The Dinner Party Chapter 2

Dinner Party Chapter 2 Stuber

Bonfires raged as Stephanie and Jessica danced topless in quest of that native feel. More Indians arrived in Birch Canoes to make the trek up Bare Hill. This festival, celebrating corn, included dancing, music, and storytelling. It went on for days.
Fire surrounded the lake, a tradition Europeans named Ganundua and copied with flares. It must have been late July, as the early corn was already being carted around. Canoes rarely crossed the lake without a few ears tucked away somewhere. The visitors, at least those who feel, cried for the losses yet to come. Rodgers kissed Martin, certainly not in the plan. Orgies followed.
Tad was still going on about bigger and better wars, so, with the encouragement of newfound native alliances, Jack popped him one in the nose. (Thus ends the war argument for this paragraph.)
Tad reveled in the story he could tell fraternity mates. {Have you noticed that NASA suggests the ozone problem is worsening twice as fast as we had once thought. By my count, that means, instead of being uninhabitable by 2092, earth will be food-free by, say, 2040.}
Anyway, a fun time was had by all. Most of the invitees found friends or lovers to start up with. Some natives even risked talking to the “gods” that came by. So many important dreams had already taken place about white-skinned visitors, that “god” was the only status the natives could think to give these strange looking humans.
Talking was done with hand signals at first. The more academically inclined took to learning the Iroquois language. The clever natives looked at their guests very closely. Even though most did not decipher much on their first night together, the visitors remained highly prized guests.
The timing of the corn festival and their arrival could not have been better. The Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga, Mohawk and Onodowaga tribes were gathered in Onodowaga country to celebrate the beginning of another fine corn crop. By this time it was known that the crop would be one of the best ever.

Stuber 2.2

Runners made their preparations to move the corn west and east, south and north, as the crop passed for money in these parts. Sure their were bead belts that were more sacred, more sought-after, more valuable, but for the Iroquois, it was their ability to raise and transport corn that kept them head-and-shoulders above their neighboring nations.
The peace that was created when five warring tribes dropped their weapons allowed them to live in the near-perfect world where play was encouraged. Hard winters made the fall a busy time. The work in the fields was generally done by women and their children. This festival was to help, prepare the women for the hard work ahead. It was a kind of a pregame psyche-up session that lasted for days.
“Oh La La,” Tolkien blurted out as the last spooge for the night combined with clay hunks to form crystal. (Some conference.) “I have a friend who says technology is the only way to save us. He says we should rocket out of here. Well, we certainly have the right people to start new generations by last night’s display,” he said, as the party started waking up.
“Sadly we’re a few generations short of rockets,” Martin said, “and nature isn’t going to run out on us while we’re visiting.”
“How sophomoric. I was referring to our ability to procreate,” Tolkien replied while looking for fire wood.
“I wonder what month we’re in, feels like fall setting in,” Larsen said.
“I think this is August. Maybe we’re in Canada, it is surely a cold morning for August,” Tolkien said.
The large white snake looms, “My Blue Lake” is seen by some, hovering a foot over the water. The great law of peace oversees a sycamore that stretches out over untapped fields. Only the unforgiving miss the moment in their brains.
“Why was this century such a mindless one for this continent?” Catherine the Great mused.
“These people know more about nature than most of your ministers did,” Woolf pointed out.
“I had the world’s most culturally advanced court.”
“So? You still never accomplished all that you wanted to. And your beloved Russia fell back into marauding Cossacks quicker than you could imagine,” Woolf

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responded.
“If we’re here to save these people, our arguments will get us nowhere. We need a war to drive out the stinking English. It was the English who broke up the partnership between the French and natives around here. If the French had won that war, this continent would have been much more laissez-faire.”
Sounds like she’s a changed woman. (One last orgy before the rebirth of war?)
“And the whales cry,” Garcia said. It’s a bit early for Garcia , but, just as dogwood’s leaves lead to blooming Rhododendron, the dark branches of rain soaked trees provide contrast for watercolorists.
“So you want to find a solution? Find yourself,” Jessica suggested.
Woolf laughed.
This crazy off-camera muse “Ed” keeps suggesting the addition of detail. He doesn’t know me and my penchant for abstractions, but, the night before the “orgy”
the participants ate dinner. It consisted of bear and venison as well as green beans, corn, lima beans and ample rounds of hemp smoking. There were also sips of C. the G.’s Vodka and Stephanie’s Amaretto. No twinges of infecting the natives with firewater, since they had the peace pipe to start with.
Let’s interrupt last night’s supper during the conversation part.
Allman: I don’t know whose dream this is, but I’m sick and tired of playing puppet. The least we can do is write songs about the forthcoming Indian decimation. Maybe it will help them or warn them.
Marley: If we could figure out their language, it would be better to save them with songs they could understand.
Garcia: They’d have to be memorable songs, maybe we could rework some of your songs with that native beat Bob.
Larsen: Hey, I was killer on bass, and I never played before!
Garcia: You want to be a part of our band?
Larsen: That would be great!
Corcoran: Shush Jeanne, let them write their tunes.
Of course Corcoran didn’t realize the enormous potential she had for writing

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tunes. But, Kandinsky, still next to Allman, talking with Tolkien, Nostradamus and a reborn C. the G. broke in:
Kandinsky: Why don’t we try to save a small area. Where was that place Columbus landed?
Tolkien: San Salvador, it’s one of the Bahamas. Actually quite a bit Southeast of what they called the West Indies.
Kandinsky: Why don’t we try to save San Salvador then.
Tolkien: Well, the natives left or were breaded out, but, believe it or not, San Salvador remained resort-free, except for one little inn, throughout my lifetime. Kandinsky: So let’s save the whole Bahamas then.
Tolkien: The islands incorporated a large African population because of the rum traders, and you should know, that, except for a group of snobby British bankers and the occasional pamphlet publisher, the Bahamas are mostly natives. From a long-term perspective, the most you’d ever want to change there are the tacky tourist hotels.
C. the G.: I’ve always wondered what type of fun you could have with Africans, but I think I’ve found a man in Running Bear that could fulfill all my desires. I hope this dream doesn’t end, maybe I can sneak off and avoid going
back to Hell.
And if pigs had wings they could fly. But C. the G. introduced the first native nicely for us, which could bend us around to a less Philistine approach to continent-saving.
Sadly, Running Bear was not only not hanging around the official “Day-After-the-Orgy” proceedings, he wasn’t at dinner last night either. Running Bear, skeptical, took refuge with Catherine across the lake at Seneca Point. (That’s Seneca the Indians, not Seneca the Latin quipster.) {Note , they called themselves Onodowaga} That leaves us nowhere, so, waiting for the burst into native thinking, we’ll have a lyrical passage.
This jump also puts us back into the author’s experiences in the 20th century, for those scoring at home.

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Waves lap birch, flow north. The West River,
Overgrowing with algae, barely supports the vineyards
Once thought to be valuable. Some wine monger
Invents a sweetened cooler which saves the concord
Growers: the last farmers in these parts are the
Only real people around. There’s no living fishing
These lakes anymore. Beauty succumbs to
Cigarettes cruising 200 feet above leery Lake Trout.

Dropping a heavy line to the fishes preferred
Temperature, and feeling a bite from that far
Away, then carefully reeling is a boring but noble
Way to snag a meal. Only fierce winters could
Possibly cleanse so much motor oil. “You have to look
Both ways when leaving your dock for Christ’s sake!”
No, not for Him, but for the geode left alone,
The undug trilobite snuggled in shale perfectly

Piled in the age old tradition of moraine damming.
Mostly stop for the trout, pike, walleye. Even the memory
Of Running Bear should drive any human being to get
The hell off the lake. An adolescent murmur,
A “boo lake” of childhood, a white capped sail in
Creaking sunfish, wind 60, boat 30 knots, a
Full hike required, hair slapping waves, rain moving in.
The last tearful memory of any dying man who’s ever

Had the luck to be around it. Hills diving to cliffs
Under a picnic lunch served off the end of a
1962 Chris Craft go slightly unappreciated
In the mouths of 8-year-old birthday party attendees.
Croquet on the lawn now being sold by the square foot,
38-round badminton volleys kept up even though
Your half sister insists on running through the game.
Sixty three degree water plunged-into on a hot day.

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Dandelion puff-balls competing with the
Just-combed hair of Brandy, the world’s
Quintessential retriever. Small white, large red
Puffs, dodging squirrels: one trying to hang
On to life, the other, seeking new generations,
Both bothering persnickety lawn manicurists
Whose second goal in life is the perfect rose
Garden, first being a sterile household. Oh my.

Winds interfere, ducks lead confused offspring,
A ten-slap skipper goes unrecorded except
By the tosser. Occasional craw dads escape
Persecution by their evil captors who race
The rest across land. And dad tugging five-year-
Olds down to Rosenthals where retribution for
Dislodged fence rocks comes in the form of
Two weeks labor. Remember those days?

Days of warm days, cool nights. Now,
In less than half a lifetime, its sweltering
All the time. Winter. What happened to that
Cleansing month? Snow, flood, mud, clean:
Used to happen every March. You would
Hope it still happens at least in Asia
Where tradition has allowed billions to
Snake a living out of so little. Movie stars

Are not the thinkers to save our planet,
But thinking is only optional in the
Money-first world. Here Running Bear
Takes over the thinking, his diatribe
Is listed under number one in the
Endnotes. So flip back to number one
And find out how he looks at things.
C. the G. has good taste.

 

 

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  • Before You Speak

    Before you speak, let your words pass through three gates. At the first gate, ask yourself, ‘Is it true?’ At the second ask, ‘Is it necessary?’ At the third gate ask ‘Is it kind? Rumi  Translated by Coleman Barks

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“The Dinner Party,” a novella in 11 chapters plus endnotes, copyright, Doug Stuber, 1992.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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