September 16, 2010 Porch stories
Sep 162010

It started with an immense glowing-orange building on the horizon…which turned out to be the moon. From that moment, it was clear that nothing about this particular trip was going to be ordinary. The morning after the moon, I was reluctant to leave my friends in Portland, so by the time I drove up the Columbia Gorge and crossed into the Palouse, it was sunset.

Land rolls as you come into the Palouse. I’d crest a hill and the sun would come back up—and set again as I went into the dip. I saw sunsets until finally I stopped the car so it could get good and done. Then the highway curved to the north, the hills got taller, and suddenly I was in the middle of abstract art: huge sweeps of black earth, tan wheat, and umber stubble, curving unpredictably on hills close around me in the dusk. There was nothing for the window to be but open. Sounds of quail and hawk carried on the hot wheat-scented breeze.

Since then, I’ve returned to the Palouse as often as I could go, and not nearly often enough. I’ve learned to know people there, and to see changes. Children I’ve met are growing up. Businesses have come and gone. A good dog walked the hot field roads with us for hours one summer and was gone the next—she’d somehow come too close to a combine during harvest.

Sometimes I’ve gone to the Palouse with David, who has a gift for eliciting cougar stories: cougar come into yards, walk the streets at night. (I love the old usage whereby “cougar” and “bear” stand for both singular and plural; it conveys a certain respect we might try applying to our words for human neighbors.) Sometimes I’ve been able to fit a Palouse visit into a Northwest performing schedule. Sometimes, I go for sheer love.

In the Palouse, I let my skin bake to a dry bread-brown—I know it’s not supposed to be good for me, but it evaporates the waterlog (a backlog of water, sort of) I have from my Seattle years, and makes me happy.

Alison Meyer’s beautiful photos convey the broad canvas and the exquisite detail of the Palouse.

Columbia County, Evening

where the wheat gets taller
and the names get shorter
	Dusty, Dixie, Rose Gulch
the world listens to the sound of wheat
 	sibilant abundance

after the cut, brown deer dot
	the stubble
		a hawk finds mice
   quail chuckle through

in the hot hush, harvesters climb down
from the air-controlled cab of the combine
    the earth claims them with a rush of sweat

winter wheat, hard wheat, barley
prices change daily in the Co-op window
on Main Street where bulky green machines
are the traffic, and pickups have dogs in the bed

under the sleek tall wall of the grain elevator,
a camp like a cheap motel
for the workers who load the heavy harvest
and rest feet up behind the broken shade

on the rolling edge of the hills of the world, the sky
    grows deeper
     	the land goes from dry to gold
   along the rim, the boldest stroke of lipstick
      on a mouth made of wheat

© 2005 Andrea Hoag

First Light in the Palouse, by Alison Meyer,

Golden Blanket, by Alison Meyer,

An Act of Faith, by Alison Meyer,

Prairie Moon, by Alison Meyer,

New Berntsons album underway

September 16, 2010 News
Sep 162010

Eleanore Berntson Lundeberg and Charlie Pilzer at Kennedy Center Millenium Stage

October will be busy with rehearsals and recording for the new Berntsons album. Eleanore and Karl have been teaching us more good tunes from the unique old family repertoire. We’ll mix it up with some Wisconsin standards. And it turns out that some of the records Karl remembers listening to as a boy were Bingsjö tunes from Sweden, which happen to be Andrea’s specialty! Loretta is heading home from Norway, Karl flies in from L.A., and it all gets started with a Berntsons dance party on Oct. 2.

New group for girl fiddlers

September 15, 2010 News
Sep 152010

Teen and tween girls who play fiddle and/or other instruments/vocals: come join a new band! We’ll compose tunes, arrange traditional music, and perform. We’ll meet twice a month on Sundays, 5-6:30, starting in October. Contact me for more information.

1, 2, 3, ROSIN!

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