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Papa
Joe ~ Travel
Notes
To: STORYTELL
Date: Monday, July 13, 1998 12:06 PM
Subject: Weeks 2 & 3 of Papa Joe's Tour Notes - Summer '98
Folks,
Monday, June 8 through Wednesday, June 10
Driving to Moscow Mountain, Idaho
Heading West out of Bartlesville, OK, I ran into some nasty
weather. It was green storm clouds and high winds. I
didn't see any tornadoes, but I was glad to turn North and made
the rest of the days 760.7 miles uneventfully. I camped under
clear skies near the Nebraska/Wyoming line.
Soon after I started out this (Tuesday) morning, I picked up a
hitchhiker by the name of Mark. He was a cowboy cook.
He worked on ranches from Texas to Montana. His pickup
truck was stolen in Texas last week and he'd just had too much of
the South, so he was heading for a ranch not far from Billings,
Montana.
We had a great time sharing stories. He was quite a teller,
though he had never thought of himself as one. LOL
Here's one of the tales he shared. It sure helped pass the time
as I drove the 799.6 miles to Deer Lodge, MT.
Gentle Warning - - - - - A Little Risqué - - - -
- - - - -
A cowboy had taken the train to Nevada to try his luck in the
casinos. He didn't have any luck, but bad and by the end of
the day, all he had left was a five dollar bill and his train
ticket home. He figured he'd better get out while he still
had something so he went out to the cab stand and found a cab
waiting there.
"How much for a ride to the train station?"
The cabby said, "$7.50"
The cowboy pulled out his last five bucks. "This is
all I have. I wasn't very lucky this trip. Will you
take it and bring me to the station?"
That cabdriver got all mad and said, "You good for nothing
loser! You think I'm gonna waste my time on you, when I can
stay here and drive a winner, who'll give me a big tip.
Hike to the train station, you worthless desert rat."
Well, the cowboy walked to the train station and made his way
back to his ranch, but come next payday, he went back to the same
casino. This time he won $25,000. He figured he'd
better get out while he still had it so he went out to the cab
stand and saw that same cabby, just three taxis down the line.
The cowboy walked up to the first cab and asked the driver for
the fare to the train station.
"$7.50"
The cowboy said, "I'll give you 50 bucks, if you give me the
ride and have sex with me."
The cabdriver said, "No way and stay away from my cab."
The cowboy walked up to the second cab and asked the driver for
the fare to the train station.
"$7.50"
The cowboy said, "I'll give you 50 bucks, if you give me the
ride and have sex with me."
This cabdriver also said, "No way and stay away from my
cab."
So the cowboy walked up to that third cab and said, "Take me
to the train station and step on it."
As the cab pulled out of the line, the cowboy leaned out his
window, smiling and waving to the other two cabbies. When
they looked up at him, the cowboy winked real slyly and gave 'em
both the thumbs up sign.
- - - - - - - - - - -
After that tale, I told Mark he was a storyteller. He said
he didn't think so, but wanted to know why I though he was.
I told him one reason was because he told the whole tale and
didn't cut the part of the second cabdriver down to a "and
he did the same at the second cab."
Mark had a story for every occasion. We were talking about
how important it was to work for a living instead of living off
of someone else's labor
- - - - - - - - - -
One day a rancher was out on the range and saw the mangiest half
starved mutt of a hound dog, he ever saw. He watch the dog
scent out a rabbit and chase it near and far. That rabbit
ran for its life, zigzagging back and forth. Poor dog
didn't look like it would ever catch it. But the dog kept
it up and after awhile managed to bring the rabbit down.
The rancher was impressed. He thought the dog was a fine
worker and that it could guard the vegetable patch back at the
ranch. Yup, that rancher had had a lot of trouble with
rabbits eating up his garden.
So he brought the dog home and gave it all it wanted to eat,
twice a day. Soon the dog was looking fine, fed, and happy.
You know, that dog never did another lick of work the rest of
it's life. Just sat the whole day long, fat and happy on
the rancher's front porch. And the rancher still had
a lot of trouble with rabbits eating up his garden.
I'll bet you can guess the moral of this tale.
- - - - - - - - - -
Only had to drive 349.3 miles to get to Moscow Mountain on
Thursday. So nice to be back in Batsy's woodshed.
There were some Nut Brown Ales waiting for me and it felt like
coming home.
Batsy's Wood shed looks more like a wooden covered bridge than
anything else. It's open on both ends and there is a raised
wooden floor on one side. That's where they put their wood
for the Winter. There's not much wood there now and that's
all way in the back. They had a desk and a chair sitting
out there and a telephone too. A perfect place
for me to use as an office. (for a photo,
just ask)
The shows all went off with no problems, but the Vardo didn't do
as well. When I went to empty the black water tank (that's the
tank under the toilet), the valve handle came off in my hand, but
the valve stayed closed. Batsy's husband Cope told me where to
find the RV repair shop, but when I told them my problem they
said, "Sorry! We don't do that job anymore. It's too
nasty." LOL They did tell me how to do it and
sold me a new valve. I fixed it and it wasn't nearly as bad
as I thought it would be.
After the Orofino show, while Batsy and I where doing the 60+
miles back to Moscow Mountain, the engine started
overheating. I used every trick I know to keep the Vardo
cool, but that engine just kept getting hotter. It was
getting late on this Saturday night and I knew all the garages
would be closed. What to do? What to do?
Coyote stood on the side of the road as I struggled to climb a
hill. As I began the descent, the needle on my Temperature
gage began to show the engine was cooling. Then it was
heating up. Then it was cooling. Up and down the
temperature went, all the way to Moscow Mountain. Then as
we pulled up to Batsy's driveway, the leaky hose blew and
the stream came pouring out from under the hood. Batsy
walked up the mountain and I stayed below for the night.
Seemed to hear Coyote laughing in my dreams. 'Course it was
easy enough to replace the hose in the morning. I give
Coyote his due. He had his jokes, but got me home.
Moose was on the mountain the whole time I was there. I
never saw him, but I heard him plenty. Tasha did too, but
didn't want to meet him. Turkey left me a beautiful flight
feather. So many gifts from the Mountain. And then
there is the Grandmother and Grandfather Trees.
Batsy lives on Gnat Creek, part of the drainage between the Twin
Sisters (those are the West and middle peaks, Moscow is the
largest and Eastern peak of the mountain). On the top of
the East Twin stand two huge old Ponderosa Pines.
They look to be well over two hundred years old. These
gnarly, knotted, wind twisted Pines stand like an ancient
couple. Grandfather Tree has one arm reaching down and
intertwined with Grandmother Tree. His other arm is wrapped
around some smaller trees, his grandchildren. You can see
these two giants from any point where you can see the south face
of the mountain.
Batsy and Cope led a group up to the Trees for a picnic
dinner. We sat on rock ledges, climbed into Grandfather's
arms, and enjoyed Raven's calls. As I was saying my
farewells to Grandfather, I found a very interesting shaped stick
at his base. It's about a foot long with a large knot on
one end and a little knot, just about a hand grasp from the
bottom. It seemed to be formed for my hand. One of
the interesting features was a hollow in the top knot. The
shape looked as if it were cut into the wood. When I came
to say good-bye to Grandmother, there at her base, was a small
pink stone. It was exactly the same shape as the hollow on
the stick and it looked as if it was cut to fit. It did
fit, like a jigsaw puzzle piece. And using a little bit of
Grandmother's sap, I set the stone into the knot. It's a
coup stick, from the Native tradition of counting coup.
In the old days, when the tribes were at peace, a warrior would
prove his prowess by sneaking into his old enemy's camp and tap
him with a coup stick, then flea away safely. No one was
hurt (except the pride of the one who had been tapped) and the
warriors could still test their skills. What will this
Storyteller do with a coup stick? I don't know, but I'm
sure I'll find out.
Earlier in the day, I found an old porcupine, dead on the side of
the road. It is a habit of mine, when it is possible, to remove
road kill from the highways and in the case of porcupines, to
remove some undamaged quills for friends who do bead work.
The quills are dyed and stitched into regalia (Native American
clothing). While removing the quills, I noticed that this
(female) was one of the oldest porcupines, I had ever seen.
She had been a mother many times and her hair was longer than any
other porcupine's hair. After I had placed her where Coyote and
Vulture could safely do their duty, I cut a fist full of her
hair. The pony tail will decorate my coup stick. It's an
interesting combination. Porcupine totem is Innocence,
childlike trust.
One of the main reasons for going to Northern Idaho this year was
to help the newly established story circles. I did two
workshops, one for Coeur D'Alene (the city, not the tribe) and
another for Moscow. Both were very well attended. Batsy, please keep us informed of the effects. Providing
workshops and classes to the public has worked well in many areas
for increasing membership of story circles.
Every year, I seem to find a common theme while facilitating
workshops. This year the theme seems to be individuality or
helping folks understand that the path to telling must be found
within each of us. There is no road map, only guide
posts. There is no standard, only models, many models. Each
of us need to pick and choose such pieces of the models as go
together to create our own special style of telling. The
trick is finding the pieces that touch our hearts and souls and
putting the pieces together in a way that will reach out to
others in story, so to touch their hearts and souls.
One last story from Northern Idaho. At one of the Latah
County Libraries, I was greeted by some children who had attended
a show two years before. They were so excited about the
show that they had begged their Uncle to put off the end of his
visit so their cousins could come and enjoy the stories with
them. I looked at one of the cousins and recognized the
stamp of her face. She could have been any one of a dozen of my
Acadian cousins. I asked her name and she said Cyr.
<Big Smile> I said, "My Eight Times Great
Grandfather was Pierre Cyr Sire, the original Acadian pioneer of
the Cyr family in North America. We are probably 8th
cousins in that line." The whole family was so
excited. Imagine being Papa Joe's cousin and not even
knowing it. Joy is where we find it.
Pax & Amicitia,
Papa Joe
In the Vardo, On the road.
Papa
Joe ~ Travel
Notes
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