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Show s r I I r r ' ( I i A-14 7je Parfr Record Wednesday, August 5, 1998 Sunday in the Park By Teri Orr Art and amulet 2 .v t IS- -2.x ' TT As Frances' flirtation continued, Floyd could only wonder: "Is it my new cologne, or table 21?" Of course, not everyone who dines at the GolJener Hirsch Inn is fortunate enough to he seated at Tahle 21. But that doesn't seem to dampen anyone's spirits. Our superh cuisine, personalized service and elegant Austrian setting are sure to enchant you. No matter where you happen to sit. Summer Hours Lunch 11:30 am - 2:30 pm Friday - Saturday Dinner begins 6:00 pm Wednesday - Sunday Sunday Table Service Brunch 11:00 am - 2:30 pm Call for reservations. 649-7770 .BBS dog D EER VALLEY o m m p q o q n n g e q mTT The Sale Continues... Sale held over until August 15th!!! Z -r-$39900 f Hidalgo lelevision Armoire ...( :s::v x :nii x 271) 1 $169 " Bombay End Table 2H.x2()Vx2lH Bombay Console Table (7l.x l(iV x MIH $119 rj&t Tj $i99 S"W7 1 F ft 00 .... 3 Rravo CD Cahinet , 3H' x 47H x 121) f 1$ 1 i r , i Ml BO' r j j ; I San Francisco TV Stand 2AVx:Hx 171) '199 Laredo Tall Nightstand 2IV x 2IIH x Hil) coml FURNISHINGS 2756 W. Rasmussen Rd. Park City, Utah 647-5880 Scenic Gondola Rides At THE CANYONS ' A ; , - ... -v - I ' . ! , .. -' Now enjoy Utah's newest resort in the summer. Scenic gondola rides available Friday, Saturday and Sunday from 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Adults $7 Children 6-12 $3 Children 5 and under FREE LUNCH ATTHE RED PINE LODGE AT MID-MOUNTAIN Join us for outdoor barbecue, snacks and cold drinks in a beautiful, mountain setting. Hike around or just sit and enjoy. FOR INFORMATION CALL 435-649-5400 THE Canyons" UTAH www.thecanyons.com Sony, no bikes allowed on the gondola a! this time. All times and prices subject to" change without nolfce. Although I've been home now for a couple of weeks, I find myself struggling to make the transition from there to here. I'm not certain I can translate this for print but it's kinda like that space between dreaming and waking, where with just a little lit-tle effort you could be pulled over either edge. And if the dreaming has been compelling, you resist the dawn. Like any good consumer, I managed to buy myself a few little souvenirs along my trails. A bookmark here, the ubiquitous T-shirt there, a couple of books just stuff, mostly. Except for one special thing a Sioux medicine bag from the gift shop at the Plains Indian Museum in Cody, Wyoming. I have been blessed with spending some rare intimate inti-mate time among members of the Navajo tribe mostly around the Canyon de Chelly and Big Mountain Moun-tain areas of Arizona. I have been included in sacred ceremonies and witness to powerful artifacts and strong medicine men and women. I have seen their land from sleeping inside their hogans to riding on their horses. And I always come away in awe of the great reverence rever-ence for the Earth and the great need for tradition tradi-tion and the enormous power in symbols. So I think I entered that museum muse-um space open to absorb the images and relics of a mostly bygone way of life. It is a museum of great colors. I guess I expected tired buffalo skins and earthenware bowls and gourd rattles, but I was unprepared for the bold geometric designs on the clothing and blankets and sacred amulets on display. I wish I had a poster of the huge wall, which held dozens of pairs of brightly beaded moccasins from the Cree, Nez Perce, Cheyenne and Sioux tribes. It was an explosion of color and patterns. pat-terns. I found myself drawn over and over to the language lan-guage of the interplay of strong colors from the Sioux. Red and blue and yellow, mostly. And not designs from nature like flowers or birds but powerful power-ful lines and angles and circles that spoke to me in a voice I couldn't quite translate. Sometimes I wander through museums and follow their little guidebooks and read each display in perfect per-fect order because you sense there is a logic to it. Certainly Cer-tainly the curators of this space understand that, for some, those guideposts are necessary, but for others, the drumbeat of souls will direct their path.. I was startled by the shirt. Inside a free standing case in the middle of the room was large shirt displayed with the arms sticking out straight like a giant T. Sewn along the length of that shirt from arm to arm across the chest and around the back, were little silver caps that held lengths of hair. Long, eight- to 10-inch lengths of human hair. Nearly all were dark hair which made the few strands of blonde and grey and auburn all the more dramatic by contrast. I felt an involuntary shudder come over me and I started to read the explanation attached. It stated. that for years it was. believed the lengths of hair were taken from scalps feel somehow stronger on days I wear it, more prepared to do battle when needed or be reminded of the strength in honor." Teri Orr and worn to show the fierceness of the warrior. But it was later thought that the shirt was only worn by the most holy men of the tribe and the hairs represented repre-sented all people they were somehow responsible to care for. I'll tell you, it gave new meaning to the biblical bib-lical expression "all the hairs on your head are numbered." num-bered." I drifted past beaded cradle boards and ceremonial ceremo-nial dresses and feathered headdresses. I read little stories of how the culture changed when the Black Robes (missionaries) came among the tribes. I marveled mar-veled at the intricate designs painted on tepees and drum shields. But that shirt stayed with me every step of the way. Which was it a trophy piece of savage war or a symbol of honor and obligation? In the gift shop I saw the display of medicine bags. It was odd, in all my years of working with the Nava-jos Nava-jos I had never been drawn to wanting a bag. But here, suddenly, it seemed important and the Sioux bag stood apart from the rest. It was made from buu tery yellow deerskin and embellished with blue and red and yellow yel-low porcupine quills and glass beads set in a simple strong geomeU ric design. I walked away from the piece several times. It was more money than one spends on a souveni- of a trip. I didn t need it. But when I placed-ft on the counter to pay for it, the clerk looked up, smiled and tenderly turned it over a few times in her hand. ' "You found the finest one there," was all she said;. And she slipped it into my bag along with a couple of postcards and a few books. The purchases went into the trunk of the car and I didn't look at them for the next 10 days. But I was always aware that the medicine bag was there if I somehow needed it. ; When I got home and unloaded the car and reexamined re-examined my treasures, I was surprised that the med icine bag held a strong smell. I tried to remember if I had left any food in the trunk that could have been absorbed into the leather. There was a familiarity to the smell. Not Cheetos or chocolate but wait beef jerky maybe. But I had never put food in the trunk. The smell I realized was smoke. The bag had been smoked by the maker to imbue it with what? A connection, I guessed, from the artist to the wearer... a message... a power... perhaps a healing. It has, as I said earlier in the column, been weeks since I've been home. I find myself wearing the beau-tiful beau-tiful bag as art and as amulet. It infuses whatever I wear with the aroma of sweet smoke. , I feel somehow stronger on days I wear it, mor$ prepared to do battle when needed or be reminded of the strength in honor. It reminds me belief systems speak across cultures and time zones with great boldi ness of purpose. It gives me pause to reflect on random ran-dom days not just on Sundays in the Park... ' Teri Orr is a former editor of The Park Record and l' currently is director.of.the Park-City Performing Arts. -i. i Center. Tales from old Park City By Justin L. "Jack" Fuell Bad to the bone A few nights ago we sat with our grandbabies and watched the Nature Channel show about the famous wolverine. I'd already been exposed to many of the truths about the creature, but had forgotten forgot-ten much of it. I'll have to say, though, that I was impressed with just what a rotten little stinker that animal is. Through the years, as our children grew, we sat before the tube and explained the things that appeared on the screen. Now we sit together and learn as much from the children as they pick up from us. On this recent occasion, as we sipped our orange drinks and tossed popcorn and caught it in our mouths, my memories dragged me away from the images on the screen and backward more 'than half a century to our school days in Park City. I sat amazed at the many parallels that we could draw between that vicious, hateful, animal featured on the screen and Percy, one of the kids that we knew back those many years ago in the old Jefferson School. The program played the wolverine as hateful and vicious that fit ' Percy to a "T." They " spoke of dogged determination deter-mination in achieving goals and that too, was Percy. One segment showed us that even full-grown bears gave way to the much smaller wolverine and that, also, was our classmate. They showed us little of the wolverine's formative years but I'd have to think that they must have run about parallel to what Percy's were like. In the first place, those in my age group, grade and class had no chance in a showdown with this bully because, among other things, he had been held back in at least two grades and, so, was two years older and two years larger than us. That may have been important but even among those his own age, Percy could more than hold his own. He was actually small for his age, but he was powerful and athletic. Percy backed down from no one, not even our teachers. He bowed to authority only enough that they kept him in school and this was important because school was the only place in town where Percy was safe from his older brother and his father. Home life must have been hell for Percy: his father beat him with belts, razor strops and clubs. He had an older brother who also pounded him at will. His mother was a sweet, shy, wonderful woman but she couldn't protect Percy from his father and brother. Home was the core of the hell around which Percy spun. That name "Percy," alone was enough to give any other mining town kid the curse of death, but Percy wasnt even his real name. A neighbor, his mother's friend, delighted in relating the most unspeakable truths about life on Rossi Hill, and she told us that his family had fought over Percy and his name from the moment he was conceived. In a fit of rage and spite his father had caused him to be christened chris-tened "Zephania." His dad must have had some shred Percy learned that I knew his real name and he granted me a lot of freedom because of that knowledge." Jack Fuell of shame and decency left in him, because he allowed the family call their son "Percy." : I didn't suffer as much from living in the same world with Percy as my peers. Percy learned that 1 knew his real name and he granted. me a lot of freedom free-dom because of that knowledge. You'd better believe that I was very damned careful exercising my freer doms because, from the time I was in first and second grades, I had nightmares about Percy and the things he did to kids. The TV screen showed us that the wolverine wasn't was-n't content with breaking into another's food cache and eating it but that after he'd eaten all he could pos.-sibly pos.-sibly hold, he then spoiled any remaining cache by urinating uri-nating over it. That was Percy, too! One of the kids in our class emerged from Pop Jenks' place on Main Street with an ice cream cone in his hand. Percy rushed up to hini, grabbed his wrist. wrenched the cone away from him and took a big bite from the top of that very rare treat. Oh, thai isn't all though, because Percy took another bite and then spat on the cone before he shoved it under its owner's nose. "You don't want to eat this dirty ice cream do you?" he laughed, and marched down the street enjoying the spoils of his game. In school we were encouraged to talk as little as possible. When nature called, we signalled our needs by holding up our hands and displaying one or two fingers one finger for the urinal and two for more detailed work. I'm not personally . acquainted with details of this event because I wasn't in school that day, but I'm told that Percy held up his fingers more times than the teacher thought was proper and so she denied him another bathroom run. Percy didn't argue but simply walked to the back of the room, dropped his trousers and... With most bullies, the very young kids would have been safe, but not around Percy. He delighted in shoving shov-ing first grader's heads into doors and wall lockers. Percy could jump high and kick hard. He loved to kick us in the chest, or chin if that got in the way. He was a dead ringer for what the TV screen told us about the wolverine. I have no idea of what happened to Percy. He came back to Park after serving in World War II as the rest of us did, but then he vanished. Some spoke of him from time to time usually in whispers and then that bunch of Old Parkites who still frequented Main Street's taverns back in the 1970's, told us that Percy was killed in a prison riot somewhere in the Deep South. Others say that Percy met his end on an Alabama Alaba-ma chain gang. Mebbeso who knows? Those wolverines are hard to kill. Justin Fuell, a former Park City resident, has written two books of his early recollections-Jackie and Beeba and Me. He lives in Marana, Ariz, with his wife Beeba. |