and internment of Japanese-Americans during World War II as a result of Executive Order 9066. I never heard word one about the internment when I was growing up in Seattle, even though all of Washington State's Japanese-Americans were interned. It wasn't until I was an adult and happened to live next door to a friend who spent her early childhood in the camp at Manzanar that I learned of this shameful period in American history. Here's a photo of her in her mother's arms, shot the day her family was evacuated from Bainbridge Island in Washington state and sent off to the camps. Lang's photos that appear in this book were shot on behalf of the War Relocation Authority. They so sharply showed the misery of the internees that the photos were impounded and not released to the public until many many years after the war.

Feminist artist  Judy Chicago has long been someone whose work I've watched and admired. So when I saw this new biography, Becoming Judy Chicago, I ordered it right away. I was amazed to learn from this book how familiar she became with Pagan iconography in the course of creating her massive piece "The Dinner Party," now on view at the Elizabeth A Sackler Center for Feminist Art at the Brooklyn Museum. I think this new biography was published to coincide with the opening of the exhibit in March 2007.

Aagot Noss' Lad og Krone is probably the most obscure book in my stack. Noss is a Norwegian scholar whose field of expertise is Norwegian folk costumes. This book is entirely devoted to the various styles of crowns and other headdresses that were once part of every Norwegian bride's wedding costume. I saw this book for sale in a Bergen, Norway bookstore, but had to wait until I got back home to track it down. I've always been immensely interested in bunads-- Norwegian folk costumes--and pulled this off the shelf because I plan to do another bunad-related blog posting soon.

The Long Distance Grandmother by Selma Wasserman is a book I bought used on eBay recently. I had hopes that the book would give me some additional ideas for staying connected to my one-and-only barnebarn who lives nearly 1000 miles away, and whom I have not seen in more than a year. So far the book seems to contain a lot of common sense ideas, most of which I'd already considered. Bottom line is that this is incredibly difficult, and I have had to reconcile myself to the fact that I will have little contact with this child for many years. But at least I keep trying.

Women of the Pleasure Quarters by Leslie Downer, is another non-fiction book about Geisha, Japan's "art persons." For more than 30 years I've found anything to do with Japan intriguing, and already have four shelves of books about Japanese culture, history and literature that this book will join. Unlike Liza Dalby's unique first-person account  of life as a Pontocho geisha, Downer's book is a collection of myths and anecdotes about life in the "willow world."

Top of the heap you'll find a copy of Ralph Mayer's The Artist's Handbook of Materials and Techniques. This also is a gift from Thalia. I kept complaining to her that I just couldn't seem to master the technique to apply glaze smoothly to my ceramic pieces. And we've talked many times about how there should be a course in art school on the properties of art materials. I am hoping this book will fill in some of the gaps in my knowledge.

I just realized, in looking at this stack, that there's nothing there overtly Pagan. While there are many Pagan authors I read and some that I esteem, I find a lot of my inspiration elsewhere. Or maybe it's just that I don't particularly happen to be reading anything Pagan-themed right now. So what's in your book stack?   

book biography reading fiction novel public+library meme boy+choir documentary photography internment Japanese+american bunad folk+costumes Norway pederast nature+writing Armenian Turkish grandmother art+materials Pagan Paganism Pagan+writers

 

 

A good symbol for today

My grandmother used to call the May 31 holiday "Decoration Day."  This was the day we'd go visit the ancestors buried in Holy Cross Cemetery in Ellensburg, Washington. We'd cut huge armloads of lilacs from the hedge that ran the length of the road from town to the ranch, and we'd also gather deep red peonies.

When we arrived at the cemetery, we'd fill old canning jars with water and set them at the tombstones to serve as vases for the peonies and lilacs. So for me, this day will always have the scent of old-fashioned flowers, and the memories of my grandmother sighing as she lowered herself to he knees to clip the grass around the tombstones.  I used to sit on my great-grandmother's tombstone and pretend I was sitting on her lap. And then I'd ask my grandmother to tell me stories "about the olden days." And we would bring small cloth flags on sticks and place them at the graves of those we knew were veterans.

It wasn't until I was much older and living in Louisiana that I discovered that Memorial Day was not observed with the same fervor in the south. In fact, we didn't even have a holiday from work. (We took Mardi Gras day instead). In any case, In Louisiana, families visit cemeteries on All Saints' Day in November.

If I were in the Northwest, I suppose today I would be driving across Snoqualmie pass to visit the historic pioneer cemeteries of Roslyn, Washington. My son and my mother are buried there, and we sprinkled some of my husband's ashes on top of the graves. Along the way to the cemetery, I'd be picking a bouquet of wildflowers to place on the graves (and as a snack for the deer who wander through the cemetery at night)

But I'm here in Northern California, and today my thoughts are turning instead to the Iraq War Memorial near the Lafayette BART station. When I went back last week to check on the state of pentacles we installed there May 6 to honor the Pagan soliders killed in this war,  I saw this message stenciled on the sidewalk in front of the memorial. It seems a pretty good sentiment for these difficult times.

Memorial+Day Decoration+Day remembrance cemetery pentacle grave Pagan Paganism ancestors

What a swell party it was!

Yesterday I went to a party that celebrated a couple's 25th wedding anniversary. and the birthdays of all three of their daughters. The dates of all four events fall close together. The couple got married in Berkeley, California, 25 years ago, in a typical Bay Area outdoor wedding. Many of the people who danced at their wedding in 1982 showed up to celebrate with them in 2007.

We were asked to wear "party clothes and dancing shoes." Since this was a largely Pagan crowd, the definition of party clothes is more expansive than you might find in, say, some right-wing Republican stronghold. As you can see, many of the women have long hair and creative ideas about what to wear, including a pair of Frieda Kahlo socks, and tie-dyed dresses. One party-goer showed up in pirate regalia, while some of the youngest attendees brought their own party hats with them from home.

The party, which was held in the Veterans Memorial Building in Piedmont, started with lunch, after which the tables were quickly cleared so the floor could be used for dancing. Because of my cruddy crone knee, my dancing days are over, but just about everyone else was up and on the dance floor. They started with a few contra dances with a caller leading people through a walk-through before the actual dancing began. Here's the caller in the middle of a large circle, explaining the next figure. He then returned to the stage with the band, only some of whom can be seen in this next photo.

Sometimes people danced with partners, sometimes they formed four-couple squares, or made London Bridge-style tunnels, or even danced in lines of four.  Whatever they did, they danced with verve and energy.

The hostess--in the rainbow outfit--was in a blur of constant motion, her long hair flying behind her.

When the dancing stopped, the hostess and host sang a song that had been part of their wedding celebration 25 years earlier. Then they introduced their three birthday-girl daughters.

They had a rapt audience, an energetic chorus singing "Happy Birthday," and even some paparazzi.

Then we all had cake, a dark orange-flavored chocolate confection that used matzoh meal instead of flour. Here's the cake, and caterer Rob Bykoff surveying what was left of his creation.

Then it was time for dancing again, Irish céilí and set dancing, this time with an Irish caller.

I loved watching all the swirling skirts. Clearly skirts are made for dancing.

And finally, here's the guest who probably had the most mellow time at the party, just riding around with mom. He'll certainly be around for the 50th anniversary celebration. With any luck, I might be there, too.

dance dancing Irish+dancing set+dancing contra+dance céilí wedding+anniversary Pagan Bay+Area

 

My colorful neighborhood

Come October, I will have lived in my loft here in the Fruitvale section of Oakland for ten years. I think this is actually the longest I've ever lived in one place in my life. And I'm very happy here, with my great loft and gorgeous garden.

But the neighborhood is definitely changing. All sorts of large-scale apartments have been built on the banks of the Oakland estuary. I now have two different Starbucks within walking distance. There's a super-fancy Nob Hill supermarket right across the estuary.

One of the changes that I do like is that the neighborhood has become infinitely more colorful, with thanks to the Institute of Mosaic Art right around the corner. Besides painting their building a bright purple and covering it with mosaics, some of the institute's artists have been covering the whole neighborhood with mosaics. The institute is also a dedicated supporter of the Jingletown Arts and Business Community, which will host open studios in my neighborhood June 2-3 and 9-10.  (My part of Fruitvale was once known as Jingletown, supposedly from the Portuguese cannery workers' habit of jingling their pay in their pockets on payday).

Here's one they made for the pallet farm just up the street. This is a huge fenced lot filled with 10-foot tall stacks of pallets, and a bunch of guys with forklift trucks continually going back and forth. The mosaic isn't huge, but it's really charming.

When the folks from Voila Juice moved into the neighborhood, the first we knew of it was when the building was suddenly painted an electric green. The Mosaic Institute folks gave them a fruit-themed mosaic that seems relatively staid by contrast to the paint color.

There's a company in the block behind me that does landscaping work. Often they will pile the curb with wood they cut from various trees when they trim them. So their mosaic is really just a sign offering "free wood" to anyone who wants to come buy and pick it up. You have to look carefully to see "free" in the upper left corner, but I think you can easily see "wood" down on the lower right.

I don't know what kind of business has offices right across the street from the pallet farm, but, as you can see, they have a huge and spectacular mosaic, so big that it took two photos to get it all in.

And finally, here's the mosaic institute in all its purple glory. I like the color contrast where the institute building butts up against Voila Juice. It's a real eye opener, particularly late in the afternoon when it's hit by the setting sun.

mosaic Fruitvale Jingletown loft art craft Oakland California

 

Ride 'em cowgirl!

This is another old photo in a batch given to me by one of my aunts. I'm the toddler sitting atop a horse, with my Norwegian immigrant father behind me. The photo must have been taken in the spring of 1946, when I was two years old, and Dad had just been discharged from the U.S. Navy.

There's something really odd about this photo. My mom was the horse-lover of the family. All her siblings can talk about when they mention their childhoods is that Mom was always out riding her horse in the hills of Washington State's Kittitas County. And I've seen countless photos of Mom on horseback. But I can never ever remember seeing her even once astride a horse. I think she must have given up riding and all thoughts of horses once she married my father.

Dad, on the other hand, knew how to ride, but riding horses wasn't a big part of his life. The farm animals I've heard him mention are always the huge teams of mules he had to hitch up to pull the combine during  wheat harvest in the Palouse. So I can't quite imagine why it's Dad rather than Mom on the horse.

The photo was taken in front of the house on my grandparents' ranch just outside Ellensburg. The house was the first frame house built in the Kittitas Valley, made from lumber hauled by a team of horses up from The Dalles, Oregon. I can tell it's still early spring because the black locust (Robinia pseudoacacia) trees have not yet leafed out. And the lilac (Syringa) hedge that separated the house from the road is also bare. Dad is wearing only a t-shirt--he always calls his white undershirts his "skivvy shirts"--and doesn't look particularly cold.

I think the car you see is the old green  pre-war Packard that's the first car my parents drove. There's another car behind the horse, but I can't really see enough details to identify it.

The horse is saddled with a western saddle and, although you can't tell from the photo, I am probably clinging to the saddle horn for dear life. I do have a few memories of sitting on a big animal that lurched around the ranch, terrifying me. (I was one of those little girls who fell in love with pink satin ballet shoes instead of horses). That may be a Pendleton saddle blanket under the saddle. I remember seeing a few of them around my grandparents' house.

On some levels, it's hard to look at this photo and remember my dad as young and health and strong. Now he's so frail and bent over so far with osteoporosis that I doubt he'd come up to my shoulder height. And it's really shocking to see such long hair on somebody who's worn a Boeing engineer flat-top haircut for the past 50 years.

I do remember that Dad has always loved cowboy songs, and used to sing them to me all the time when I was little. I think his favorite was "Strawberry Roan," but he also sang "Streets of Laredo"  and "Down in the Valley." I don't remember his ever singing me any Norwegian songs, but somewhere along the way I learned how to do the Norwegian equivalent of "This Little Piggie" and "Rida Rida Ranke," which we used to sing instead of "Ride a Cock Horse to Banbury Cross." And that, I guess, takes us back to the horse again. The only horse I remember on the farm was a fat and lazy black gelding named Amos, who hung out in the pasture that fronted on the creek. I don't know where the horse in this photo came from or what his name might have been. But then, after all, I was only two years old, and any memories I have from that time are sparse indeed.

horse saddle cowgirl cowboy+songs western+saddle Ellensburg Kittitas nursery+rhymes Norwegian immigrant Norway

Where I spend my Thursday mornings

One day when I was walking out of the old Alameda Free Library--which has now been replaced by a handsome new building-- I picked up a flyer promoting a variety of different free classes for adults. I was interested in any art-related classes, and, to my delight, I found I could sign up for a pottery class offered weekly at the Mastick Senior Center on the island of Alameda. Technically, I live in Oakland, in the city's Fruitvale neighborhood. But I am just across the Oakland estuary from Alameda, and use many more of that city's services than Oakland's. In fact, sometimes I have to remind myself that I live on Oakland, not Alameda.

In any case, regardless of where I live, the class was open to me. So about a year and a half ago I started spending every Thursday morning at Mastick, with about 20 other die-hard pottery-makers.  I remember the first day I walked into the class and mainly saw dear old things painstakingly painting violets on cow-shaped butter dishes. This was not what I wanted to do, but when I asked the teacher if she had any terra cotta clay and she said yes, I figured that I might find something fun to do in the class.

I've spend most of my time in the class hand-building various goddess figures that now make up Coven Terra Cotta. I've had some spectacular failures, with several pieces actually blowing up in the kiln. But over the months, I've had fun, and have picked up some skills. Several weeks ago, I brought my camera to class to document some of what we're doing.( And by the way, as the months went by, more people were getting into hand-building and leaving those poor old butter dishes by the wayside)

First of all, here's a bowl I made in this class that will be donated to a charity fund-raiser. I used a Ndebele basket from South Africa as a form over which I draped cylindrical logs I cut from the red clay. Then I smoothed the exterior, but left the interior showing the forms of the logs, so the bowl would look somewhat basket-like itself.

And here are some of the other hand-built bowls my fellow students have made. Some were made on the wheel, and others were draped over forms.

And here are some of my classmates in action. Despite the serious expressions on most people's faces, we really do have fun in this class. Every few weeks or so, one of Mastick's administrators leads a tour of the facilities for new members. When they get to the pottery class, everyone wants to join up right away. Sure, we tell them, there will be some openings some day, maybe, if and when someone in the class dies.  In a way, the class is a little bit like the Irish Republican Army, "once in, never out."

Here you'll see Linda with two of the three feet she's built. They will be part of some yard-art she's planning to install in her garden.

And here's where all our work gets fired. We can only do one firing per week, alternating greenware and glazed objects. Most of the time I prefer not to glaze the things I make because I like the rough terra cotta look, and also, I must confess, because I still apply glaze so badly.

This class is one of the high points of my week. And if you know me well, beware, for you may have a ceramic object in your future. I'm inspired by the new edition the catalogue for Judy Chicago's monumental The Dinner Party, which has now found a permanent home in the Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art at the Brooklyn Museum. So I have a feeling that soon I'll start making a terra cotta yoni or two.
pottery ceramics kiln craft class Alameda Oakland senior+citizen Judy+Chicago feminism feminist feminst+art Dinner+Party Brooklyn+Museum Brooklyn yoni

Ritual supplies from the strangest places

Last week when I standing at the cash register at Home Depot buying something for the upcoming Pagan festival, I started thinking about all the standard ritual supplies in my Pagan priestess bag of tricks. I can't think of a single public ritual in which I've had an organizing role for which I didn't end up at Home Depot buying some white PVC pipe.

Other key elements include green floral tape, small gauge wire that comes wrapped around a wooden paddle, yards and yards of Wonder Under, bamboo plant stakes,and earthquake wax.  Two years ago, when we created the East altar for Reclaiming's Spiral Dance, I used a big jug of liquid detergent containing optical brighteners. And I think I scared the be-Goddess out of the tech crew at Pantheacon when I told them I required at least four irons and ironing boards for my yoni self-portrait workshop and ritual.

Amazingly, I don't use the sacred duct tape all that often, I do like artists' tape, both white and the bright fluorescent colors. And I have to buy Mod Podge in extra-large containers. Disposable aluminum oven-liners have come in handy a number of times, and I simply could not exist without both my cordless 3/4" drill and my Dremel rotary tool.   I definitely use my X-acto knives many times more often than I pick up an athame.

But this all makes sense to me. After all, Paganism as I see it is the religion of the meadow and the kitchen. And crafty witches know that ritual supplies--and art materials--can be found everywhere.
Pagan Paganism ritual art+supplies duct+tape PVC+pipe Wonder+Under X-acto Dremel Mod+Podge athame

 

All dressed up to celebrate

Several years ago I spent Syttende Mai in Oslo, Norway. I wandered around the city all day long, watching the children parading, the wild Russ celebrating the end of their school year, the king and queen waving to all the children from the balcony of their palace, and everywhere, ordinary Norwegian people festively clad in their bunader. All in all, I can't think of when I've enjoyed a special occasion as much as Norway's national holiday.

One of the things I tried to do as I followed the celebrating crowds was to shoot photos of as many different bunads as possible. Bunads are not, strictly speaking, Norway's national dress, nor are they folk costumes. Bunads are festive clothing, often with historic origins, which are unique to a particular district in Norway. Since my family comes from Vikvarvet, Selbu, we would wear either the rarely seen Selbu bunad, or the more common bunad from Sør-Trondelag. In any case, both bunads have white long-sleeved blouses with dropped sleeves, woolen bodices, full woolen skirts, and distinctive woven aprons. The Tronder bunad is unusual, in that there are three color choices: red, green or blue. (The blue version in the photo is worn by a bride. It's still relatively common for Norwegian--and some Norwegian-American-- brides to wear bunads for their wedding dresses).

No one from my family here in American has a bunad of either kind. They are incredibly expensive, often costing as much as $2000 or $3000, depending on the amount of embroidery and how much silver jewelry is required with a particular bunad. Here you can see a Trønder bunad with all its appropriate silver. (Last year when my son got married, I gave his bride the Trønder sølje (brooch) you can see, the one with the rows of dangling solar wheels. They live in Ballard, Seattle's  Scandinavian district, which celebrates Syttende Mai in grand style. I wonder if she knew to wear her sølje today? I heard that my barnebarn (grandson) was marching in the parade in Ballard today).

When I was in Oslo, although I saw many different bunads, I never saw anyone wearing the Trønder style. Perhaps everyone from that part of Norway stayed home for Syttende Mai, rather than heading off for the capitol.  In any case, here are a few that I did see.

This green and yellow bunad comes from Nordland, an area just south of the Lofoten Islands. I have also seen this bunad in blue. Each has a matching plaid kerchief and apron. The embroidery on the bodice and skirt hem is supposed to represent stylized water lilies.

This girl at the extreme right of the next photo is wearing a bunad from Aust-Agder, a small fylke or county south and west of Oslo. Her distinctive embroidered white apron and relatively flat bodice are characteristics of this bunad. Since she is unmarried, she is wearing a simple woven belt and head band. If she were married, she would add a white kerchief embroidered to match her apron, and a belt of gold-plated silver rectangles. She looks not more than 15 or 16, and very likely received her bunad as a gift for her confirmation in the Evangelical Lutheran Church.

This school teacher marching with her students in Oslo is wearing a bonnet with a large bow, a heavy wool jacket with puffed sleeves and a silk shawl that are characteristic of the Røros bunad. Røros is a copper-mining town in east-central Norway, and has some of the coldest winter weather anywhere in the country. So it's no wonder that the heavy jacket and skirt are worn, even for folk-dancing, which does heat up a body.

Queen Sonia frequently wears a raudtrøye bunad from Øst-Telemark,  like the one seen below, it has a distinctive short red jacket and is heavily embroidered. This is considered one of the most expensive bunads as the embroidery is so elaborate and extensive. Here's a photo of Princess Martha Louise wearing the same bunad with the red jacket.

Norway's best-known bunad, often mistakenly considered a "national costume," is from Hardanger,  in the western coastal fylke of Hordaland. Hardanger is famous for many folk arts, including the geometric  white-on-white Hardanger embroidery, and Hardingfele (Hardanger violin) with eight or nine strings. The apron for the Hardanger bunad features the distinctive embroidery. The bodice is red, the skirt black, and the breastplate slipped into the bodice is either embroidered or beaded. By itself, without any jewelry, this bunad costs about $2000. Matrons wear an elaborately pleated headdress and a belt with metal plates. These two girls are unmarried, probably just out of high school.

I shot these three embroidered details from the back of various bunader, so I can't specifically tell you their origins. A number of bunader are made in dark blue wool, embroidered with woolen threads. Typically embroidery is found on the hem, and the bodice front and back. Additionally, many bunader have a matching purse with a silver frame that is embroidered to match the dress, and worn suspended from the belt or waistband. 

This father is shooting a photo of his daughter and two of her high school friends at Akershus fortress overlooking the Oslo harbor. Each girl is wearing a distinctive bunad, even though they all attend school together. (Generally you wear the bunad from the district where you live, or perhaps for the district where your father or mother was born). The girl in the middle is wearing the Oslo bunad  which was developed in the 1950s, by one of the city's department stores. It's unusual in that the blouse is gray, and the embroidery of wildflowers is realistic rather than stylized. The purse is embroidered with an image of St. Hallvard, Oslo's patron saint. (He's rather famous because, after he was killed by an arrow, his body floated in Oslo fjord, even though it was weighted down with a millstone).

Both the man and the woman in this photo  couple, shot waiting outside one of Oslo's best restaurants,  are wearing East Telemark bunads. Hers is the famous beltestakk with a wide hand-woven belt and full shirt. His suit has knickers, and is worn with hand-knit socks, hand-woven garters, and a hand-made dress knife at the waist. It used to be that women were the main wearers of bunad, but these days, according to Bunad magazine (of course there's a magazine devoted to the bunad), more and more men are acquiring bunads, too.

And bunads are not without controversy. A recent essay by anthropologist Thomas Hylland Eriksen discusses cultural appropriation, the "bunad police" and what bunads have to say about Norwegian cultural identity. I recommend it highly.  Meanwhile, after I win the lottery, you'll see me in a bunad every year on Syttende Mai. But, given their high cost, probably not until then.
bunad bunader Norway Norwegian folk+costume Syttende+Mai Constitution+Day national+holiday folk+dress culture

Walking up the ridge

Last week, when I went over to check on the pentacle markers at the Iraq War Memorial in Lafayette,  I took an extra turn to avoid some road construction and ended up out in a rural part of Contra Costa County. Even though I've lived in Northern California for 20 years, there were still some nearby rural roads I'd never traveled. So I just kept going, curious about what was back there in the hills near the Briones reservoir and park.

I looked up and saw the oddest sight, a chain of animals climbing a very steep ridge that rose sharply from a flat pasture area.  Instantly I was reminded of all the times I used to drive across Washington State's Snoqualmie Pass with my grandparents. Because of clearcutting logging practices common in those days, some of the Cascade foothills we saw along the way were bare, save a few odd clumps of trees here and there. I used to pretend that the clumps were individual buffalo ((Bison bison athabascae), climbing slowly but surely up a mountain ridge. This was, of course, impossible, as this part of Washington State was far west of and at a higher elevation than the range of the buffalo in their heyday.

What I saw last week weren't buffalo, and, they weren't trees either. At first I thought they might be cows or horses, but the shape was all wrong for both. Finally I got close enough to see t it was a line of llamas (Lama glama) filing up the steep ridge.  One of the things I like about living in Northern California is that the climate is so benign that just about any animal or plant species in the world can do well somewhere within this geographic range.

When I turned in the opposite direction, this is what I saw. This combination of oak-studded steep rolling hills that look like lounging goddesses and verdant vineyards is to me, one of the quintessential Northern California landscapes. I'd never been down this road before, but the  layout of the land was so familiar to me that it felt like I'd been here a thousand times before.

llama buffalo vineyard oak+tree Contra+Costa Northern+California rural