Insomniac Folklore Tour: Nebraska and Wyoming

July 5th

So far, our first two days of tour have consisted of the same routine: get up early, drive eight or nine hours across wide landscape to the venue, play the show, then crash on the floor of a kind stranger who we just met. I’m glad I came into this tour knowing that “experiencing the places” was not exactly on the list: in two days we’ve gone from Missouri to Wyoming, and my sightseeing consists of looking out the van window as the scenery slips by.

There are some things that don’t change, no matter how I travel, and one of the biggest things is the sensory aspect. Life feels grittier, more intense, both less and more real, when I travel. Chewing whole wheat bread slathered with jelly and trail mix while squinting in a Wyoming sun. Sitting on a concrete floor with my fingers jammed in my ears trying to endure yet one more song with the same punk rhythm. Sweat running down my calves as a flood-scented wind lashes through the windows. Linking sticky arms with my bandmates in a group hug at a gas station in Nebraska. Feeling my violin playing vibrate in my back teeth and my collar bone as I hit the note spot-on. Cuddling up in a sleeping bag with a silky-furred yorkie under my arm. Sitting on shady grass and watching Tyler’s pet turtles chew dandelions. Gazing as the landscape transforms from flooded cornfields to hills of ragged gray rock. All part of the experience. All part of the memories.

~Lisa Shafter

Cornerstone, Part Two

Here’s a revised entry that I wrote in my diary on the morning of July 1st. I’ve shortened it a bit, edited it for clarity, and taken out a considerable amount of shameless gushing about a certain violinist. The events of June 30th were a major reason I loved Cornerstone so much— it’s a night I’ll hold forever in my heart. 

*  *  *

Last night, after eating s’mores with Josh and Emily [two other good friends at our campsite], I headed over to the Photoside Café show with my friends John, Ryan, and Mrs. Hengst. We arrived at the Chelsea Café tent and looked around for a place to sit. I knew there was a violinist in the band, but I didn’t pay any attention until the sound guy called for a mic check. A tone of pure gold shot through the air, playing the main theme from Pirates of the Caribbean. My head whipped toward the stage as if someone had slapped me, and I saw Photoside’s violinist warming up his instrument. I knew this was going to be a good concert.

I would say there are no words to describe Photoside Café’s live show, but I am a writer so I must try: utterly transcendent. The lead singer/guitarist, happy drummer/pianist, talented bassist and guest guitarist are all excellent, I’m sure. However, I only could hear and see the violinist and his rapturous instrument that he played with the beauty of autumn sent sailing into the air in a heartbreakingly sweet tone. 

I was instantly in love. I wanted to dance among the stars, or run on the ocean waves, or become a leaf in an oak tree lashing in the wind. Every turn, every song, every phrase was a new adventure, a tone or note or sound that spilled deep into my heart and filled it with joy so unspeakable that I could only tremble in my folding chair as tears slipped down my cheeks. 

Photo by Sharon Curry

When the set was drawing to a close, they played so fast and furiously I was afraid the violin would snap in half. They finished in a huge chord, and I leaped to my feet for a standing ovation.

After that, I half-collapsed onto a wooden tent support, gazed up at the stars, and basked in euphoria. Mrs. Hengst and John patiently waited for me to calm my jubilant heart. I realized at that moment, beyond doubt, that I could die right now and feel that I had experienced all the beauty this life has to offer.

At my friends’ urging, I talked to the violinist after the show. I waited my turn, then said, “Hi,” and earnestly gushed for several minutes. We talked about violin, the band, Cornerstone. I didn’t want to keep him long, but on impulse, out of the joy of my heart, I gave him a tight hug. For an instant I held in my arms a young man who God has blessed with the gift of pure Beauty. Then I said goodbye and raced off.

By all the standards of fairness, there should be a limit to how much joy someone is allowed to experience in one day. Reasonably, the night should have ended there and it still would have been an evening to remember forever. But I had committed to see the Flatfoot56 show at the large tent across the grounds, so I wrapped on a back brace, grabbed some earplugs, and scuffed my feet in the dust to the show, feeling that anything would be a comedown after the wonder I had just witnessed. I was wrong.

The huge tent was packed out, but I found a space in the mass of sweaty people, many of them dressed like superheroes, since that was the theme of the show. After a dramatic John-Williams music intro, the band took the stage— wearing masked big-brained batwing-eared supervillain costumes. As the members grabbed guitars, a mandolin, and bagpipes, they announced their plan to take over the world by destroying all the superheroes at once… with music!

For the first two songs, I worked on edging my way closer to the circle pit near the stage (a circle pit occurs when the fans run in a giant ellipse, pushing and shoving and trying not to fall down). Flatfoot is apparently renowned for having friendly circle pits, though I was warned it was not for the faint of heart. I hovered on the edge for a while, watching a couple hundred people mosh-sprint their way around the oval. Then I took a deep breath, put up my fists as if about to punch someone, and dove into the stampede.

Exhilaration! I hurtled forward, slamming my forearms into the people in front of me as people shoved me from behind. Every time we bottlenecked between a support pole and the group near the stage, we became a kicking, wriggling mass of sweaty bodies. I grunted and yelled as I fought through the runners, wild with adrenaline, grinning and whooping as I battled hundreds of other dancing fans.

Once I fell, but seized a guy’s tank top, yanked myself up and kept running. I paused only a couple times. For most of the concert I ran around the pit, nostrils burning with the acrid smell of sweat and the particularly stinky mud that Cornerstone offers, arms throbbing from ramming into people, my skin slick with sweat— both mine and other people’s. A couple kids with mind-control powers kept on reversing the multiple-hundreds-person flow of the pit, which meant that I was hit by a freight train of bodies several times. Between songs, everyone slowed down for a few seconds, heaving breaths, panting for water, almost blacking out in the soggy heat. Then the drums started up again, the exhaustion fell away like shackles, and we were off: athletes in a chaotic flailing race to happiness.

For their final song, Flatfoot had us all link arms and sway as we sang Amazing Grace together. I pulled out my earplugs and was overcome by the noise— not from onstage, but from the people around me, God’s children, belting out the words with more passion (and volume!) than I have ever heard in my life. The beauty of it all made me weep, and I sang all the louder.

As soon as the first verse hit its final chord, the music went double-time and the linked-arm lines exploded into a multi-tiered circle pit. As I bashed my way through the mass of adrenaline-hyped sweat-soaked bodies, I laughed at the thought of John Newton watching, with a dropped jaw, a couple hundred young people pummeling the crap out of each other in time to the song he wrote over two hundred years ago.

On the encore song, I sprinted with all my energy, threw back my head, and screamed. I screamed louder and longer than I have in years, screamed on this rollercoaster of God’s children, screamed because I’m young, and life at this moment was utterly and unfairly beautiful, and God is the author of Love so deep that I could never comprehend it. That night, God showed me His Joy, in blazing multisensory color.

What an evening.

 *  *

~Lisa Shafter

Cornerstone, Part One

Cornerstone Festival, a Christian camping celebration of music held on an old pig farm in Illinois, was controversial from the moment it began in 1984, so it didn’t surprise me that I heard several conflicting opinions on whether or not it was good. “It’s always sweltering— you can’t think.” “Cornerstone is the highlight of my year.” “There’s nothing there but stupid screamo bands.” “It’s like a modern-day Feast of Tabernacles.” “It doesn’t hold to its ideals.” “There’s good music if you look for it.” “It’s in the middle of a cornfield!”

I was headed to Cornerstone, no matter what, and I was determined to have a good time, no matter what. I packed the lightest clothes I could find, dug out a couple of wide-brimmed hats, made sure I had sunblock, and grabbed a sleeping bag. Then I was off with the Curry family for the almost-four-hour drive to the edge (if not the middle) of nowhere in Illinois.

If nothing else, the Festival requires a specific mindset. Before I came in, I put these expectations in place: 1) It would be extremely hot, sweaty, grimy, and all-around miserable as far as weather was concerned. 2) Everyone would be on short fuses as a result of the weather. 3) It would be loud all the time. 4) Most of the bands wouldn’t be my taste, so I’d only see a few.

After only a couple days, these were revised to: 1) It’s not extremely hot all the time, just most of the time, and the levels of sweat and grime that one can reach at Cornerstone staggers the imagination. 2) My group, at least, kept very civil and friendly because we gave each other a lot of grace and kept things in perspective. 3) It was quiet in the mornings, and at night the noise was nothing louder than a pair of earplugs could fix. 4) Most of the bands still weren’t my taste, but I did get to expand my horizons.

In addition to these revised expectations, I had to adjust to these: 1) It is a music festival, not a hippie festival. Most of the population are punkers, goths, yuppies, hipsters, and youth group kids. 2) Not everyone at the Festival is friendly: you have to reach out to them in order to get a response. 3) The main reason Cornerstone is amazing is not the music or even necessarily the people: it’s the simple fact that there is a huge gathering of Christians in one place. The sense of family— even if it’s the “strangers I’m related to” family— is strong at Cornerstone.

During the six days I attended the Festival, I felt my world open up. I did a photo project which involved asking everyone I saw if I could take their picture. I attended a seminar about the emergent church and how missions tie in with travel. I met everyone from Scottish punker to a PCA pastor from Pennsylvania. I played violin in parades with my friends and onstage for crowded tents of eager listeners. I sold merch in a sauna-like tent striped red and white, and rescued a crawdad in the middle of a night from some teenagers who thought it was a scorpion. Each little event doesn’t sound like much, the cumulative effect kept growing throughout the week. Even when attending a concert of music that was putting me to sleep, I would look around the dozens— sometimes hundreds— of people around me and think, This is my family. It was the same kind of awe I feel when I’m in California or Washington or anywhere new: “I’m [fill in the blank]… with my family!”

Was the weather miserably hot? Did tempers get short at times, were there boring concerts, did I see hypocrisy and discord? Well, of course. But all in all, that was overwhelmed by the beauty of peanut butter sandwiches at midday with friends, harp music blasting through ten-foot speakers, artistic tattoos on people’s shoulders, and a thousand other details that brought the week to life in vivid detail.

That said, there were a couple highlights for me, aside from the joy of performing onstage for an enthusiastic audience. But that’s an entry for another time.

~Lisa Shafter

Insomniac Folklore Tour: The Beginning

July 4th, 2011

Welcome back to my blog, dear readers. I write this note in the backseat of a white van plastered with bumper stickers, a hand-crocheted flowered headband dangling from the rearview, wind whipping through the open windows since the air conditioning is broken, wide northwestern Missouri landscape sweeping by, and three friends and I quietly enjoying the folk tunes of Illalogical Spoon’s EP.

This is the beginning of a different kind of trip for me: touring with a band. Right now I’m sitting in the van with three friends, and three more new friends are taking a different car. I’ll introduce you to each of them, since you’ll be hearing a lot about them in the next few weeks.

First is Tyler. He’s the band leader, an Oregon guy who never settled down, the brains of the organization, banging out his anthem on a Sharpie-illustrated guitar. He is otherwise known as Reverend Dr. Folklore, and he’s the one who asked me out of the blue at a party if I wanted to play violin in his band. The next thing I knew, I was laying down tracks for the latest album and packing my bags for a month-long tour.

Adrienne is his newlywed wife, and has been my friend for several years now. Slender and always dressed like a gypsy, Adrienne sings back-up vox, throws candy at the audience, blow bubbles, occasionally juggles, and is the personal keeper of Wallace, our singing sheep puppet.

Amanda, Adrienne’s 17-year-old sister, is the sweet-smiling bassist. Even though she’s young, she’s very mature— I think if you average our two ages, that’s about how old she acts.

Ayden is the drummer, a skinny punk-looking kid who is coming with us as far as Oregon with his wife, Kourtney. Their friend Zach is also tagging along, juggling for our shows.

Put us all together, and you have a band, and now I’m on the road to the first venue of our tour, in Omaha. We just spent a week at the Cornerstone Music Festival in Illinois, but that deserves its own set of entries, which I will try to write tomorrow.

Amanda, Tyler, Josh (absent from the tour, sadly), Adrienne, and me in front

I can’t imagine what this kind of travel is going to be like, but I’ll find out soon enough. Stay tuned for updates!

~Lisa Shafter

http://www.insomniacfolklore.com

Epic Trip Out West: Final Budget Stats

Hello from Missouri, my dear blog readers.

The past few days have been a tranquil madhouse of learning to Be Home for the first time in two months. Bits of cactus still working out of my skin— worried conversations with my mom— endless wardrobe choices— lunch dishes— the guts of my backpack spilled across my room— impossibly lush trees and grass— catching up get-togethers with best friends— muggy heat, distant Midwestern sun— all signs that I’m back home, if only for a couple weeks.

In these whirlwind days, I’ve taken the time to sort through my receipts and give you a run-down on my budget for my Epic Trip Out West. If you’ll remember, I had decided not to count the plane tickets to Denver and then Utah in my overall budget, but I’ve added them in just to give a fair account of the entire trip. Also take into consideration that I was given $36 from kind people on my trip, and I spent only about $10 of it. 

As you read these stats, keep in mind what I got to see for free: Zion Canyon, Antelope Island, Temple Square, Flaming Gorge Recreational Area, several concerts and a dance recital, a seminar on suburban gardening, Saguaro National Forest, Grand Canyon, Petrified National Forest, the Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum, and the OU History of Science Library. That’s only listing the places and events— it didn’t cost anything to meet the awesome people who shaped my life forever.

So, with that in mind, here are the final stats for my Epic Trip Out West. 

Number of days on the road: 59

Total money spent on this trip: $841.91

Transportation: $523.50 (mostly Greyhound tickets: I walked where I could and only used the city bus once)

Food and supplies: $315.41 (I had trail mix, energy bars and a whole jar of peanut butter left over, and next trip I shall be sure to avoid the budget-breaking purchase of a book of stamps. Also, much of this is food that I bought Amanda to thank her for carpool in her RV.)

Entertainment: $3 (workshop on healthy cooking. Everything else was free or given to me.)

Lodging: $0

Average per day on transportation: $8.88

Average per day on food and supplies: $5.35

Average per day on lodging and entertainment: 5¢

Final average per day: $14.28

The point? I got to see the great American west on only $15 a day, including every single expense, with a few bucks to spare. I didn’t starve myself, I didn’t sleep in homeless shelters, I didn’t beg for money, and I didn’t put myself in danger. I was smart, sensible, hard-working, and accepting of the incredible gifts given to me on the road (with the intention of paying this generosity forward). I leave it up for you to decide: What could you do with $15 a day?

~Lisa Shafter

Epic Trip Out West, Day Fifty-Eight: There and Back Again

June 2nd and 3rd

“There is a long road yet,” said Gandalf.

“But it is the last road,” said Bilbo.

The final day of my Epic Trip Out West is a blur of color and memory, verdant, gritty, shot through with a headache that split down the roots of my neck into my whole body. A final walk of the OU campus with Aunt Candace amid the humid air: statues cast in bronze, vivacious dancer, giant half-submerged in grass with hands behind his head, Cherokee warrior with serenity written in his hawklike features. Weeping willow strands. Rose garden, vibrant blossoms without any smell. Final goodbyes, hot concrete curb at the gas station, chewing on a banana-bread energy bar. 

Right on time, the Greyhound arrived, with its gray seats and its gray floors and the man with I LOVE JESUS stitched onto his ball cap, who sat next to me. Michael was his name. Michael was a preacher, he said, talking to me through a grizzled white beard that almost glistened against his skin the color of coffee grounds. He was going to write a book and found the title in St. Louis when he was thrown in prison for being a troublemaker. “They took all my clothes and threw me in the cooler,” he said. “And I was curled up, butt-naked, and that’s when it came to me: ‘The Butt-Naked Truth.’ That’s the title of my book. That’ll get folks’ attention.” He gestured with his hands as he spoke, leathered but with a silken quality, etched with thin lines of mocha-colored flesh. We talked from Norman to Oklahoma City, and before we left he clasped my pale hands in his dark ones and prayed that God would grant me a safe journey, guidance in my life, and a young man who would be my husband.

The twelve hours that followed (it was only supposed to be ten) grow even blurrier in my mind, with splashes of vivid memory. Joe, a middle-aged man with a sneering smile and a booming voice, sat at the front of the bus and talked at everyone around him. “I only follow the Bible,” he said. “Not a word added, not a word taken away. I only follow the Bible.” He then went on to misquote and add extravagantly: “God says, ‘David scourged you with whips, I will scourge you with scorpions.’ That’s what he’s doing in Joplin right now. The wrath of God. Scourging us with scorpions, leveling out the field… I don’t take no money. Money is the root of all evil. If you’re taking money for your ministry, then you’re cursing God. You don’t wanna curse God. If anyone insults my God, I defend him. This lady I talked to, she said her God wouldn’t cause the tornadoes and the earthquakes. I said, ‘Well your God might not, but my God does, and who’s gonna stop him?… All religions are right, they’re all good. ‘Every knee will bow…’ When God came into my life, it was a total change, overnight, 360 degrees.” He also mentioned that Jesus was incarnate at the time of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and that the Americas are what God is referring to in the Bible when he mentions “Jacob.”

One of my first sights of Missouri after nearly two months on the road was Joplin, a town ravaged by the recent tornados, the houses splintered to fragments, facing torn off, siding thrown all about: a heap of misery that I had never seen before. Joe got fidgety as we approached his stop, slavering like a dog on a short leash. He was eager to preach his Gospel to the people of the city, to let them know why they should be grateful for everything that they had lost.

For the whole journey from Oklahoma City to St. Louis, Heather and her three-year-old son Aaron sat in front of me. Heather was petite, despite the appearance of her baggy Mountain Dew pajama pants, with a t-shirt and blonde-highlighted hair. She was beautiful when she smiled, with catlike eyes and a glow about her face, but she looked worried ninety percent of the time. This was because she was deaf, and had to rely on the people around her to figure out what the bus driver was announcing, and couldn’t tell that her son was making noise and disturbing people unless she was looking right at him (and sometimes not even then). I could only finger-spell, but she gave me a smile of gratitude for the only person in range who could at least speak fragments of her language. Later, she and another mother used their cell phones to show each other typed messages— the best use of texting I’ve ever seen. She could speak her son’s name, with an artificial sound that told me she had been deaf all her life: “eh-Rahn!” she would exclaim when he acted up, rolling her R with impressive dexterity.

For a while, I became happily lost in the scenery that flew by the window, and I was reminded once again that Missouri is truly beautiful. The landscape undulated in subtle hills and bluffs, clothed in trees in a million shades of green, exquisite, thriving from the rainy spring. Limestone cliffs often hugged the highway, Missouri’s grand canyons overshadowing the river of the road. I forgot my headache for a while and I intermittently watched the scenery and read the final chapters of The Hobbit. My eyes stung with tears as I read the ending, even as I approached the ending of my own journey.

My bliss, however, was short-lived. The bus was packed from Joplin to St. Louis, ever taking on more passengers until there was only one seat left, and this was a noisy group. I was hemmed in by children— behind, in front, and two to the side— and the parents all seemed to think that slapping their children was the best way to make them quiet, which was not, as you can imagine, the best idea. A couple rows behind me, an ignorant close-minded conservative and an ignorant close-minded liberal started up a barely-controlled shouting match about homosexuality. My ears buzzed, my head throbbed, but none of the conversations were close enough for me to interject the comments that pounded at my thoughts. I plugged in my earphones, clapped my hands over them, and tried to bury myself in music. Snatches of songs wound through the conversations I still heard through my fingers, from behind and in front.

Some may pray to their mirrors, some may kneel before the sun. Me, I say there’s a mirror in the heart of everyone…

“So if Eve was created from Adam, that means they were related. That means the Bible says incest is okay!”

And on my best behavior, I am really just like him. Look beneath the floorboards for the secrets I have hid…

“I’ve always just thought, if the Good Lord wants my husband to beat me, then I have to be okay with that.”

I hope you understand that I, tried to make a move just to stay in the game, I tried to stay awake and remember my name, but everybody’s changing and I don’t feel the same…

“Jesus is the way, the truth and the life. When you read the Bible, it all becomes clear.”

There’s a road, calling you to stray. Step by step, pulling you away. Under moon and star, take the road, no matter how far. The Road goes on…

The last few hours were an agonizing wait marked with flashes of light, low cloud cover, and children screaming as the fight about homosexuality turned to religion in general. For perhaps the first time, I realized why people don’t like riding Greyhound. I just wanted the ride to be over. I wanted to be home.

The last half hour was torture. The landscape was familiar as my own face, and yet we weren’t to the airport stop yet. Finally, finally— we pulled up to a parking lot lit with harsh florescents. Everyone asked if this was the downtown St. Louis stop, and I grabbed my bags and rushed off the bus.

I stood alone under the street lamps, listening to the roar of traffic, the sidewalk painted golden-orange with the buzzing lights. Then I pulled out my cell phone, and dialed home.

My friend Ryan drove to pick me up, along with my sister Mary and my mom. I collapsed into the seat, feeling off-balance, hearing and feeling their greetings through water. I acted like a stoner the rest of the night, as I saw the rest of my family, felt the familiar countertops and tabletops, warmed up some chicken in my favorite iron skillet, smelled the fragrance of home on every chair and nook of the house, and felt the stickiness of the St. Louis air on my skin. I crawled into the bed I had slept on before I left home, and I remembered no more.

Today, I woke up at 6:00am to get ready for a friend’s wedding. I walked to my dresser and opened up a drawer. I stared at the dozens upon dozens of clothes combinations I could try, all with clean clothes, and the possibilities dazzled me. I grabbed a pair of torn jeans decorated with phrases in several languages, written in Sharpie by my sister three months ago. I pulled on a purple shirt that didn’t have holes in it, that hadn’t lived through a Greyhound ride, that didn’t smell like stale socks. For a moment, I just stood— in my room, in my house, in my state, in my Midwest— and felt my clothes on my body. Clean. The feeling of home. The feeling of a weary traveller come to rest at last.

~Lisa Shafter

(Final stats on the trip’s budget coming soon.)

Song quotes, in order of appearance:

A Mirror in the Heart by Duncan Sheik

John Wayne Gacey, Jr. by Sufjan Stevens

Everybody’s Changing by Keane

The Road Goes On from Lord of the Rings: The Musical

Epic Trip Out West, Day Fifty-Seven: Books

June 1st

Uncle Kerry turned the key in the lock, and we stepped into an arid refrigerated room, a sudden change from the muggy heat that permeated the rest of the building. I hugged my bare arms and breathed deeply, taking in the fragrance of thousands upon thousands of sheets of vellum and parchment. This was the vault, the holy of holies of the Oklahoma University History of Science Library collection. And, since my uncle is the curator, I received the honor of being Visiting Scholar for the day.

He pulled out a book bound in handsome leather, dating from 1600s Germany, and flipped it open. “This is the original cover,” he said, pointing to a sheet of vellum that surrounded the pages, marked in neat handwriting with the words and rhythm values of a Gregorian chant for Easter. He let me touch the brushed vellum next to the carefully marked notes, which had a milky smooth texture. The book itself was from the 1400s, he said, “but the cover paper dates back to the 900s.” I had just touched a piece of music over a thousand years old. As you can imagine, the chills I felt at that moment had little to do with the air conditioning.

That was only the beginning. He showed me book after book, bound in leather or vellum, pages feeling as fragile as butterfly wings in my fingers, words printed in dark type, accented with aesthetically-pleasing strokes of red: herbals, animal guides, astronomy histories. I read the entry on Astronomy in the first edition of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. I paged through a tome published in the 1500s by Nicolaus Copernicus. Uncle Kerry showed me a first edition of The Starry Messenger, the book that made Gallileo famous overnight— and when he flipped open the front leaf and showed me Gallileo’s original signature written in brown ink, I cried.

On this trip I’ve touched trees as old as the dinosaur, hiked among rocks older than the human race, and viewed landscapes that told of history from millions ago. Although those were remarkable experiences, the moment of true time-travel in my journey was touching the books from hundreds of years ago, and seeing the handwritten notes scrawled in the margins (including little hands pointing to important passages, sometimes with a bit of robe sleeve drawn in), and realizing that four hundred years ago, a person just like myself was reading this book. For all the wonders of the natural world, there is nothing more beautiful than a human connection.

I also got a chance to visit the Bible collection at the University: I touched a Bible written in shorthand, clustered in three volumes each the size of a miniature souvenir deck of cards. I was introduced to four-corner painting when Uncle Kerry pulled out a Bible with gilded pages and curled the paper under his fingers to reveal a landscape drawn on the  edges of the pages. When he curled the pages the other way, they formed a new scene.   I held and read a Geneva Bible, precursor to the King James version, the Bible that Shakespeare quoted, the Bible of the common man, printed in small type that was a wonder of engineering.

At last, I celebrated the year of the King James Bible’s 400th anniversary, seeing two first additions of the altar-sized books, one uncorrected and one proofed. I read the words aloud, sometimes stumbling over the archaic S’s that look like F’s, and the reversal of the V and U characters. I read Psalm 23, just as I had memorized it as a kid, from a Bible that was 400 years old. To touch history like that, to realize that the Bible hasn’t changed, even in all that time, brought tears to my eyes once again.

Today I was given an incredible gift, a window into the past, and a memory that I’ll hold with me forever.

~Lisa Shafter

Money spent today: $0

Deficit: $123.31

Epic Trip Out West, Day Fifty-Six: Rivendell

The transition from travel to home is often jarring, a change in metaphorical (and sometimes literal) temperature so abrupt that I often find myself curled up on my bed unable to function for the first few days back in St. Charles. Hence, I’m grateful when I get a chance to taste home just before I actually reach it, to find the first homely house from my journey in the wild. This happened on my last trip to Florida, when my best friend drove to meet me in Nashville on the way home. Without those days of hanging out, I would have been dysfunctional for a week or more upon my return, but thanks to her, it was a smooth transition. I’m hoping the same to be true of this trip, only this time, that segue is courtesy of the Magruder family.

In a much earlier blog, I mentioned that I meet lots of friends on my trips, but never family. Now, I’m back with the extended family I’ve known all my life, and for the first time since I left home, I feel myself letting down the careful boundaries that I put up when I travel. I’m not a guarded person, generally, but I have a part of my mind that constantly tries to maintain my balance, to make sure my feet are firmly planted on the ground. How does that worldview conflict with my own, and what can I learn from it? How will this particular small action affect the way other people understand who I am? How exactly does our theology differ? What paradigm do I take for granted that they don’t? What do they mean by “the meaning of life,” and how is it similar and different to my own definition? That part of my mind gets tired, and usually takes a break when I’m alone. However, there are few greater comforts than, after a long absence, coming into the presence of people who actually Know you— your past, your personality, your parents, your perspective. For the first time in eight weeks, I can completely let down my guard.

Last night, the whole family— Uncle Kerry and Aunt Candace, Rachel and her husband Stephen, Hannah, and Susanna— sat around the dinner table and asked me questions about my travels. I gave lengthy answers between bites of hot dogs and baked beans and salad, knowing that they actually wanted to hear “the long version” of my trip. I’m already rehearsing the answer I’ll give back home to most people who ask how my trip was: “Eye-opening.” If people want to know more, they’ll ask. Otherwise, the single-word answer will satisfy them. 

Right now, I’m sitting in a spacious living room with huge windows looking out into a forest (an actual forest, with trees— deciduous trees— and grass, and the air’s a bit humid— oh! did I mention the grass?). I’m curled up on an overstuffed chair, rocking gently with my feet bare against the finely-textured tile, wearing shorts and a clean borrowed t-shirt while the rest of my clothes are in the wash. I spent the whole day catching up on my blogs, working hard but at a leisurely pace. The Magruders have given me the chance to gather my thoughts, to consolidate all the themes that have run through my life in the past eight weeks. I have one more full day tomorrow, and then on Thursday, refreshed with a Rivendell along the way, I’m heading back to the Shire.

~Lisa Shafter

Money spent today: $0

Deficit: $133.31

Epic Trip Out West, Day Fifty-Five: Oklahoma City

May 30th

I spent a fairly sleepless night on the bus, even though the middle-aged woman sitting next to me was quiet and pleasant, with well-tamed hair, fake eyelashes, and a t-shirt stretched tight over her bosom that read “Look But Don’t Touch” (in the morning, she read a King James Bible borrowed from another passenger, which I thought was an interesting dichotomy). No, my reason for sleeplessness were long layers at regular intervals, most notably in Amarillo at 4:30 to 6:00am. Finally, I drifted off into a shallow but adequate sleep, and when I woke up and looked out the window to get my bearings, my heart sang for joy. I saw a field, and in that field was grass. It was green. It looked like it was healthy. And here’s the kicker: it was growing entirely on its own!

Only then did I realize that a mere week and a half in the southwest had left me starved for a landscape that looked like home. I was euphoric at the sight of grass, and even more as the scenery developed: winding streams, groves of deciduous trees, wide stretches of cultivated land that actually didn’t look like they were about to die. The sky was full of fluffy gray clouds, offering the possibility of rain, and the land gently rose and fell, without a hint of spectacular cliffs or unexpected canyons. I was getting back in range of home, and that made me immeasurably happy.

Who can resist taking photos with a paint-splattered bison?

My Uncle Kerry and Cousin Rachel picked me up from the Greyhound station, and I fairly melted into the seat, feeling the comfort of lifelong friends wrap around me like a blanket— the Magruders aren’t actually related to me (except for a distant ancestor in the 1800s), but they’ve been some of the most supportive family I’ve ever had. Uncle Kerry first checked to be sure I wasn’t too tired to do some sightseeing, and I assured him I’d crash later. We were off to explore Oklahoma City.

We spent most of our time in Bricktown, a former ghetto that transformed into a charming historic district with a clear canal running through the middle. We walked along the water, and I exclaimed with delight when I saw two mallards and their ten fluffy little ducklings (I also exclaimed with delight every time I saw grass, and once when I took a breath and realized that air was humid). Uncle Kerry took us to Abuelo’s Mexican Restaurant for lunch, a building with three-story ceilings, waiters who dressed in all-black uniforms, and a delightful southwestern motif. The chicken and avocado enchiladas didn’t stand a chance against my appetite, and neither did the coconut-flavored frozen yogurt at the Peachwave we visited afterward. 

Given a few options, I decided upon the Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum. Uncle Kerry used his membership pass to get us in for free, and then we set off to make sense of the massive winding halls. He directed us to the art gallery, and for at least an hour we explored it, savoring each piece of western-inspired art, both old and new. 

My favorite painting was a one-by-two foot canvas of the Grand Canyon, created by a modern artist. A common compliment for a realistic painting is “It looks just like a photograph!”, but I have never liked that one— it’s like saying, “This homemade cake tastes just like it came out of a box!” This painting looked nothing like a photograph, even though it was unquestionably realistic. A photo can never capture the essence of the Grand Canyon, but this painting did. Arrested by the transcendence of the image, which put me back on the South Rim staring out at the majesty of stone and time, I stared at the painting and felt my eyes brimming with tears. I had been there. I had actually been there, and perhaps for the first time, that fact came home to me.

The museum contained a lot more than art: one of the sections was the set of an old west town, complete with a school, barber shop/doctor’s office, church, blacksmith, telegraph office, and a few more buildings fully furnished with 1800s supplies. The town was lit up as if at night, and recordings of noises and conversations drifted through the air. The uneven floorboards even creaked under our feet as we walked.

The final exhibit we saw were five triptych panels in a massive conference room. When Uncle Kerry and Rachel talked about “the murals,” I imagined a typical wall covered in images. Instead, I stared up at the triptychs whose side panels were 10 by 16 feet, and whose center panels were 16 feet square. Each of the murals was a landscape painting of a southwestern state, huge and bold and stunning in a twofold way: first for the image itself, and then for the transcendent painting style. I wandered the room with my mouth wide open, seeing an image from each of the states I had visited: Utah, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona (I appreciated the one for California as well, even though I didn’t visit there on this trip). Here, near the end of my trip, I was presented with massive postcards to remind me of where I had been and what I had seen. Though my journey has a couple days left, I’ve already accomplished the main thing I set out to do: see the west.

~Lisa Shafter

Money spent: $0

Deficit: $143.31

Epic Trip Out West, Day Fifty-Four: Albuquerque

May 29th

My overall impression of New Mexico was that I have never paid enough attention to it. For some reason, in my head it was a desolate landscape of nothingness with a couple of cacti and cattle skulls. I’m not sure how this image ever came into my head, because New Mexico’s landscape often reminded me of home: craggy limestone cliffs pockmarked with caves, and rolling plain with clumps of trees to signal the presence of water. Of course, there was sand instead of grass, and aridness instead of humidity, but all in all it bore an inner life that I would like to explore more someday.

We rolled into Albuquerque’s historic district around one in the afternoon. The hot sun beat down on the adobe buildings, giving us the cue to dress like smart tourists: I pulled my hat down, slathered sunblock on my face, and wore a sarong over my shirt to cover my shoulders, which were lightly sunburned from half an hour of sunlight the day before. The next few hours we wandered around, sometimes together, sometimes apart. I ate ice cream (I counted it the three dollars as “splurge money” still left from a gift given to me in Utah), called my sister, and hung out in the town square marveling that there were deciduous trees and grass. The buildings were eclectic and old-looking in the most well-kept way possible, color-coordinated into a sweeping Southwest theme. I enjoyed details that kept showing up in the motif, such as bouquets of dry chili peppers hanging from doorways, and wooden and clay working in harmony to create the flat-roofed buildings. I talked to an artist who sat outside his store, bringing a prickly-pear cactus to life with acrylic on canvas. He was from Michigan, he said, but moved to New Mexico because it was the best place he’d found. “It’s the people,” he said. “The people here are great. I’ve never found anywhere like it.”

Musicians were also stationed throughout the area, and I listened to a group of Navajo flute players, who delighted me both with traditional songs and classical (such as “Time to Say Goodbye,” which made me cry). Then I found an accordionist sitting on the gazebo, talking to a group of about fifty nuns and postulants clustered around him on the stage. Then he began to play Amazing Grace, and all the sisters joined in. I promptly sat down on a nearby park bench and joined in the singing; I had missed church that morning, so it was a welcome blessing. Next they sang “When the Saints Go Marching In” and danced around the gazebo, hands held to the sky, some waving their wooden crosses in the air, some clapping with better rhythm than I have ever heard from a Catholic (or Lutheran or Presbyterian, for that matter). It was good to be reminded that nuns can have fun, too.

Around five, we drove to Nob Hill, a section of Route 66 that stays alive through tourism. We walked around and talked about politics and education and the war in Iraq and socialism and propaganda and a host of other subjects, weaving in and out of the southwest murals, kitschy shops, and restaurants converted from old gas stations and auto-repair centers. We paused to explore a dead motel, still garnished with metal and tile decorations, its doors boarded up with copper numbers hanging sadly on the wood. 

I bought Amanda supper one last time to thank her for her time, her company, her generosity, and the use of her RV, food, driving ability, and National Parks pass. Without her, I wouldn’t have been able to visit the Grand Canyon on this trip. We sat down at Orchid Thai Cuisine and ordered different kinds of curry, and when we had finished feasting on our respective dinners (mine included bamboo shoots, noodles and bell peppers in coconut milk with green curry), we headed back to the RV.

After much misdirection, nearly running out of gas, and making a few wrong turns, we ended up at the Greyhound station, which looked as deserted as a southern Arizona landscape. So it was that I was stressed when I gave Amanda one last hug and rushed out the door, only to find the station alive and well. I got my ticket, I boarded the bus, and I was off to Oklahoma City, leaving the Grand Canyon part of my Epic Trip behind me in the sand.

~Lisa Shafter

Money spent: $20.22 (supper)

Deficit: $153.31