My Single Mother Was A Wandering Musician. I Felt Most At Home While Camping On The Outskirts Of Alaska’s Many Music Festivals.

Amazon Black Girl Call Home Mans Jasmine 9780593197141 Books
Amazon Black Girl Call Home Mans Jasmine 9780593197141 Books

  • Kima Waterfield grew up in Alaska with her family traveling and performing at folk festivals.

  • He said tents are more like houses than houses where his nomadic family settled in the winter.

  • This is an excerpt from his "Inside Passage. From the book "A Memoir".

  • Here is an excerpt from Kima Waterfield's "Inner Transition. from the book "Memories".

    "Krrrrrrr-cook," said the crow near our tent. I sighed, raising my eyelids from the fog of my family floating on the curtain wall. I dug deeper into the nest of our shared sweater and blanket, knowing that I would never sleep again. This feather bag has been hoarse for an hour և seduces me with its strange hoarse scream. a high bird-like hum, followed by a throat that stops like a stone thrown into immobile water. Crunch-cook. Of course, I did not speak to Raven, but my throat tightened in response.

    I'll love to get to know this bird from a visit to the Haynes Music Festival here last year, but there are more crows than cars in Southeastern Alaska. I stepped on a woolen sweater, which I used as a pillow, and tucked it under my neck to fight my anxiety.

    I wanted to step on my sisters and sisters, put my head on my mother's arm like a five-year-old child. Squeeze my face in the hair with the smell of his sandal, kiss him, wake up, say that I love him. But I put him to bed, because at 10 o'clock I knew the night scenes very well. Alcoholic laughter rising from one flame to another, the loud howl of a violin, the low beats of a cello combined with a guitar and a mandolin. : Spontaneous harmony, clouds of grassy smoke gliding to the invisible moon in the perpetual twilight of Alaskan summer, low ceilings of rainflies glistening; we sleep next to each other.

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    Instead, at night, I hide my frozen ears under my eyelids, trying to guess how many times I woke up with the festival in this family tent. fifty? Five hundred? But for a festival rat like me, memories are elusive.

    The story goes on

    At first I traveled with my mother

    All my life I have been spinning the wheel of my mother's musical adventure. Prehistories change often, but the weather, the songs, sometimes people are the same everywhere. As a result, I lost control of the weather և I made the annual figures unreliable. Juno, Ketchikan, Sitka, St. Petersburg or Fairbanks may be at home during the school year. Summer can be a combination of the two, depending on the music world or the most attractive member of the family.

    Who remembers what festival it all started with? Or calculate how many summers we slept in our beds later. How many crows with these eyes woke me up so early, leaving me exhausted after listening to music for many nights, after the bonfires, in anticipation of another arrival?

    I do not remember and maybe it does not matter. Hundreds of festival-goers outside our tents will soon blink their sleepy eyes as they pull trembling bodies out of colorful tents and sleep in a cafe or farmhouse, which will be the first.

    I love our wandering life

    We know people who travel all year round, from festival to festival. I like to think we can do it. We can make my brother work as the youngest director in the world. We dressed her in butterflies, vests, entrance hats, and then sent her into the crowd to captivate the audience with her fiery red hair and pale blue eyes. We will call ourselves "Boy Wonder & the Waterfields". We will never have to worry about coming home again, no matter where it is.

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    During the holiday season I try not to think about the house, because what difference does it make? The house just fills the space between the adventures. Heaven is here, my mother, Thekla, Camden և are you in a tent filled with our sun, with music playing outside?

    However, I prefer to orbit the moon away from my mother. In our real life we ​​have a school, a job, just like a different friend, a stepfather. But here, when we had only one mother, it seemed as if someone was hanging a lamp from the sky just for our children. And they explained, "This is your place."

    "Krrrrrrrr-cook – the crows will crow near our tent. I wanted to carefully untie the forehead, put on my shoes, and find this bird. There were questions he could answer better than Magic 8 Ball. This is the game I have played all my life. Krrrrrooooo-KuK, adding "KuK" means yes; Boil, boil, shortening "cook", which means "no". "Will we be again?" I can ask him. "Forever."

    Of course, the answer is Krrrrrrrrr-cook. No.

    However, if you ask me, I would live that wandering life again: the baby's eternal loneliness, the endless stream of ferry crossings, the sweetness of my mother's guitar in her arms, my sister and I will be in harmony, when will we be? lead him to us? I will always say yes.

    From the memoir of Kima Waterfield (Green Writers Press, 2021). Available at Amazon և bookstores.

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