Eye of the Tornado

Yes, I am aware that the usual phrase is “eye of the hurricane” but it seems to me that tornados and hurricanes have a common ancestor, and thus must have other aspects that conjoin. Somewhere, buried in the hundred-plus mile an hour winds, there must be a tiny eye, so small and so quick as to be over in, well, the blink of an eye. Still, in that tiny valley, there is a moment of peace. That seems to be where we are right now.

Not that I’m complaining; it’s been a fantastic week, there’s just a lot going on. As it turns out, Dan Beard Council was scheduled to be here at the same time as the Ranch Committee, and of course, hilarity ensued. I’ve discovered that the individual members of the Ranch Committee are quite pleasant, even fun. Their organization, on the other hand, scares the hell out of everyone here. These are the people that decide who gets money and for what, and more potently, who doesn’t. Essentially, when they say jump, we’ve got to strap on our rocket boots as we ask how high.

Then again, I didn’t really see much of the Ranch Committee. We served them dinner a couple of times, but I was contentedly washing dishes while that was going on. They used our classrooms, but I was out taking care of Dan Beard, and that itself was a story. The reason for this scheduling difficulty was that the Dan Beard Council was not using our housing facilities, just our staff, so they didn’t show up on our calendar. They definitely made my life interesting in a good way: we gave them a Villa Tour, drove them to Baldy Town and French Henry, and hiked them through Hidden Valley. Much better than what everyone else was doing: moving tables and chairs.

The big difficulty was that we really didn’t get any time off. Usually when somebody complains about not getting time off, it means that they’re miffed about working nine days straight without a day off, but we really didn’t get any time off. I was up at six to serve breakfast and worked through lunch for two days straight, and the first of those had me working until nine. I was too tired to realize that I needed sleep.

Yesterday deserves its own section of this text. Yeah, we worked a half day; cleaning classrooms and picking up tables. I took my afternoon off to do laundry and bake cookies (short break while I eat one) then went to dinner, expecting my evening to involve nothing more exciting than playing video games until I fell asleep, probably before nine. It was then that Sarah from the dining hall informed me that it was “international talk like a pirate day” and that there was a Celtic punk band playing in Colorado. I knew that this would keep me up late, but Celtic music, especially with a punk beat is more than a weakness for me, it’s a near obsession.

Of course, the band would be playing in a bar, so I drove. We got there around nine and had to wait almost an hour for the band to come on, but there was a lot to see in the bar. This being “talk like a pirate day” most of the patrons were dressed as pirates, and this was very much a local bar. Everyone seemed to know each other, and we were strange visitors allowed to join in, though only one of us dressed up for the occasion (any guesses as to who?)

When the band came on, it was worth the wait. They were a very local band, and knew half the people in the room (they addressed a few by name) but their music was phenomenal. They played some traditional Irish and Scottish pieces, and a couple of originals with a spirit that could make you think that they were playing for thirty thousand people instead of thirty. For those that know them, think of the Dropkick Murphys, without the profanity and with a fiddle player that played almost ineffably well. Though, in many circles this would be considered heresy, this band was better than the Murphys and Flogging Molly combined. For once, I was the last to want to leave, and regretfully tore myself away around one thirty.

So who was this wonderful band? Did I get a CD? Sadly, since the band was selling their own CDs and we left before they were done, I didn’t get one. Worse, I’m a bit shaky on the name of the band; the only person who could read it off the base drum had the kind of Alabama accent that made him sound like he had been chewing on marbles. My interpretation of his garbled words gave me the name “The Poitin Punk Band”, but an internet search this morning has turned up nothing. Rest assured, I’ll keep looking.

Update: Five minutes later, I got it. The band's name is "Potcheen".