Dance for the Day

This week my Hubby finished up his currant construction project on the coast. Having completed building yet another gaming casino, Hubby walked the new owners through the facility, signing off on all punch list items before handing over all the keys, codes for the security systems and control. He then walked over to his temporary office of two years to close it down, say goodbye his satellite office staff, and arrange for the shipping of his computer systems and paper work back to the main office here in Minnesota.

When he opened his office door for the last time before climbing into his company truck for the long drive home, there were all the Native American tribe waiting for him. Everyone from the Chief up to the high end of the totem pole, (If you are high on a totem pole, you are low in tribal status) to the part time laborers. They had assembled to give my Hubby a goodbye chanting drum ceremony. They circled Hubby and performed a song "Brave Heart Home", which they had written for him. As gifts they presented him a Pendleton wool coat to keep him warm on his next project in Michigan. Then they gave him a tape of their songs, and tucked an eagle feather into his windshields visor for good luck and a safe journey. Hubby watched them from his rearview mirror as they continued to drum as he drove out of the parking lot heading for home.

Honey proudly played us his tape once he got home. The boys and I listened wide-eyed for the first couple opening notes of the chant whose words we were not familiar until we couldn't take it and broke into movement. We swooped around my kitchen island waving our arms as wings and skipping to the rhythmic beat. We hopped and twirled and spun without abandon. We danced as hard and as fast as we could for longer than we should of. We had our own mini celebration.

The next day I was called into work at the bistro early. We were having a musical group of Vikings from Norway and Sweden perform and put on a show on the journey they had reinacted across Scandinavian as the first tradesmen had done using horse drawn sleds. I went in early to make some special ethnic dishes to go along with the theme.

I talked my family into coming and seeing the special entertainment by bribing them to a free meal. They managed to get the last table, the one right in front of the stage, next to eight member group. Directly behind the musicians was the screen showing scenes of the film the members shot of their adventure across the frozen wilderness. The place was packed when I hand delivered the Swedish meat balls dodging in between standing customers to my boy's table. They ate their dinner with an awed look on their faces to the strains of violins and fiddles and guitars. "Skol!!!" "Hewha!!!They cheered at the end of each song.

After the Bistro closed I came back out and sat drinking "Shullsplitter" beer and listening to a private performance. The little English my new friends spoke was very difficult to understand. When I got up to bring them some of my food I danced. The group sang a song just for me. "The Lamb". They performed their prettiest music without the benefit of a large crowd. They had to translate the lyrics for me, as once again, the words were useless.

I was giving one of their CD's. I played it this morning as we ate kringa anf fry bread. We swooped around my kitchen island waving our arms as wings and skipping to the rhythmic beat. We hopped and twirled and spun without abandon. We danced as hard and fast as we could for longer than we should of. Our life is it's own celebration.