Gothic Quarter of Barcelona

The Gothic Quarter of Barcelona is one of the best preserved Medieval neighborhoods in all of Europe. One could spend an entire day wandering through its labyrinth of cobblestone streets and never get bored.
 
The name “Gothic” is a little misleading. The title may refer to the Gothic architecture of the cathedral, or perhaps to the former counts of Barcelona, who reigned during the medieval era and came from Gothic lineage.
 

The Gothic Quarter accommodates the oldest section of Barcelona. On the west it is bordered by the Rambla, the east by Via Laietana, the north by Plaça Catalunya, and the south by the Mediterranean Sea.
 
A walk through this neighborhood is like stepping back in time to the 14th century. Many of its corridors are so narrow that a modern car would unlikely fit. The cobblestone pavement rarely sees direct sunlight. The city has literally been built on top of surrounding structures, resulting in many accidental discoveries during modern construction, such as Roman mosaics.
 

Cathedral of Saint Eulalia.

There is no set-in-stone itinerary of what to visit in the Gothic Quarter. Perhaps the best plan is just to wander about the streets and get lost—which you will probably do! But the one place which is a must-see is the cathedral.
 
The Cathedral of Santa Eulalia is the heart of the Gothic Quarter. Although it is squeezed next to other ancient buildings, it still stands majestic with its spires, pointed arches and gargoyles. The plaza in front of the cathedral will often be found with crowds of people and street performers. If you pay close attention you will spot the partial remains of a Roman aqueduct.
 

View from rooftop of cathedral.

Cloister of the cathedral.

Although it is difficult to conceive in modern times, the cathedral was built on the highest hill in the old city. In Roman times a temple dedicated to Augustus was built on the site. Some of the columns can still be seen from inside a nearby building. During the 4th century an early Visigothic chapel was built here. Two centuries later it was considered the Cathedral of Barcelona and held the Council of 559. Amid the violence that occurred during the Moorish conquest of Spain, the church was destroyed by the Islamic ruler of Spain in 985. The Christians slowly began to push the Moors southward and eventually into Africa, which became known as the Reconquest. Once they reclaimed Barcelona, the count, Ramón Berenguer I, rebuilt the church in a Romanesque style. The cathedral as it is known today didn't begin until the year 1298 and continued until 1448, with additional improvements in subsequent centuries.
 
The interior is a cacophony of visual artwork and symbolism. Everywhere are sculptures big and small, stained-glass windows, arches, candles and silence. Yes, with the exception of shuffling feet and whispering voices, the building remains relatively quiet considering the high numbers of visitors. Although the interior has become dark and dingy over the centuries, there is still a reverence about it. It has become somewhat of a cemetery with former bishops buried beneath the floor and in the walls.
 

Sarcophagus of Saint Eulalia, located in the crypt of the cathedral.

Under the main chapel are stairs leading to a crypt, which contains an alabaster sarcophagus holding the remains of Saint Eulalia, the person for whom the cathedral is named. Saint Eulalia was a young girl who lived in the 4th century and was tortured and killed for her Christian beliefs. According to one story, the young girl was exposed naked in a public square and miraculously a spring snow-storm fell and covered her nudity. The Romans then became enraged and put her in a barrel pierced with knives, and then rolled her down a hill, leading to her death.
 

Pockmarks on the walls of the church of Sant Felip Neri.

Not far from the cathedral, tucked away in its own secluded corner, sits the solemn Plaça de Sant Felip Neri. This plaza is simple in adornment, with a single fountain in the center and two trees. A stone arch and narrow street provide portals to the otherwise closed-off square. The Church of Sant Felip Neri shares its walls with the plaza. But it is the pockmarks on the face of the wall that make this sanctuary unique.
 
There are two competing versions as to how the scars got on the wall. Both come from the era of the Spanish Civil War when the regime of Francisco Franco terrorized his opponents, who were with the Republic. The first version that I heard was that Franco's troops executed several men along the wall, and those pockmarks that exist today are from those bullet holes. But then I learned the story to be apocryphal.
 
The correct version, however, doesn't sound much more benign. During the war, a convent was being used as a home for evacuated children. On January 30, 1938, Franco's airforce dropped a bomb directly in front of the church that killed 30 children. Shortly afterward, as rescue crews were furiously working to help the survivors, another bomb was dropped, this time landing in the plaza and killing 12 more people. The pockmarks in the wall of the church are from that explosion.
 

Street performer near cathedral.

Remains of Roman Aqueduct.

Woman with umbrella on Carrer de Ferran.

One surprising aspect about Barcelona that most people don't realize is the amount of Roman structures still extant. Emperor Augustus founded the Roman colony of Barcino in 15 B.C., whose city limits were completely within what is now known as the Gothic Quarter. When the first walls were constructed they contained within them houses, baths, an aqueduct and temple. Today, certain fragments of the wall remain, along with a handful of other relics.
 
During my latest visit to Barcelona I was pleasantly surprised to find an ancient Roman necropolis in the middle of the city. I had walked through the Gothic Quarter at least a dozen times in the past and had never stumbled across this jewel. The cemetery is located—I believe—just outside the former city walls. The grounds are laid with gravel and surrounded by buildings. We were unable to walk up close to the tombs, but were able to view them from a balcony.
 

Roman necropolis.

The tombs themselves are of a curious nature. They are shaped similarly to a mailbox, but of course bigger and made of stone. Many of them have a circular hole drilled into the side. I was unsure whether these stone structures contained the body within them, or if it was only a marker that sat atop the ground. Was this the original arrangement of the tombs, or have they been rearranged by archeologists and planners over the years? Were the tombs once buried beneath the surface? Are the bodies still there? I had very few answers to my questions, but nonetheless, it was fascinating just to see a Roman burial ground.
 
Several centuries after the Romans, the Gothic Quarter was partially inhabited by the Jews. From the 7th to the 14th century, the neighborhood where they lived was known as El Call, a name derived from the Hebrew word qahal, meaning a community or congregation. Today this neighborhood is distinguished by particularly narrow streets.
 

Narrow street in the Jewish Quarter.

Plaça de Sant Miguel.

As happened in other places in Spain, the Jewish community flourished in Barcelona. It is estimated that during the 13th century, about 4,000 Jews (about 15% of the population) lived in Barcelona. They were a very smart people and worked as doctors, scholars, money lenders, merchants, and scientists. In December of 1424, the Jews of Barcelona were either forced to convert to Christianity or expelled from city during the reign of King Alfonso V of Aragon. This came 68 years before the Jews were expelled from the Kingdom of Spain under Catholic Kings Ferdinand and Isabella.
 
Today there is a synagogue in the Jewish Quarter. It is believed that it was built during the 5th century on the foundation of Roman ruins. After the Jews were expelled, it was used as a storeroom and apartments were built on top of it. It wasn't until a research project that the true origins of the building were discovered and it was restored and opened to the public.
 

Wooden crucifixes at Frederic Marès Museum.

One of the hidden gems of the Gothic Quarter is the Frederic Marès Museum, located next to the cathedral. I had walked down this street many times before, but never knew the museum existed, or at least didn't give it a second thought. Housed in the Palau Reial Major, the building itself contains a bit of history. In the 15th century it became the residence of the kings of Aragon and Castile and Christopher Columbus was received here upon return from his voyage to the New World.
 
The museum is a collection of sculptures, including many dating back to Iberian, Greek and Punic culture. But the bulk of the collection is focused on medieval Christian sculptures. The Virgin Mary and the Holy Family are common themes throughout the museum. Of interest to me are the vast amount of crucifixes depicting Christ on the cross. Often the arms of the Savior are broken off.
 
The Frederic Marès Museum is just one example of what one may find in the Gothic Quarter. A person could spend days wandering the the narrow alleyways and continue to discover hidden treasures. ♠

Plaça del Vuit de Març.

Plaça del Rei.

The Day Brittany Cut Off Her Toe

[Today marks the seven-year anniversary since Brittany entered the next world.  Since that time it has been a challenge dealing with the grief and emptiness that comes with losing a child.  But I am very grateful for the fourteen years we had with her.  Our lives are much richer for having known her.

The following is a true account that happened almost three years before Brittany's passing.  I wrote it a couple of weeks after the incident, so the events were fresh on my mind.  I didn't quite conclude the account, so that portion I have added to the end.]

Even though all this happened two and a half weeks ago, the images remain vivid in my mind. I was at work, delivering mail on Two Hundred South. The time was only slightly past noon, so I still had a heavy load left to deliver. I knew that it was going to be a busy day for me so I carried our only cell phone. At precisely this point on my route, the chime on the phone sounded and I quickly emptied my hands and answered.

“Hello, is this Mr. Lacy?”

“Yes, it is,” I responded.

“We have your daughter, Brittany, here at the school and it looks like she has probably broken her toe. We've tried calling your home and no one was there.”

What exactly did they want? Were they expecting me to drop everything to come and pick her up? I couldn't do that. The nurses at that school call to send children home for the pettiest of things. It's a stubbed toe. The doctors couldn't do anything about it anyway. Make her stay in school and take the bus home, I thought.

“So, are you needing someone to come and pick her up?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And my wife's not home?”

“No. No one answered when we called. We can try again and then give you a call if we get no response.”

That sounded good. I couldn't leave this large of a work-load for something small and unnecessary. They send these kids home for a tiny tummy ache or a fever that is two degrees higher than normal when there is only thirty minutes left in school!

Less that five minutes had elapsed and now my delivery had only progressed around the corner to One Hundred East. “Mr. Lacy,” the nurse said, “we still can't get a hold of your wife. This is serious. Her toe will probably need surgery. She needs to go to the emergency room right now.”

And so it was. I drove back to the office immediately and dropped on them all my work-load. I clocked out and was off as fast as I could to Three Peaks Elementary School.

I pulled my truck right up to the front in the red zone and jogged into the building. There, in the office on a little bench, a little group was huddled around my daughter. I recognized the principal, as well as Mr. Robinson, Mrs. Mackleprang, Tina Riddle, and another lady. Brittany's right foot was propped up a few inches higher than the other, with white gauze wrapped several times around her toes. Her eyes were pink from crying and the fold below her lower eyelids wet with tears.

“Would you like me to carry her out to your vehicle?” asked the principal, Mr. Taylor.

“Yes. I will clean out a spot.”

I hurried out in front of him and threw the the lunch box, coat, water bottle and snow-scraper into the back of the truck. Mr. Taylor came out the door, Brittany's legs in one arm and the nape of her neck in the other, cradling her in a tender way so as not to bump her toe. Tina Riddle came out with him, holding her backpack, shoe and coat.

Now it was only the two of us in the truck and we were on our way to the hospital. I cranked up the heat. Someone in the room mentioned that she needed to stay warm so that she didn't pass out.

“Is your toe feeling alright being down like that?” I asked, worrying that it would start throbbing by not being elevated.

“Yes.”

“Are you warm enough?”

“Yes.”

The drive to the emergency room was only ten minutes, but plenty long to extract the story from Brittany. It was during lunch and she wanted to get a book from Kerri, who is in a different class, so when she went to get it, Kerri was in there with about five other girls, but there was a boy and he's kind of a bully, and he wouldn't let her in and he stood at the door and tried to shut it, but when he tried to shut it, Brittany put her foot in front of the door to stop him, and he shut it anyway and it was all the way shut with her toe still in it, and she screamed, but he wouldn't open it until after about fifteen seconds, and when he opened it she ran crying down the hall to the nurses office.  Yikes!

“So, which part of the door was your toe in?” I asked.

“The part where the hinge is.”

“What were you doing putting your foot there?”

“That's what I do.”

“Was you're shoe on?”

“Yeah.”

“Did it cut through your shoe?”

“No.”

About this time, I just happened to see Jenelle coming from the on-ramp of the freeway. I quickly pulled over and waved her to stop and told her to follow me to the hospital.

At the emergency room entrance, I cradled Brittany in my arms and carried her in while Jenelle talked to the receptionist to give them our information. Quickly we were whisked in and I carried my girl to a hospital bed where I was glad to put her down because she was quickly becoming heavy.

When the doctor came in and unwrapped the toe, I received my first glance at the wound. I will admit that it was worse than I thought. The first thing that I noticed was that I could see right through it. It wasn't simply a gash that went deep into the skin, or perhaps to the bone. This gash went all the way through. It was her second toe on her right foot, the one next to the big toe. The slice was lodged right below the cuticle and above the knuckle. It wasn't just the nail sliding off. It was the whole toe. The entire nail plate was there, lying as it should on the nail bed, and the walls of the nail still a perfect oval. The grotesque part about it all, however, was that it was attached only by a sliver of skin!

Jenelle waited in the lobby with Savanah until our neighbor could come and pick her up. No kids were allowed in the E.R. I ran outside quickly to move the truck to a normal parking spot. When I returned, only minutes later, Brittany's face was trembling tight with pain and a nurse was kneeling at her side, holding her hand and brushing her forehead. When I realized what was going on, I dropped to my knees also. The doctor with his needle gave several shots to the toe. Each shot was at a different angle, ultimately given to deaden the pain, but now the pain was enormous.

The doctor and nurse left after giving some X-rays and soon Jenelle was in the room. She was anxious that I give Brittany a blessing, so she left into the hall to find another priesthood holder. She found a young man named Corby and he and I administered to my daughter.

I had an appointment at the chiropractor, so Jenelle took over.

She called me a while later from the hospital and told me that the toe fell off. I couldn't believe it. “It just fell off?” I repeated in disbelief.

Later that evening she described what she saw after they had cleaned it all up. The bone was sticking out, at least a quarter of an inch. She, too, saw what I saw. The whole top of the toe was off. The doctor wrapped it up out of sight and we were advised to make an appoint with the Orthopedic Specialist five days later on Tuesday.

Showered by gifts from well-wishers after returning home from the hospital.

[This is where the account ends.  The conclusion I will draw from memory.  

After that day at the hospital, they wrapped her foot in a big bandage.  For me, the miracle came when her toe was carefully unwrapped some time later.  To our surprise, the toe was growing back!  Yes, it looked pretty mangled and it was nothing but a stub, but it was a toe none-the-less.  And she even had a sliver of a toe-nail!

I had expected her to never have a toe again.  You know, kind of like one of those old men you know who got his finger cut off when he was a butcher.  But there it was.  This was a relief for Jenelle, too, who wanted Brittany to be able to paint her toe-nails and have pretty feet like all teenagers girls want.  

Over the next couple years it continued to grow.  Although it never looked completely normal, we were all grateful that at least she had a toe.]

Taken about two years after the incident.

A Hike to the Cabin

My friend, Robert, came up with a wild proposal.
 
Several years ago he built himself a cabin on the mountain and it is one of his favorite places in the world to visit. Nestled with the quaking aspen and near an alpine pond it is an abode to hang and relax, and to bring the children and grandchildren. For Rob, it is heaven on earth. The possibility of creating an adventure that included his cabin added an extra allure. So what was this wild proposal?
 

Dawn in Fiddlers Canyon.

We parked the truck high up in the Fiddlers Canyon subdivision and walked in the dark past a gate and onto a dirt road that eventually dropped into the canyon. The mostly full moon had set just minutes ago. We passed an old rock dam covered in wire that had been built by the CCC's in the 30's or 40's.
 
Once in the canyon Rob walked ahead of me and used a flashlight for the first ten minutes. It was peaceful and quiet. Any sign of city life had truly been left behind. Here we found a trail that took us out of the wash and onto a parallel route above it on the bench. I don't know if the path was a recent construct, but I don't remember it when I hiked here twenty years ago.
 

For our entire hike we saw no other people. But along our initial stages of the canyon we spotted some boot prints and found a couple vacant camping spots.
 

The stream soon became frozen over with ice.

Along the bottom of the wash flowed a small stream. Much of the surface of the stream was frozen over with a sheet of ice thick enough to walk on. Sometimes it would crack, but rarely did we fall through. The further into the canyon we traveled, the more the wash stepped up in levels. We discovered that these small steps created beautiful ice-falls.
 
Some of the waterfalls became large and we had to carefully climb the rocks around them so as not to slip on the ice. Other ledges were so sheer that we had no choice but to circumvent the falls by climbing on the hillside.
 

Climbing up another level in the canyon.

One of the many spectacular frozen falls in Fiddlers Canyon.

Typical stretch of the canyon.

The walls of the canyon blocked any sunlight from reaching us. The first appearance of its warming rays came at 9:25, nearly three hours after we began.
 
For over four hours we navigated the canyon. The terrain became rougher as we went. Without any sort of GPS navigation tool, we didn't know exactly how far we had traveled and only had a printed version of Google Maps to make any sort of guess. We were hoping to follow a drainage coming in from the north, but hadn't found it.
 

Frozen waterfall.

Pine hen hiding in the trees.

At one point we came to another large dry-fall that prevented our passage forward. (At this place the stream had recently disappeared.) We decided to climb out of the canyon on the north side to get our bearings and to scope the canyon which appeared to only be getting rougher. This was a tangled mess climbing out. Thick, overgrown brush clogged the entire hillside and the climb up was very steep. We found several really old posts that had been cut with a saw. That gave us hope that maybe we were near an old road or trail, but we didn't find anything.
 

Finally exiting the canyon.

This was our view once we exited the canyon.

At last we made it over the lip of the canyon and into a small meadow. We still had a long climb until we were on top of the mountain, but from here Rob could pinpoint exactly where we were. On the peak in front and to our right was Windy Ridge, marked with a large antenna on top. Half a mile or so to the left, and lower in elevation was a pavilion.⸺We aimed our hike toward the pavilion.
 
This was no walk in the park. In fact, it was probably our roughest stretch of the day. Once again we walked through tangled oak brush. If we found a game trail, we were lucky. But usually our trajectory consisted of twenty to fifty-foot segments of whichever direction seemed to have the least obstructed path. Our hands and arms received many scrapes from the branches. Rob somehow cut his hand and had blood smeared all over the side of his shirt. In some places we had to crouch low, nearly crawling on the ground. Some of the bushes had thorns like a rose bush.⸺All this while moving on a persistent upward slope that gained several hundred feet in elevation.
 

It was refreshing to at last walk on a road.

Refrigerator Canyon.

At 2:00 p.m. we finally arrived at the pavilion. What a relief! We now believed we had the hardest part of the hike behind us. The pavilion was a wooden structure built many years ago to entice buyers to purchase lots. Some developer had envisioned a subdivision at 8,500 feet on a mountain and even paved a road to get there. The entire plan fell through and hardly a single dwelling was ever built. Even the pavement is now cracking.
 
For two miles we walked on a series of high-mountain roads, the first stretch paved, but the rest dirt or gravel. We crested near 9,000 feet, then worked our way down toward the cabin. Like I stated earlier, we didn't see another soul. This section was by far the easiest stretch of our entire hike.
 

The cabin.

We arrived at the cabin at 3:38⸺much later than we had hoped. It would have been nice to sit down at the table to have a bite to eat, then lay on the sofa and take a nap. That didn't happen. Daylight was running out.
 
But our brief visit was nonetheless pleasant. The cabin had a one-room design with the exception of a bathroom and bedroom. The wood-burning stove and furniture gave a rustic feel. We replenished our water and Gatorade, and found snacks in the cupboard. Since the water was turned off for the winter we had to flush the toilet by dumping a mixture of water and antifreeze from 10-gallon jugs.
 
After our all-to-short visit to the cabin, we donned our packs once again and continued our hike. A narrow four-wheeling trail leads from the cabin past a pond, and a few hundred yards later arrives at the rim of Braffits Canyon.
 

After entering Braffits Canyon, it didn't take long for the stream to transform from this . . .

. . . into this!

A path leads into the canyon, which is very beautiful. A stream two-feet wide is flanked on both sides by high mountain grass, pine trees and fallen leaves. Much of the stream was covered in a sheet of ice. The small waterfalls looked like stretched out cotton candy.
 
We would have loved to enjoy the scenery, but we had a task to accomplish, and that was to hike as far as we could while we still had daylight. The day had already taken it's toll on our bodies, especially for Rob, whose thighs were giving out on him. The canyon continued to tumble downward in a rugged fashion, with twelve-foot drop-offs becoming frequent. Luckily, there was always a way down.
 
When the alpenglow came, our hearts raced with anxiety. We knew this was the golden sunlight before it became dark. We took advantage of our last bit of light, knowing we were still deep in the canyon. I wasn't too excited about climbing down ledges with a flashlight.
 

One of the many ledges we had to climb down.

Well . . . guess what? The sun went down and we found ourselves picking our way in the dark with a flashlight. The going was much slower now. We stopped several times for Rob to take a break. I turned off my flashlight and ate a Milky Way bar in the dark, listening to the gurgle of the stream and the soft breeze on the cliffs. We both worried about mountain lions lurking along the ledges.
 
The terrain didn't become any easier. About every five minutes we came to another ledge, forcing us to navigate a way down. We were very grateful to have always found a way down, because it was my worry that we would get ledged up and have to spend a cold night in the canyon.
 
As we got lower into the canyon, thick vegetation began to grow around the stream. At one point I had to crawl on all-fours just to make it through. And all this in the dark! The willows became so thick that we soon found it necessary to exit the canyon and walk on the side-slopes. Here we found the relics of an old mine. We hoped that might mean there would be an old road also, but no such luck. We were still bush-whacking through the scrub oak.
 
So we decided to drop back down into the stream bed and cross to the other side where the growth might not be as thick. This proved not to be so easy. I slid four feet down a grassy embankment and into a foot of water. A couple minutes later I fell into the water again before crawling up the steep bank to the other side.
 

Nightfall.

Now our luck began to change. I could see we were getting close to the end. In the distance we observed the lights of traffic on I-15 and could hear the hum of the rigs. And as luck would have it, we came across a path through the trees that led us to a dirt road on the other side of Braffits Creek. From here it was a pleasant walk in the moonlight to Rob's truck that he had left the night before.
 
We felt a sigh of relief as we sat in the cab of the truck. We knew for sure that we would now spend the night in the comfort of our own beds rather than on the dirt floor of a canyon (without a fire because we forgot matches)!
 
We also felt a sense of accomplishment. Our hike lasted thirteen hours and I suspect we traveled thirteen miles, most of it without any kind of path. We started in the dark and ended in the dark. We climbed over 3,000 feet in elevation. We both agreed that we were glad to have done it.⸺But we also agreed that we would never do it again! ♠ 

And this is what we dreamed about all night long!

Wild Thanksgiving

When Savanah opened the door, she was stunned! Her eyes couldn't believe who was standing on our doorstep.
 
“Grandma and Grandpa, what are you doing here?”
 
My parents live five hours away and we only see them a few times a year. When they come to visit, I always give my kids a heads-up. I would especially do it if they were to come the day before Thanksgiving!
 
I'm getting ahead of myself, so let me back up and explain a few other details . . .
 
As with most families, we alternate the place we go for Thanksgiving between my family and that of my wife. This year we were to make the four-hour drive to Mantua, Utah to be with Jenelle's family. Thanksgiving is always a double-edged sword for me. I love visiting either side of the family, especially with members whom I rarely see. But on the other hand, my job only allows one day off, which means it is always a quick and miserable trip, leaving in the dark on Wednesday, and returning in the dark on Thursday.
 
And I'm always worried about the weather. The end of November can always send a squall that will jab you in the heart if you're not careful. We've been caught in several snow storms over the years. I remember one Thanksgiving coming home from Monticello when we landed ourselves in a white-knuckled adventure in the mountains near Salina on I-70. We spent two hours at nine o'clock in the evening waiting at a rest area, bundled in blankets, before continuing the harrowing drive home.
 
As we kept an eye on the weather report, I became more concerned. It seemed that with each passing day the forecast became more dire. What began as a chance of rain turned into seven inches of snow, both on Wednesday and Thursday. On Monday we made the difficult decision to cancel our plans to Mantua and spend the holiday by ourselves at home.
 
I should inject here that this time of year is a difficult time for us. My daughter, Brittany, passed away around the holidays seven years ago. In fact, the day before Thanksgiving would have been her 21st birthday. Since her passing we have always celebrated her birthday by eating Thai fried rice, which was the last meal she ever fully ate.
 
So now that plans had changed, the busy work began. We had to buy turkey, pies, whip cream, stuffing, corn and all the good food that comes with Thanksgiving. We had never eaten Thanksgiving dinner with just our family. With Brittany gone, there are only four kids now, all of them in the house, except for Jordan who lives in town. It would be a simple dinner, but of course now we would have to do all the work.
 
The day before Thanksgiving was one of the craziest days I've experienced in a long time. First of all, the weather was insane! We knew the storm was blowing in, but we didn't think it would blow in like a hurricane. Gusts had to be around 60 miles per hour! With snow already on the ground, our entire town looked like a cloud of powder. Trash skidded across the streets and flaps of siding dangled from rooftops. Mammoth pine trees were toppled. Semi trucks were tipped over on the freeway like matchbox cars. And I had to work in all this!
 
That's when Savanah answered the door. Jenelle sent me a photo-text with a picture of my parents sitting in our living room. Now it was all coming back to me . . .
 
My mom had called me about a month ago and asked what we were doing for Thanksgiving. When I told her we were traveling to Mantua, she said that was too bad because they were actually going to be traveling through our town on their way to St. George. They were going with my brother and his family to California the day after Thanksgiving, but as for Thanksgiving day, they had no place to eat. Their plan was to find a Chuck-o-rama or other establishment that would serve a Thanksgiving dinner. And I didn't give it a second thought because I knew we would be gone . . . or so I thought.
 
When our plans changed, the fact that my parents would be passing through town never entered my mind. But once Jenelle notified me they were here, my memory was quickly jogged. I now recalled that they didn't have a place to eat. “We should invite them to eat with us,” I texted Jenelle. She agreed.
 
But what came next took me off guard. Jenelle texted back and said that Adam would be coming, also. Adam is my brother that is traveling to California with my parents. The snow ruined their Thanksgiving plans, too. He has a wife and three kids. So, on a dime, our Thanksgiving plans changed from a simple meal with six people, to a feast with thirteen.
 
The next twenty-four hours was spent buying more food and preparing what we could. Jenelle was the mastermind behind everything and made most of the dishes. Wednesday evening I made the fried rice and we ate ice cream and cake after dinner. Then we reminisced on memories of Brittany while sitting in the living room.
 
Early Thursday morning we put the turkey in the oven, then spent the next several hours baking rolls, whipping up potatoes, dicing vegetables and a plethora of other chores associated with Thanksgiving dinner. The guests arrived around around 11:00 and they too pitched in. The kids played Carcasonne in the hallway and my dad watched a Spaghetti Western.
 
Everything came together remarkably well. As we ate dinner, all the bites and drops tasted magnificent. Snow had fallen over night, so all was white, but by now the roads outside had dried. It was a pleasant day for conversation.
 
One more aspect to this holiday made it special. The last time we hosted a Thanksgiving dinner in our home was twenty-one years ago. You guessed it . . . the year that Brittany was born. Because Jenelle was due any day, my family decided it was best to travel to us instead of making us travel to them. Jenelle prepared most of the dinner that year also. We ate a sumptuous meal and the next day, early in the morning, we both drove to St. George where Jenelle was induced. Later that day a healthy baby girl was born. She came with dark hair and wide hazel-colored eyes, perhaps with a hint of blue. She appeared very alert and aware of her surroundings. On that day we nicknamed her pumpkin. ♠

Paiute Powwow (from an outside perspective)

For me it is the rhythmic pounding of the drums that draws allure. Pa-POOM, pa-POOM, pa-POOM. Over and over. Pa-POOM, pa-POOM, pa-POOM! And then the shrill scream of the singers, like a pack of wild coyotes screaming in the night.
 
I believe tonight was my fourth powwow. I arrived at the Paiute tribal grounds just ten minutes before the grand entry. It didn't go as planned.
 
Participants and onlookers gathered in a large circle on the grass, beneath shade huts and on chairs and feet. Beyond all of us, a beautiful backdrop of red hills that are iconic of Cedar City.
 

A tall man with two long dark braids stood and addressed the crowd. He had bad news. He announced that his uncle, Bryant Jake, had died just 45 minutes ago and they were postponing the grand entry until 7:30 so family members could go to his house and pay their respects before they took the body away.
 
This took me off-guard. I met and talked with Bryant just a few months earlier. He was dying from cancer, but looked fairly healthy the day I saw him. I asked him about an old burial site west of town, and he—rightfully so—was reluctant to tell me much about it. There are very few people left who know the location of that site.
 
During the time of powwow, the beating of drums and high-pitched chanting reverberates over the hills and can be heard through all the neighborhood. It can be a surreal experience. Bryant Jake lived just a couple blocks away. No doubt that as he lay dying at his home, it was as if the spirits were calling him to his eternal home.
 

A powwow is a gathering of many Indian tribes. Here there were Shoshone, Ute, Navajo, different bands of Paiute. In the past I have seen Aztec from Southern California and a tribe from Canada. A drummer near us this evening came from Kansas. I have a pretty good feel of how the local Paiute look, as well as some of the Ute and Navajo around the state, but as I walked around the grounds, it was obvious that there were many from distant places, whose facial features and skin tone were different.
 
It is also interesting to note the difference between Natives and Anglos. We, the Anglos, are curious. We come with our big cameras and phones to record the event. The Natives just participate.
 
I talked with a white guy from Dallas, Texas who had a camera and was filming a documentary on the local Paiutes. For the last three years he has interviewed members and attended other tribal events. Of particular interest he has followed the recent controversy where our local school board voted (to the ire of much of the community) to change the “Redmen” mascot at the local high school.—I will note that I saw a local Paiute lady wearing a Redmen sweater at the powwow.
 

When the grand entry began, the drums began to beat and a long line of men, women and children from all the different tribes made their way into the inner circle of the grounds, some walking, and others stomping their feet in dance. They wore regalia of feathers, bells, tall moccasins and costumes of color. Some painted their face. One of the men wore a headdress. A woman wore a leather shawl and twirled like a flamenco dancer. All in all, it was a beautiful sight.
 
At the lead of the long procession marched the veterans holding three different flags, including that of the Paiute Tribe, state of Utah, and United States. I am always impressed at how the Natives are so patriotic. And to be a veteran is held in high regard among the community.
 
As the the evening continued, more dancing, singing and drumming ensued. I believe there is a competition for each of these, as there are tags with numbers attached to the regalia. I will admit that I don't understand everything that goes on at a powwow, but I am trying to learn more each year.
 

I did notice, however, that they pay high respect to their elders. At one point they brought an elderly lady in a wheelchair and her family into the circle and honored her by talking of her and singing to her. (When I say “sing” I mean they beat on the drums and the drummers made their high-pitched shrill that is typical powwow music.) Sometimes the singing just sounds like beautiful noise, but sometimes I can tell there are words in there, most likely of native tongue.
 
Upon observing the elderly lady's family, I noticed that several were Anglo, meaning some of the kids probably inter-married. This is a microcosm of their culture as they have had to adopt many of the white-man ways over the past 170 years. Say what you'd like about inter-racial marriages, but within two or three generations, usually one of the two races is usually wiped away from the family culture. I couldn't help but to feel a twinge of sorrow for the old lady, knowing that more than likely, it will be the Paiute culture that disappears from her descendants.
 

As a person who is curious of history and culture, I have always been fascinated with the powwow and how it relates to the native people, which in this case is the Paiute. There seems to be powwows spread across the western United States, yet I don't believe the celebration is indigenous with each of the tribes that do it. From my understanding, the powwow originates with the Plains Indians, who are very far away from Cedar City.
 
So, if the powwow is a transplant to the Paiutes, then when did it come and what sort of dances did they do before it arrived? And furthermore, does the powwow do justice in carrying on local traditions, or does it aid an environment where local traditions and customs are inadvertently lost?
 

I asked around a bit and got a few answers. The first powwow held in Cedar City was in 1980 in commemoration for the tribe being restored its Federal recognition. I believe they have had powwows every year since then.
 
A tribal friend told me that in the past they held Bear, Round, and Sun Dances. She has seen pictures of them dating to around the 1940's. She said they used to wear buckskin, made of deer, and that she recalls her grandmother sewing gauntlets, which are a type of glove made of leather.
 

I think it is very difficult to know which dances and traditions are indigenous to the local Paiutes here in Cedar City. From what I understand, even before the white man came, they were very poor and nomadic. Does that mean they had few customs of their own? I don't know. Perhaps they met with bordering bands, such as the Shivwits or the Pahvant, during times such as harvest and held celebrations. What interactions did they have with their distant cousins, the Utes? I believe the Bear Dance is of Ute origin.
 
The more and more I observe Native people, I realize that they tend to cling to each other. Their tribe affiliation becomes less important. There are so few of them that they strive for strength in numbers. This makes sense to me. So, therefore, even though a powwow may have originated on the Plains, this is irrelevant. A powwow is an excuse to get together and celebrate their similar heritage.
 
I found a quote that substantiates this idea: “A powwow is a gathering, it's a celebration. A powwow used to be to welcome the spring or you'd have a powwow after a good harvest, or you'd have a powwow for a celebration, or if someone was having a significant birthday. Now-a-days powwows are year round, any weekend, any calendar you can find powwows somewhere in the U.S. Or Canada. For me, a powwow is a gathering to see old friends and to make new friends.” (Tina Calamity, The Spanish Trail Suite Interviews)
 

As the evening moved forward, the shadows on the dancers grew longer before they completely faded away into the darkness of twilight. But now the big field lights came on the dancers continued to dance and the drums continued their beat.
 
There are still a lot of questions that remain unanswered for me, but that's alright. I go with the flow. But one thing I am sure of is that it is no coincidence that Bryant Jake died on this day at this time, with all his family members here. I'm sure the spirits were on the other side, being summoned by the rhythm of the drums, the shrill of the scream, and the jingling of the bells to bring him into the next world. ♠