Seattle, Washington
Written in late May, 2008

FOLK LIFE

On re-reading what I’ve been writing in this journal for the past few weeks, I recognize a trend. Fulghum has been going around in the world lately like Good Old Charley Brown in Peanuts - who lived out his existence between eternal Hope and inevitable Disappointment.

Sometimes I feel like a living, breathing cartoon figure - naïve, optimistic, and grateful for any sign of the Good, however small - despite knowing that the World will always break your heart if you let it.

That’s why I buy but do not read The New York Times daily. Usually I let the papers pile up and take a look all at once on Saturday. That way I get the reasons for despair over with all at once. Seldom is the good news in the paper - that must be read from the daily evidence closer by.

Example. For the past 37 years Seattle has celebrated Memorial Day weekend with the FolkLife Festival. At Seattle Center, which is a ten-block downhill walk from my house. In my neighborhood.

When I was a child Memorial Day meant a trip to the cemetery to remember and honor the dead. Now I avoid cemeteries. I know that folks die. And I remember. But I believe that I honor the dead best by getting involved with as much life as I can on this weekend.

Besides thousands and thousands of attendees, there were 7,000 performers over the four days of FolkLife this year. Musicians, jugglers, artisans, dancers, singers, poets - professionals as well as amateurs - young as well as old - and from just about any ethnic and cultural you can imagine. And while I did attend performances and exhibitions, the best part was sitting in one place and watching the crowd. Folks. Of every kind. Some you can imagine. Some you can’t. You have to be there.

For one thing, a great many of those passing by were carrying instrument cases, obviously containing guitars or fiddles or horns, but less obviously shaped to carry more exotic instruments. If I saw most of these people on the street I would never think “a musician” - but I saw them here and my impression was dramatically improved. Especially when I know that most are not professionals. Most just play for companionship and joy.

For another thing, the festival encourages busking - unscheduled offerings by anyone who wants to stake out a small space for awhile and perform. Many are young, not yet proficient, and a little fearful of what they’re doing. I try to stop and watch and listen - and make a donation - to as many as I can. Some come back year after year, having improved their acts and expertise. Their courage, their ambition, and their earnest dedication to their craft impress and inspire me.

My favorite busker this year was a very young woman - maybe 12. Long blond hair in a pony-tail. An unspectacular costume - black pants and beige sweater. She unfolded a small silver performance pad, placed a huge pink ball in the middle, and dropped a hula hoop over that. Then she took a fiddle out of its case, and tuned it.

And then - quicker than I can describe - she somehow was balanced atop the ball - rolling it forward and back - while keeping the hula hoop going - moving it up and down her body - while playing a lively tune on her fiddle and singing. Amazing!

None of her individual skills were extra-ordinary, but she had taken the things she could do and put them all together, and then had the courage to perform her act it in public. She did it very well.

The little girl came to mind later when I went to a workshop for people who wanted to learn palmas - the hand-clapping technique used in Flamenco music. Knowing I will never look like a Spanish gypsy or manage the guitar technique or the passionate dancing, I was excited that I might at least learn the secrets of Flamenco clapping. I can clap. I got rhythm.

So. Armed only with enthusiasm, I stepped into the trap of “How hard can this be?” and joined the group, sitting on the front row. Maybe fifty people, including a policeman. The only person who might be a gypsy was the teacher, Anna Montes.

There are two basic Flamenco claps - with both palms open, and with four fingers of one hand slapping the other. So far, so good.
Then comes clapping in threes, twos, and finally, in twelve beats. OK.
The beat of the foot was added next. And then counter-clapping on the off-beat in half measures and non-beats. Maybe.

Then doing all this in two groups without counting aloud. With the foot on the 3, the 6, and the 10. Then faster. And adding an Ole! or two now and then. Keeping the back straight - the body posed and dignified. Oh, sure.

All too soon Senor Fuljumero was flopping around barking like a seal begging for fish. Terribly enthusiastic, but way off beat. And not doing the foot and the hands at the same time. (Counter rhythms seem to be my specialty.)

Shouting Whooo-ha! instead of Ole! did not add to my image.

It was a relief to have the teacher explain as class ended that clapping is not done by the audience, but only by the performers. What a relief! But it is useful to know, as she pointed out, that the support of an informed audience is important to the dancers and musicians.

Still, like a performing seal, I was just happy to be there. If not fed with a fish, then at least nourished in spirit. Just there. In the afternoon sun with a truly random collection of other human beings in a random mood.
Clapping! Laughing! Folk! Life!

The little girl came to mind. Maybe I could do this if I worked on it. It could be my act. Imagine. Bob the Busker. Next year at the festival. Next to the little girl on the ball. What does he do? He . . . he claps. Quite well, actually. It’s a trained seal imitation. He’s not bad - if you think applause is a talent.

Well . . . it is.