Dancing Feathers and Snowflakes

My hopes of joining Urbexia on Saturday for a day of exploring were dashed by the weather. Snow and freezing rain were forecast for the afternoon and it was now supposed to start earlier than predicted the day before. But camera batteries were charged so I needed to find an alternative. I had no intention of spending all day indoors, especially if the impending snow storm was going to leave me trapped on the hill on Sunday.
A search on the internet for local activities landed me on the site of the Museum of the Shenandoah Valley which was having a free open day today. They also had The Star Road Dance Company from Taos, N.M performing to celebrate the opening of a new exhibit, 'Hear My Voice' , showcasing Native American art from different cultures across centuries, the first Native American themed exhibition to be shown here. I grabbed my bags and headed out to Winchester.
It seemed much of the town's population had the same idea as me, there were large crowds and the parking lot was almost full. I had nearly an hour until the first dance performance so went upstairs to see the exhibition. It was a little unclear whether photography was allowed or not. One person said I could use my camera, but no flash, while another said only cell phones without flash were permissible. I took only a few images, it was so quiet in there and I didn't see any other photographers so I packed mine away, not wanting to appear rude.

The exhibits were stunning. The detail and evident hours of patience that had gone into creating these pieces was mind boggling. Art pieces were made of bone set with turquoise, jet, lapis, mother of pearl and other gems. If bones became scarce the Native American s would get their bones from Chicago where slaughterhouses were plentiful. Dyes were made naturally and baskets were made from different barks and rushes and even feathers. The shirt above was spectacular, I would have loved to wear it while hiking. The owner would have earned it by showing great bravery while hunting or in battle. It was made from hides and decorated with porcupine quills, glass beads, feathers, horsehair and fur. The stitch work was exquisite.
I joined the line of people waiting to enter the auditorium where the dancing would take place. I noticed many were wearing their Native American style jewelry and for the first time realized mine looked similar. I've always preferred silver to gold and in the past year have found myself admiring turquoise, now worn on a bangle on my wrist and on a necklace.

 I was amazed to be able to snag a seat right in front of the performers, discovering also that I was sitting next to an elderly gentleman who was the father of Kel Rainer, the main drummer and singer of the troupe. He proudly showed me his footwear that Kel had adorned for him, hand sewn beads onto tennis shoes, that he called, 'mocashoes'.

Kel's children were performing with him, Kayl Rainer, 15, Kenyon Olsen-Rainer, 21, Pretty Plume Rainer, 6, and also his uncle. They began with drumming and singing. Kel explained that many of the southern songs were actually prayers and he had written songs for his children which they performed. He wrote these to make them feel special and so they would remember him. As head singer he had complete control of the songs and drumming, often making gestures for the others to follow. The loud beats are called 'honor beats', usually heard during the verses. It was mesmerizing, sending tingles down my spine. The room reverberated and the drums thumped through the floor. There were a couple of local newspaper photographers who had initially plonked themselves right in front of us with their bags and huge cameras. I felt very smug sitting in my perfect seat as they were asked to leave the floor and had to stand to the sides. I didn't abuse my position though, and only took photos for the first few seconds of each dance, resting my camera on my lap to give my full attention to the dances and songs. I did make the mistake of asking my new friend a question during a performance and was instantly dismissed, a lesson in respect quickly learned and I didn't interrupt again.

Pretty Plume was the first to dance, wearing her jingle dress, decorated in traditional elk beads and Sioux bead work. Supposed to sound like rain, they are dresses of healing. The cones are usually made from tobacco lids but Kel explained that he's seen some using bullet casings, which must have been heavy. Pretty Plume jangled her way around the arena and received thunderous applause.

Kayl was up next, looking resplendent in his regalia. The boys performed northern traditional plains dances and we were told these usually involved acting out hunting scenes. Huge feathers from bald and golden eagles adorned them and we were asked to refrain from touching these. They are are earned by good behavior or dancing. Kayl also had stitched all the bead work on his costume himself.

Kenyon, below, while waiting to dance, was hailed as being single by his father, causing a lot of tittering in the crowd. He's a champion dancer and singer and wore a very similar outfit to Kayl, although apparently he didn't sew the bead work, instead relatives helped him.

After his routine, Pretty Plume performed a side-step dance, which we were told involves needing very strong calf muscles, and then the boys came back out for a duck and dive dance, showing warriors searching for the enemy and ending with a battle cry of winning. Warriors always advance and never retreat, which is why dancers never dance backwards. They started off crouching and slowly circling, then whirled and leaped, feathers and beads flying as they twisted and whirled. It was breathtaking, especially being so close to them, feeling the whoosh as they spun in front of me.

The whole performance lasted nearly an hour but felt like 10 minutes.They even let us have our photos taken with them, a first for me to have my picture taken with the real owners of this country; it was even a little humbling.
I had to rush out afterwards. There was another performance at 1:30 but the snow would be falling by then and I was anxious to be on top of my hill before it got bad. I drove towards Blandy to see Bill as the first flakes fluttered on to the windscreen. I met Bill and we drove around the farm taking photos of the fast whitening scenery.

The roads were still clear so I was OK to hang out for a while and somehow ended up stopping until Bill finished work. We jumped in and out of the car to take shots, noticing that the flakes were getting bigger and the wind was blowing stronger. I should have left then but was enjoying myself and when a pint at the local pub was suggested, I heartily agreed. We chatted at the warm bar until I looked out of the one window behind us. Huge gusts of snow were blowing across the window pane and it was completely white outside, the snow even sticking to the bark of the tree in view. I had to get home.

 The drive was treacherous. Even though the roads were slushy, they were slippery since none of them had been treated. I passed 4 cars off the road and never once went above 30 mph. The journey seemed interminable and I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I saw our hill. But for the first time ever I was unable to get up it, all wheels unable to grip. I tried 8 times and then had to give up, instead driving up a hill further down the road which wasn't quite so steep, and then skidding across fields until I finally reached Meadow House. I had made it home just as dusk was beginning to fall, snow still falling like feathers all around me.