Jolene, Joline, Joleen, Jolean!

The Broadway Theatre.  Broadway Avenue.  Saskatoon SK.  Trendy little neighborhood with hip little nightspots.  Lee Aaron, the Metal Queen.  Lee Aaron, now sultry jazz maven.  One night of jazz,  one chance encounter that inspired a poem.  Here we are, 14 years later.. a meshing of stories....Dolly and her "Jolene".   I revised my poem this weekend by adding a chorus. Here, then, is the history behind this poem, originally entitled: Mary Margaret Stella.

A name crossed my path the other day.  A name that brought back memories.  A name that belonged to a person, a woman, that, 14 years ago, inspired a portrait, and a poem.  A name, that i could only guess at. The guessing was incorrect, and as such, the name of the poem should perhaps be changed.  Or not.  I called it " Mary, Margaret, or Stella"....

Last night I watched a documentary about Dolly Parton and her song "Jolene".  It was actually written about a little girl, not a competitor for love.  My poem also was written to sound like 'the other woman' but it was written about a mother.  A strange thing, that her name is part of  the name "Jolene" and is also my second name.  It was only two days ago that I was spinning straw into gold, & found out her real name,  and then happened to view this documentary.  Whenever I hear the song Jolene,  to this day, it brings back a lot of memories, but that is a whole other story.

Years ago, when I wrote the poem, I wrote it after attending a concert (The metal queen going all jazzy, with Ralph Alfonso) at the Broadway Theatre, at which my former love interest at the time, was MC'ing.   It was either during the intermission, or at the end, I remember standing up, turning to leave my seat and enter the aisle, when an older woman walked right past me, and looked directly at me.  Her gaze seemed to bore holes into my eyes, as some inexplicable communication happened on a soul level...I knew - or at least I thought I knew---she had to be his mother.  And yes, yes indeed, I was right, she was. Is.  and now I know her name......

and the other odd ball thing?  When I wrote "your sun is rising" - I meant that he was doing so well, to be invited to act as MC at this event.  But,  a few years later.....he actually is raising a son....

The Lay of the Land

Shown here is an old map, created by Henry Youle Hind in the middle of the 19th century. At that time, no such province as Saskatchewan existed - it was part of a huge tract of unexplored (by Europeans) land-it was in what was then encompassed by the North West Territory.  I recently read Joan Soggie's book "Looking for Aitkow", (which was the name of both the valley and the creek connecting the Saskatchewan with the Qu'appelle) in which she regales us with stories,  rich with history of the area around the elbow of the South Saskatchewan River.  The map shows how it was in the 1850's, more than a century before the flooding of what is now known as Lake Diefenbaker.  The tale is told of the massive Sacred Stone known as the Mistaseni or Buffalo Child Stone, which was destroyed with the creation of the Gardiner Dam in 1966.  What a sad moment it was, in our province's history,  when this sacred rock was blown to bits. 

Even as a child, I was always fascinated by ancient artifacts, old crumbling buildings, old stories, and the possibility that hundreds of years ago, perhaps someone stood on the same spot that I now stood, and carved a secret signal or mark into a tree or a stone.  At a young age, I thought this to be true, that the marks on the aspens in the forest I used to frequent, was a secret language of the aboriginals who may have lived there.  My imagination knew no bounds.  Arrowheads, spear heads, certain rocks, fossils -treasure!  

Fast forward twenty years, and I now found myself no longer living in bush country, but on the prairie.  But there wasn't just prairie.  Living within walking distance, in 3 directions,  from what used to be the South Saskatchewan River, I was amazed at the topography.  Coulees, bays, cliffs, water runs, dry gullies, and gulches, and even, much farther south,  badlands!  The panoramic view looking from the hills to the Monster lake could take your breath away.  I was lucky enough to spend time walking & hunting in the hills.  One area in particular, slightly South of the Vermilion Hills, and toward the riverbank, (now lake) stole my soul away - the beauty of the inspiring landscape awes even as it humbles.  This is where, when my time is up, (half) my ashes can be flung to the wind, returned to Terra Sancta! 

The Aitkow, (the river that turns both ways) was flooded long before my move to that area.  I never knew of the bridge by the elbow of the river, but I could see the Elbow town elevators from my kitchen window.   (Which, from my calculations, is 11 miles as the crow flies) And I knew the reason that we farmed land owned by an Elbow resident- once the bridge was gone, it was no longer feasible to farm, to drive equipment around the Qu'appelle dam, now being about an hour drive. 

I plan on going back in the fall, and perhaps doing some hiking and cartography myself.  For that it would be helpful if I had my old friend and courier du bois Monsieur De Perreault to accompany me!!

Shadow Makers

I love this beautiful photo. (Credit: Paavo Lotjonen, Apocalyptica)  Shadowmakers.  To me it sings of beauty and emotion, not only the visual aspect of the photo, which in itself is dark and mysterious, gleaming with reflected light, but you can almost smell the earthiness of the old, faded, stamped case, and hear the shadows dancing.... (If, indeed, one could attune the ear to the dance of a shadow).....a warm contrast to the cold, shiny metallic cases. If you could run your hand over any one of these, how would you feel?  What vibe what you pick up from touching it? Could you pick up on the essence of the owner?  Could a person, by touch, by remote viewing, connect through time and space, to learn some innermost working of the owner?  Yes, I believe this is possible, as I have experienced it myself in the past.

Now, turn your attention to what is hidden inside.... listen, if you can, to the potential of perfection, the sound of the oceans roaring through the ages, dividing the continents.  In what forests, in what country, what types of trees, began their lives as a tiny seed, to grow, their branches reaching to the heavens, to span how many decades,  to provide the wood that eventually called out to some luthier somewhere?  Crafted in the 1700's, existing in four different centuries - yes, imagine, four centuries-  three glorious cellos, subdued and encased in their world travelled shells  By themselves,  silent.  When played by their owners, past and present, how they speak a language of their own, and it does not matter what language the listener speaks, as the language of music is universal.  I recently had the privilege of being up close and personal with Apocalyptica in concert.  As someone who has taken up the fiddle in recent years, hearing, feeling the heartbeat of the cello,  I am flooded.  I am amazed, I have been humbled, broken down into the smallest particle of the universe, and yet my heart still beats. That sound. It's big.  It's something.  It's very important.  The Suomi soul wrenched from these bows and strings makes me want to weep with and for something that is so pure, it may be divine.

  

But wait, perhaps it is more than that, or simply less than that. I look up to people like this, not  because of fame, but because of their talent, creativity, knowledge, dedication & hard work.  And somehow what they must feel in their heart to pursue this music is a force that draws me in.  And I also have always been attracted to things aesthetically pleasing to my portrait-artist eye. Such as the photo here.  & perhaps the photographer, ah, ever the flirt, he makes me smile. He has those qualities.  But why would this mean anything to me? Or does it? Perhaps I only feel an affinity for Laplanders due to reading such books as "Dust Ship Glory" (non-fiction, by Richard Scriver, Saskatchewan writer, see: Sukanen Dust Ship) or "Firefox Down", by Craig Thomas, (movie by the same name, featuring Clint Eastwood.)  Or perhaps, like my own country, their land of the Midnight Sun calls out to me.  Perhaps their language, and their names, are just kinda cool.  Perhaps, like the firefox, I just want to sink under a dark Finnish lake; cloaking myself with the sound of Paavo's cello going on forever.  Yes, I am in love.  In love with the cello. Or maybe I just like the metal coming from the Land of the Thousand Lakes.  

Later that night,after the show, I had a recurring nightmare, which I recognize as my subconscious telling me important stories.  

"Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed!"