Thought for the day - October 21, 2001

Subject: Thought for the day - October 21, 2001
From: katlaughing
Date: 21 Oct 01 - 01:04 AM

This is where I was last week for a few hours. There is a profound peacefullness there and some parts of the following, about the Indian and bad medicine are true, but the rest is mine.

Her name was Cindy and she only asked for a cup of water. Her calico dress was clean, but worn, frayed around the hem and the edges of her sleeve. Her long hair hung down in a single braid, tugging loose here and there from the constant breeze of the day. She carried an old guitar slung over her back. It looked kinda funny, her this thin skip of a young woman, maybe 5 foot six, guitar almost as long as her, its body bumping along on her bum as she walked the dusty road, with the braid untucked from under the guitar strap, the tail end of it hitting against the hollow wood, making a soft rhythm with her gait.

She was busking, but the crowds were few and far between. She'd no idea of how vast the prairie was, but it seemed everywhere she went, people wanted to hear her songs and pickin' and even if they didn't, they would feed her and offer shelter. They didn't get too many songstress out here and nobody left a body's home without provisions, stranger or no.

This day, she'd left the long, straight stretch of highway, lit off for a campground near water where they said she could spend a few days, even make a few dollars. It was about five to seven miles off of the main highway and people who passed her by offered a ride. But, she'd shyly turn them down telling them she wanted to be like the Peace Pilgrim.

Finally, she came into the grotto where a small creek ran under a natural bridge, the only one of its kind the sign said. There was coolness, the sunlight shaded green through transparent leaves which rustled in a tiny whisper of air. Grass was abundant and tickled her toes, cooling them from the long walk, and when she dipped them in the edge of the water, it washed away the dust.

She learned this place was a haven for early pioneers as the Indians would not follow them into it. A very courageous Indian had once been struck and killed by lightening there and the place was considered bad medicine ever after. This made her sad.

There were families gathered for picnics, doves sat atop the red clifts and who-whurred at everyone. She found a quiet nook, up against the red rocks, with the rush of the water in one ear and she began to play that old guitar.

She played old honky-tonk songs, only in a slow, almost mournful beat; she caressed old Libba Cotten and wailed the old timey gospels, all with the voice of that guitar.

At first the other visitors were curious and started to wander over, but when they saw the look on her face, eyes closed, head tilted back, they backed off, a little afraid of what they saw.

The playing went on and on, as the light of day faded. Most campers had their tents set up and ready, for the sky had darkened with rain and lightening was beginning to flash with thunder a close rumble. Still none of them dared approach the girl. Some even disbelieved their earlier visions of her and claimed there was nothing there, no music, nothing, just the wind in the willows.

As the storm grew, they all ran for their tents and campers; the girl sat against the red rocks, her fingers running red from playing so long and so hard. Thinking about that brave Native of long ago, she switched to some runs and riffs, she'd heard down south on an Inidan rez, some flute player teaching her to bend the strings for effect and the night was eerie with her plaintive playing, the sky lit up, and the thunder crashed close by.

The rumbling was further away the closer dawn came. The others had fallen into an uneasy and exhausted sleep. The early risers heard first the birds and water and then, it struck them, there was no music. Perhaps she had finally given up and sought shelter. One climbed out of his tent, looked over against the red rocks, the rocks below where the Indian had died so long ago and all he saw was her old battered guitar. Looking around the small camp a bit more, there was no sign of her. Even after hours of searching, no sign of the girl was ever found, except the guitar.

These days, it sits in a corner of the caretaker's cottage. No one feels right about playing it, but on stormy nights when the thunder and lightening play, the strumming melody of the young woman, in her calico dress and barefeet, with her long, long braid can be heard, if ya listen real close.

© 2001 Kat LaFrance

Subject: RE: Thought for the day - October 21, 2001
From: Little Hawk
Date: 21 Oct 01 - 02:34 PM

Are you travelling, Kat? Interesting story.

- LH

Subject: RE: Thought for the day - October 21, 2001
From: catspaw49
Date: 21 Oct 01 - 03:05 PM

Very nice katmyluv......Very nice.

Spaw

Subject: RE: Thought for the day - October 21, 2001
From: katlaughing
Date: 21 Oct 01 - 03:06 PM

I wish, Little Hawk! This place is only about 30 miles from where we live and we just visited it for the first time last weekend. The calmness and beauty were incredible. I hope the link worked and you were able to see some of the pix.

Thanks,

kat

Subject: RE: Thought for the day - October 21, 2001
From: Ebbie
Date: 22 Oct 01 - 01:10 AM

I promptly set my wallpaper with the red rock bluffs and green grass one, kat. Beautiful.

Ebbie

Subject: RE: Thought for the day - October 21, 2001
From: katlaughing
Date: 22 Oct 01 - 03:25 AM

Kewl, Ebbie! It is beautiful, isn't it? Thanks.

Thanks, Spaw, we cross posted, who'da thunk it?:-)

My sisters are familiar with this spot, when I read them the story, they said if it gets published around here, people are going to think it is true and start looking for that gee-tar in the corner.

BTW, some of the genesis for this story came from a file Justa Picker sent me of some Libba Cotten. So thanks, JP!