Thread: God of the Fiddle Players

The wilting sun catches them centre stage, taking a
Well - deserved breather. Safely shieded by the big top,
Easy for me to applaud for more. An old - timer's
Favorite, my mom would say.

Surveying the dance floor, my generation is damn - near
lost. Even me, I don't know how to promenade
Properly, let alone that quick heel - toe - on - the - spot
Step. Gyrating to a techno - beat is more my history.
Then again, who can dig roots in the city?

I have to ask a freind about being Metis, what there is
To be proud of. Because she's an elder, she says just
Watch, listen, later, we join the pilgrimage to the
Graveyard, go to the museum.

They have a special show using mannequins to
Re - enact the Northwest Resistance. Weeping openly, I
Got to meet the heroes I was ashamed of in school.

That summer, the God of the Fiddle Players visited
Batoche. I bought my first sash; wearing it proudly
Around the house, practicing the ins & outs of jigging.