Big Stone Celtic: A Photo Journal

 Big Stone Gap, here we come! I took this as we headed down the mountain into the Powell River valley and the little town of Big Stone Gap.

I met Wendy Welch and her husband Jack Beck about 12 years ago at the West Virginia Storytelling Festival where they were performing. I'd actually met Wendy previously online on the storytelling listserve Storytell. At that time they were living in Jack's native Scotland while Wendy finished her doctorate. They later moved to Big Stone Gap and established a used book store in the town. I've stayed in touch and have looked forward to an opportunity to re-connect. When I read about the Big Stone Celtic Festival last year, I put it on my calendar as a gotta-do this year.

Big Stone Gap has been made famous by two novelists, almost 100 years apart--John Fox Jr. wrote Trail of the Lonesome Pine and The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come (the first American book to sell one million copies) while living here. In 2000, Adriana Trigiani published her novel titled Big Stone Gap and it became a best-seller. She followed up with other stories in the Big Stone Gap series. I read Trail of the Lonesome Pine when I was about 12 years old and fell in love with the Appalachian culture (romanticized, to be sure) that it portrayed. When Trigiani's novel came out I read it as soon as it became available and recommended it to all my friends. A town that inspires such writing must be quite a place, right? It is.

 When we arrived we stopped first at Miner's Park to pick up a program for the festival and to listen a bit to the band Coyote Run, a Celtic Rock band that also performs more traditional material. The band's harmonies are to die for and they know how to engage any audience, rock, traditional Celtic or even old-time. I was struck by the juxtaposition of the miner's statue and the guys in kilts on stage. Such is our wonderful mountain world.

 As I was walking to the ballads workshop, I passed this sign. Whoa! I knew John Fox was from this area, but here was his house? I made a mental note to go back after the workshop, which I did.

 This is the porch of Fox's home, a lovely place for rest and reflection. No wonder he was so inspired here that he wrote about 500 stories while living here.

 Coyote Run came to the Fox home to present a program far different than their stage stuff I'd seen. I liked both!

 Some workshops were held here in "the cabin." I did not have time to learn the history of the cabin and only got to hear the last 10 minutes of Jack Beck's ballad workshop. Next year we need to start our trip earlier! At least we'll know where everything is next time.

There was a lot to do during the day--a person could stay at Miner's Park and hear several different bands, go to workshops and performances at the cabin or the Fox home or attend jam sessions on the porch of the book store (which is housed in a beautiful old two-story white house in the middle of town). I opted for a workshop, a session in the Fox home, and two singing sessions on the porch of the book store. I thoroughly enjoyed singing with the people who gathered on the porch, and was happy to run into Joseph Sobol from East Tennesee State University there and share some ballads with him.

After the day's activities, many people gathered for the final ceilidh (pronounced kay-lee) at a local church. Musicians from the day's performances provided the ceilidh band.

 Our friends Jack and Wendy (she in the red and he in the kilt) cut a good figure dancing together)

 The ol' Granny got into the dancing too (only for the last dance, but next time it will be more. Too much fun!)

After the dance people congregated on the book store's porch for more music. A young fiddler tried out her chops with the positive encouragement of seasoned musicians. She played Soldier's Joy, Sally Ann, Cluck Old Hen and several others, an amazing repertoire for one so young.

We headed home before dark, sorry to miss the evening get-together that was just beginning. but had to stop for one last long farewell look.

Good-bye, Big Stone Gap. You are too lovely for words.

Battlefield Band

Saturday night's concert was one of the best I've been to in quite a while. The Battlefield Band from Scotland was in Charleston as part of the Footmad concert series. I almost missed it--the tickets were in my purse and I was thinking the concert was a week away. Fortunately someone sent a reminder on Facebook just in time. How sad I would have been to have missed this opportunity.

The band has been on tour in the US, starting in Hawaii and moving across the country. I can imagine they had some weather tales to tell, since they've apparently been across the Midwest during the recent blizzards. But they made no mention of it, just jumped right in and started playing. And boy can they play.

The members all live in Scotland now, although one (Mike Katz) was originally from Los Angeles. He went to Edinburgh for college and never left. Mike's musical abilities are far-ranging, from composition to arrangement to playing bagpipes, flute, and bouzouki.

Then there is Alasdair White from the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides, whose fiddle playing is world-renowned. Even at 13, he was considered a maestro by those in the industry. Add in his expressive face and crazy humor, and his rhythm-keeping right foot that never seemed to stop, and he's quite a performer.

The second fiddler, by no means playing second fiddle to Alasdair, however, is Ewen Henderson. Honestly, how do people so young learn to play so well? Ewen is not 30 years old, plays fiddle, piano, bagpipes and flute (or maybe it's a tin whistle, can't remember)--and sings! His fiddling is quite honestly breathtaking, and he puts his whole body into the playing.

The group is rounded out by Sean O'Donnell, who was born in Northern Ireland. His guitar and vocals, and his quirky sense of humor meshed well with the rest of the group.

If the Battlefield Band ever comes your way, do try to see and hear them. I hope they come back to West Virginia soon. Next week would be fine with me! To get a taste of what an evening with them is like, check out this YouTube video. Be sure to watch all the way through, because it just gets better and better. As does this band.

And to get a taste of the two fiddlers, watch them duel it out on this video. Superb!

Memories of Augusta

I have many photos to share about last week's Irish/Celtic heritage workshops at the Augusta series at Davis & Elkins college in Elkins, WV. Here are a few of the people who made it a special week:

First, my instructor Robbie O'Connell and his wife Roxanne. Both sing beautifully, and together their harmonies are magic. Robbie shared many songs with us during the week in class, and Roxanne joined us in the evenings for singing circle.

The Friday night singing circle closed a week of special evenings spent with new friends, singing, laughing and sharing memories and information about songs. We gathered each evening in a lounge located below a circular staircase in Benedum Hall to sing, usually going around the circle and each one singing as their turn came up. I enjoyed the discovery of "traveling verses", lines that re-occur in other ballads, as well as phrasings that are common in Appalachian ballads. Sometimes a song was sung that had the same words as one I knew from the Appalachian tradition, but with a completely different melody. On the last evening we got together are on the small side porch of the Halliehurst mansion, a place where well-loved Irish singer Frank Harte used to sing each evening during Augusta. I never heard of Frank Harte until the past week, and now I know I have to find his music and listen to him after hearing so much about him. He may be gone in the flash, but in the memories of those who knew him, he is alive and well, and many stories are still being told about his exploits and his talent.

Our singing class's song for the student concert was "The Beautiful Flower of Kilkenny." We did fairly well, having started to learn the song on Wednesday and performing it on Friday. Robbie left us to fly on our own with no backup from him, which was a bit different from the presentations of most of the classes and I think was a good thing--we needed to really work together. Several in our group could play instruments and they had double the learning since they learned not only the lyrics but also how to play the song. In the course of the week we learned at least three songs which we can add to our repertoire. More about the classes and what we learned in a future post.

In the Icehouse pub on Thursday night with granddaughter Cassidy. I will post more photos of the pub later. I was glad to have this time with Cassie and to hear so many people validate that she is indeed an incredible singer. At 14, she has many years ahead to develop her talent. Can you imagine discovering your real calling at her age? I think I was still trying to figure out how to do my hair at the age.

More pictures will be coming later this week. I am so grateful for digital photography--we can capture so many memories so easily now.

At Augusta

I've found there is a little free time in the mornings to check in online while I'm at Augusta Heritage so I thought I'd share a bit about the workshops.

As some of you know, I am at the Augusta Heritage Irish Week Workshops at Davis and Elkins College in Elkins, WV. There are many different classes offered from dancing to stone masonry and stone carving and calligraphy, tin whistle, fiddle, harp, bodhran, guitar, tenor banjo, Irish songs and performance, concertina, and much more. The teachers are from many places--Canada, Ireland, England, and all over the US. Their resumes are impressive, and most have international reputations. I am amazed to find myself in such company.

My teacher for Irish songs and performance is Robbie O'Connell and I am learning a lot this week--about singing and preparing songs for performance, about Irish history and singing, about the songs themselves. One aspect of these workshops that is invaluable it that we can record almost anything we hear, with the exception of the evening concerts. In class, I am recording almost the entire time because Robbie says so many things in the course of singing a song or instructing us that I will miss something very good if I turn off the recorder.

My granddaughter Cassidy is taking guitar. Although Irish music isn't her choice of music, she is learning a lot from her excellent instructor, Dáithí Sproule.

In the evenings there is a singing circle in a location with perfect acoustics. Anyone can come and sing whatever they like, and we can record whatever interests us. Needless to say, my recorder is on almost all evening as one great song after another is shared around the circle. I will have many ideas for new songs to add to my repertoire at the end of the week.

I had a surprise yesterday. Each afternoon after  lunch the instructors give a concert with a theme. Yesterday's theme was Songs, so it was a performance by the instructors who sing, where the other concerts had been both instrumental music and singing. I was enjoying listening when the MC, Jim Flanagan, approached me and asked me if I'd like to sing something for the audience. I was astounded to be asked, but of course I wanted to sing. I sang the Jean Ritchie ballad, West Virginia Mine Disaster, one of my favorites. I am still amazed at being asked to perform.

Granddaughter Cassidy  has been singing each evening as well, and many people have commented on her beautiful voice. Her song choices are country or alternative rock, I suppose you'd call it, well suited to her voice. Last night she sang a Johnny Cash song and another country song a cappella. She usually accompanies herself on guitar.

A family group from Mingo county, WV joined the circle last night. Their harmonies on old ballads and gospel songs was haunting, riveting. I hope to hear them again tonight, and to get to know more about this unique group. If I can find anything about them online, I will share it because I know many readers here will be as entranced by their singing as I was. The family recently moved to Davis, WV, not too far from Elkins.

This week has been a lot of late nights and early mornings. Five or six hours of sleep is about the average but I don't want to miss anything. I will have photos and more to share later as this week of singing and music continues.

Morning Reindeer

It is cold this morning, and the frost is thick on the trees and grass. In the parking garage elevator people were quiet as we rode down to the first floor.

I waited at the curb with a smartly dressed young lady. As the light light turned, we saw a pickup truck pass by us, driven by a young man with a grin on his face. Beside him sat a woman wearing gold antlers.

The girl beside me turned to me and smiled. "She was wearing antlers!"

Thank you to the girl in antlers for sending many of us into our offices with lighter hearts and a smile on our faces.
----------------------------------------------------------
To make your own antlers, try these websites:

Kaboose.com for easy "hand" antlers

Kizclub for a cut-out pattern of realistic antlers

The BestKidsBookSite for antler patterns and a paper bag puppet pattern

Teachingheart.net has crafts like reindeer food, riddles, quizzes, reindeer facts and more.

DLTK has many reindeer, Christmas, and related crafts and coloring sheets.

---------------------------------------------------------

Other intriguing information about reindeer:

Was a reindeer really on board a submarine in World War II?

A clip from a movie about a shamanic white reindeer is available on YouTube. I want to see this movie!

A discussion of Lapp legends that includes the reindeer is here.

We usually connect reindeer with Christmas, but in some cultures, the reindeer is both a mythical figure and a vital part of everyday life.

For a scholarly study of reindeer folktales from of the Sami tradition, visit this link.

For more information about the Saemieh, or the reindeer people (a culture that depends on the reindeer for their survival) read this fascinating site.

From the same site, information about the reindeer's food, habit, and uses by the Sami people.

Links to information about reindeer in many cultures can be found on the Rangifer Resources site.

White deer have a lot of folklore connected with them. A haunting story from New York state tells the story of Aunty Greenleaf and her white deer.

Native Americans considered white deer to be sacred and did not kill them. The Chickasaw people tell the tale of a ghostly white deer.

Over the past few years, we have seen several albino deer; sadly they never survive hunting season. Perhaps if the hunters read this poem, they would think again before taking aim on one of these beautiful white creatures.

Celtic tradition also regarded the white deer, and deer in general as having special powers. Deer were believed to be the messengers of the fairies, for example. Much more information about deer and reindeer is available here.

This is just a taste of the many stories and the folklore connected to reindeer, white deer, and deer in general. But before closing, here is one of my favorite poems:

The White-Footed Deer
by William Cullen Bryant

It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.

Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.

She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.

White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.

And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.

But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.

The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
"It were a sin," she said, "to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.

"This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.

"The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.

"I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell."

The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.

But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.

The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.

He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.

Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.

Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.

But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.

Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.

A Special Visitor

We came home from the feed store one Sunday afternoon to find a strange gentleman perched on our porch steps.

He looked as if he'd stepped right out of a fairy tale. Perhaps even from the book Broonies, Silkies and Fairies by Duncan Williamson. He wore a peaked red cap, a green shirt and brown trousers, and he carried a long wood walking stick.

I must say that he did not even attempt to explain himself. Instead he heighed off to one of my flower beds and he has remained there ever since.

He does occasionally change his location, I've found. Today, for example he decided to lean against the birdhouse pole and watch me weed.


I hope he stays a long time, and I will do my best not to irritate this little fellow who is obviously a brownie (or broonie or brounie, take your pick). The best way to aggravate him is to offer him new clothes. Since his outfit seems to be stuck fast to his back, I think there's no danger of that.

Brownies are good to have around--they will do your work for you, clean and cook and weed and hoe. But they are touchy too, and it's easy to offend their sensibilities. And once you make a brownie mad, look out! He will forever be playing tricks on you--if he stays around, that is. He may just up and leave, and there you will be with all your work to do by yourself.

If you need to know more about how to care for a household brownie, here are some places to look:

Wikipedia has an interesting article with links to more information.

Orkneyjar offers the tale of the Broonie the King o' Trowland. This short story offers a good insight into the beliefs surrounding brownies.

The poem "The Brownie o Blednoch" tells the story of Aiken Drum. I like to sing the song about Aiken Drum with children, using felt pieces shaped like fruit and other foods to create Aiken Drum's face. The linked version of the song is not quite the same as the one I sing, but you will get the idea of how it goes. You can hear a version on YouTube too.

As for my brownie, I am very glad he came to stay. There is certainly enough work for him to do around here! I just wonder where I'll find him next time I'm in the garden.

Fiddler's Green

Fiddler's Green

words and music John Conolly
As I roved by the dockside one evening so fair

To view the salt waters and take in the salt air

I heard an old fisherman singing a song

Oh, take me away boys me time is not long

(refrain)
Wrap me up in me oilskin and blankets

No more on the docks I'll be seen

Just tell me old shipmates, I'm taking a trip mates

And I'll see you someday on Fiddlers Green

Now Fiddler's Green is a place I've heard tell

Where the fishermen go if they don't go to hell

Where the weather is fair and the dolphins do play

And the cold coast of Greenland is far, far away

Now when you're in dock and the long trip is through

There's pubs and there's clubs and there's lassies there too

And the girls are all pretty and the beer is all free

And there's bottles of rum growing on every tree.

Where the skies are all clear and there's never a gale

And the fish jump on board with one swish on their tail

Where you lie at your leisure, there's no work to do

And the skipper's below making tea for the crew

Now I don't want a harp nor a halo, not me

Just give me a breeze and a good rolling sea

I'll play me old squeeze-box as we sail along

With the wind in the riggin to sing me a song

(from Brobdingnagnian Bards)

My post about ramp hunting included a photo of an old cabin known as Fiddler's Green. The cabin was the homeplace of blogger Matthew Burns' and Jason Burns' great-great-grandparents, and Matthew believes it was built about 1820.

The discussion got us wondering about the term Fiddler's Green. Blog friend Rowan told us it was an old Irish legend about a place where old sailors go when they die--a land where the music and laughter never ends (which sounds like a lovely place to me). Her reference to a legend got my interest spiked, so I began browsing online.

The song above, written by John Conolly (or Conelly or Connolly, depending on the source) tells the story as well as anything else I could locate. There are several YouTube videos of performers singing the tune, but this one by the Dubliners is my favorite. Wikipedia also has a brief description of the same story, along with a poem that was included in a US Cavalryman's manual in 1923. But that poem is an entirely different story from the one above, and not likely what I was looking for.

I found a bit more on the website Fiddlers Green Orlando:

The Legend of Fiddlers Green.

"They say that an old salt who is tired of seagoing should walk inland with an oar over his shoulder. When he comes to a pretty little village deep in the country and the people ask him what he is carrying...he will know that he's found Fiddlers Green. The people give him a seat in the sun outside the Village Inn with a glass of grog that refills itself every time he drains the last drop and a pipe forever smoking with fragrant tobacco. From then onwards he has nothing to do but enjoy his glass and pipe and watch the maidens dancing to the music of a fiddle on Fiddlers Green." A fresh new poem about this old story can be found on Allpoetry.

But is this actually a song or story about a fiddlers at all? "A last maybe surprising note is that the phrase Fiddler's Green has no relation with violinists whatsoever, but is derived from fiddling or more specific a fid, which is a tool used to split ropes better known as marlinespike." Which, I assume, has something to do with fishing, since a marlin is a fish. So the link from fiddling to fishermen can be made here, perhaps? For more about the marlinespike, read what Commander Bob has to say. Once again, a simple question leads me into new waters and new words for Scrabble (how many points would that be?)

The only book reference I have been able to find so far is Seafaring Lore and Legend which covers this topic and many other legends of the waters.

After more searching, I happened on this:

"Cloughmore, known locally as "The Big Stone", (Irish: An Chloch Mhór, the big stone), is a huge granite boulder found about 1,000 feet above the village of Rostrevor, County Down, Northern Ireland, on a relatively flat area on the side of Slieve Martin (or Slieve Meen) mountain, known as Fiddler's Green." Aha!

photo and text above from http://www.irishdh.com/2006news/newsmay06championspreview1.htm

According to scientists, the stone was put there during the Ice Ages when the glaciers left this part of the world. A local story claims that actually the stone was thrown to its resting place by Finn McCool during a fight between the legendary Irish folk hero and the Ice Giant, Ruscaire. I like this version better!

Cloughmore is in County Down in the north of Ireland, where the Ulster Scots lived. So here perhaps is the source of the name for the cabin and for the legend of "Fiddler's Green"-- a green Irish mountain in the County Down, by the side of the lough. A place for sailors to finally rest, where they can see the water and remember their seafaring days.

Now, to learn more about ice giants...

The Faces in Trees

Susan recently wrote about Oogabooga trees on her blog, and she had some excellent photos that perfectly depicted the meaning of "oogabooga." There's no other word that can describe these trees as well.

Her post reminded me of some photos I've taken of trees with faces. Some scary...

(taken at Lost River State Park in West Virginia)

Some ancient and wise...

(taken in Bellingham, Washington)

and some to make you think the druids knew a thing or two.

This one even has hair.

(taken in Idaho)

This seems to show the face even more clearly.

There are probably other photos like these lurking in my files, but these are the best, I believe.

Can you see the faces in these pictures?

Or am I just a demented old lady who is seeing things? There's always that possibility...

But I am not alone. The Museum of Hoaxes lists many other "tree faces" with link to the news stories about each. Dr. Deb has a collection on her website, too.

Then there is the WaqWaq tree in Middle Eastern folklore, which was said to bear fruit with human faces (imagine biting into one...not!). There is an interesting discussion of this mythical tree and a story or two on SurLaLune.

I suppose any discussion of faces and trees is incomplete without a mention of the Green Man, that male face surrounded by leaves and branches found in ancient carvings and artwork. What does he symbolize? Scholars still argue over that, but there is no mistaking the importance the face must have had to peoples of many cultures in days gone by (and still today, for those who espouse Wicca and pagan beliefs). While browsing the web looking for "faces in trees" I came upon a fascinating book that will have to become part of my library: People and Woods of Scotland, by T. Christopher Smout.

There is far more written about the Green Man than I can cover here. If you're interested, here's a few books you might want to read:

The Green Man: Spirit of Nature by John Matthews.

The Green Man by Kathleen Basford.

Green Man by William Anderson.

One last thing about trees: The Celtic Tree Calendar follows the cycle of the year through the thirteen moons, each of which has been assigned a particular tree, for its folkloric properties and strengths. This month (February 18-March 17) is assigned the Ash tree. The website notes that:

"In Norse cosmology, the giant ash tree — Yggdrasil — was the axis point upon which the universe spun. Yggr was one of the many names of Odin, and the usual interpretation is 'Horse of Yggr', since Odin in a sense rode the tree when he hung upon it. The tree is repeatedly called 'the ash Yggdrasil', and a possible reason for the choice of an ash might be the bunches of 'keys' which hang from the branches like bodies of tiny men, recalling the practice of hanging sacrificial victims from trees."

(from http://www.irelandsown.net/)

And on that cheery note, I'll depart! (But I may take a bit of a longer path around our ash trees in future, not wanting to be a sacrificial victim just yet. I think I've circled back to oogabooga).