In the heat of the afternoon, Bob, Chris, and I headed out to the Arroyo Chamisos Disc Golf Course for what turned out to be the best disc golf experience I’ve had in New Mexico. The course meanders through a dry river bed/wash–well, and arroyo. The course designers have made good use of the scrub junipers, brush, and elevation changes to provide interesting holes. The installers and maintainers of the course have marked the course very clearly with three tee lengths. Unlike the St. John’s course, it’s always pretty easy to find where you’re headed and at what you’re shooting.

We played from the red Rec tees, which actually were a bit too short for me. I ended up with a -4 but 4 bogeys due to the winds and overthrowing some shorter baskets. (Imagine overthrowing a hole with a Roc.) I should be happy with the 8 deuces. I also ended up throwing way more “hammer” shots than I think is polite.

After dinner, Jeffrey O, Bob, Chris, and I headed into town for a “guy’s night out” only to be confounded by the lack of parking. We ended up on a patio near Bob and Chris’s room chatting until it was time for worship.

Later in the evening, I noticed Laura L-M and her friend Cullen from SFBC sitting out in the upper dorm patio area. I sauntered over and was quickly enlisted to learn a dice game called “Farkle”. It’s a nice easy dice game that is good for socializing.

Heading into the last day of the conference, I had another rich, full day.

Bob and Patrick joined me for a drive into town to play a disc golf course. After a couple of missed turns, we arrived at Ashbaugh Park. On first glance, it didn’t look like much. Small, flat, some homeless people sleeping on the ground. Turns out, that what you see is what you get. The PDGA listing states that the course opened in 1992. My guess is that it started out life as a 9 hole course, which would have fit the amount of available land just fine. Over the last 15 years, however, various methods of squeezing 18 holes into the space were employed. Now you have a situation where you’re shooting at the same baskets from multiple pins to create 18 different holes. The downloadable map is rather accurate and has all the information you need on it, but what that information is is not always clear. As we were wandering about looking for a hole, a local playing through gave us a quick layout and mentioned that some of the tees were just wooden blocks in the ground or red marks painted on fencing. Now the list of odd info on the map made sense.

With just the three of us playing the course, we didn’t have any trouble. But I can’t imagine tournaments being played here. You’d constantly be overlapping other players. Of course, you play what you have. Thankfully for Santa Fe, a new 18-hole course went in last year at Arroyo Chamisos. I predict the downside will be that Ashbaugh Park continues to decline. Of course, my feelings about the course would probably be better if I’d played better. I had no control. Several of the holes are layed out for lefties, so I was trying my forehand shot. I had all sorts of distance, but very little aim, so I ended up OB on more than one occasion. (Thanks, Bob, for climbing that fence!) On hole 6, I hit four trees. The big story, however, is that I’ve finally had a good disc golf experience in Santa Fe; good being defined as having actually shot a disc at all holes on a course.

On returning to campus, we had just enough time to shower, rest a short bit, and get ourselves to the last supper of the week. Meal times have always been one of my favorite aspects of the Glen Workshop. Yes, the food is usually top notch. But the most important part of the meal is the fellowship with fellow Glennites. Even if you know noone at the Glen, you’ll always find a table to welcome you. By the second or third meal, you will usually have some folks that you can join anytime. Of course, as the week goes on and you get to know your workshop-mates, conversations from the morning naturally carry over into lunch. The diversity of Christian experience is amazing, and meal times provide a friendly place for people to tell their stories.

The evening concert featured Pierce Pettis, reknowned songwriter whose songs have been recorded by Joan Baez, Garth Brooks, Art Garfunkel, Randy Stonehill, and Dar Williams and who worked closely with Mark Heard. Gasping for breath in the thin Santa Fe air, Pettis picked his guitar and blew his harp with such passion that the Glen crowd demanded he sing more even though doing so would eat into time for Over the Rhine, a Glen fave. Pettis was part of the “fast folk” movement of the 80′s and doesn’t seem to have slowed down any. Mixing reflections on beauty with poignant satire, you’re just as likely to marvel at his word play as his fancy picking.

Of course, the last four years at the Glen wouldn’t have been complete without a drop-dead gorgeous set from Over the Rhine. No disappointments here. Karin and Lindford treated us to several tunes off the upcoming The Trumpet Child, a brand new tune, and some old favorites. Deftly switching from instrument to instrument, the pair simply made beautiful music. This year’s set seemed to be tilted a bit towards more contemplative work, but noone could help smiling and joining in with their last tune, “If a Song Could Be President.”

Sadly, the good vibes of the concert didn’t carry over into what is usually one of the most humbling and meaningful times at the Glen: the final worship time and annointing of the artists. This year’s theme at the Glen was an exploration as to what literature and art could bring to the dialogue between the three Abrahammic faiths: Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. The organizers clearly understood that such a dialogue is “inherently risky,” and I do give them full credit for trying to add positively to the discussion of how we can live peaceably in this world. However, nowhere did the claim that such striving for our common humanity would occur “Without seeking to blur the distinctiveness of any tradition” fail so much as it did on the closing night. All week I’d heard rumblings–and I myself stated on this blog concern–that the worship services were doing precisely what was not sought. While many seemed to be able to particpate fully in the service, it was clear by the number of people who left the auditorium or kept their seats during the annointing that my eyesight was not the only that perceived a distinct lack of focus. At this point, I’m fully willing to chalk up this major disappointment to well-intentioned mis-steps. Brave attempts do not always succeed, and quite often crash spectacularly.

But God is good. After the ending reception, I was walking back to my room lost in thought about the disappointment of the ending of Glen 07 when I heard some familiar strains wafting on the sage-scented air. I remembered an invitation to a little soiree. Entering a Common Room, I saw my roommate for the week, Canadian artist Gerald Vaandering, as well as some others. Fellow fiction workshopper Laura had a hymnal open and a small group around her were singing. I joined in, and for the next two hours or so, we picked old favorites and tried to sing them a cappella in four part harmony. We didn’t always get the notes right; I’m sure we got worse as the evening progressed. But when we quit a 2am, I was certain that we had offered up to the Lord a joyful noise. One woman who joined us was so happy she was bouncing in place. “I haven’t done this for 15 years!” May God continue to remind us of the good things.

I’ll end this year’s reporting with a photo taken by Sara Zarr, YA author. That’s me on the left end. Then Sara. Jeffrey and Anne Overstreet are on the right.

A shadow was put over the day, however, by news during the morning that Moira’s husband, Roger Kamenatz–writer, poet, speaker, and Jew–was having a serious medical emergency concerning his eyes. The IMAGE staff seemed to be caring for him which led Moira to carry on for the remainder of the morning. One of the workshop members suggested we stop to pray, which we did heartily. We all would have certainly understood if Moira would have left us to be with her husband, but we muddled through the rest of the morning. I don’t know at this point what his status his. Please keep him in your prayers.

The past two years I have tried to play the St. John’s Disc Golf Course with little success. In addition to poorly marked tees and baskets hidden in the brush, the map provided had little to no relation to reality. After lunch today, I was joined by fellow Fiction workshopper, Patrick, for yet another attempt at the course. I was encouraged that the hand drawn map had been replaced with a map based on actual aerial photography. Unfortunately, we never really got a chance to test-drive the new map. After warming up and throwing the first hole, which has always been easy to find, the skies darkened and began pouring scads of rain, lightning, and thunder upon us. After waiting for a few minutes under a tree (yeah, that was real smart what with the lightning and all) Patrick and I decided to pack it in. Even if the rain stopped, everything was wet and we had no towels to dry the discs. Of course, it didn’t stop raining. For the entire 1/2 mile or so walk back to the dorms, we were deluged. There was not one single dry spot on my entire body. Not one. I checked. So this is now three years in a row that the course has eluded me. On Saturday, it looks like Patrick, Fireman Bob, and I will be going into town to try the park there.

The Big Elephant
Over lunch, some of us began discussing the worship services that I’ve reported on previously. It seemed that we all were wondering how this interfaith thing was working. In the end, I think we were all coming to same place: the Jewish and Muslim texts that were being used in worship were generic enough not to cause a problem. However, the big deal being made over the texts by the leaders made it impossible to actually enter into a worshipful attitude. In other words, instruction and worship don’t mix that well.

There also seemed to be a big elephant in the room that we all sensed, but none of the speakers wished to address. That is, all three of the Abrahammic faiths make, on some leve, a claim of exclusivity. In Christianity, Christ states plainly that “I am the Way the Truth and the Life. No one come to the Father but through me.” What then are we to do with these other faiths? Kamenetz suggested that we start with little things before getting to big things, but I can’t help but wonder how much time we’re going to waste by not acknowledging that on a fundamental level, we all think the other folks are quite simply WRONG and not walking on the straight path to God. Even within our own faiths, we can’t get our acts together. How is a Catholic supposed to have any meaningful dialogue when the Catechism (and the Pope) insists that the Roman church is the only TRUE church? How are believers supposed to have any meaningful dialogue when at heart Evangelicals often believe that Roman Catholics are in league with the Whore of Babylon? I’m sure there are answers to these questions and helpful paths to take, but none of the speakers or worship leaders seem willing to acknowledge this huge elephant standing right in the middle of the room.

Patty Griffin
Ok, now that the concert is over, I feel that, in the spirit of full disclosure, I must confess that before tonight not only had I never seen her in person, but I really didn’t have much of a clue as to who she was. Sure, her name is one of those names that whenver it’s mentioned people I know get all excited. But I’ve never really been exposed to her albums or music. So, I was entering tonights show at the Santa Fe Brewing Company totally cold. Turns out that was just fine. Even on the rockin’ numbers, the sound was so good that I could decipher lyrics and musical nuances.

The show was held on an outdoor patio type of space with the stage at one of the skinny ends. The sun was setting behind the brewery as the show began. The general admission nature of the show meant that my arrival 15 minutes before show time resulted in my standing for the opening act. However, as Patty Griffin got ready, Jeffrey and Anne Overstreet and some other folks from the Glen showed up and we staked out some ground near the front.

Patty Griffin took the stage in a glamorous metallic calf-length wrap dress and black pump heels. Her hair framed her face like Loretta Lynn, and her guitar was adorned with floral patterned oyster shell. The band built her intensifying songs into powerful walls of sound punctuated by her clarion soprano vocalizations. Folks describe her as a singer/songwriter, roots, Americana musician, and I can see why. The songs she did solo with an acoustic guitar embellished that image. But the woman can rock, too.

It didn’t hurt that I was able to get a ticket and three beverages for less than what Sherry will be paying to see Patti Smith tomorrow night

I should be commenting on more stories, but I think I’m going to sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day: Off to Roswell!

From the outset, let me say that the only serious improvement I could suggest for the course is some system for indicating which pin position the holes are in. Other than that minor point, the course is great.

The course seemed to be in the long position, which means it plays out at 6230 feet. But it was by no means clear at first. The first four holes lulled me into a false sense of security. Here I was playing the longs and only one over par. Then came hole 5. This was a hole having the pin position indicated on the tee would have been nice. It plays out over water, and you need to know how far out to drive so that it fades back in at the right spot. I couldn’t tell where the basket was and played it conservative, ending up with a 6.

I had the most fun I’ve ever had getting a bogey on hole 7. A 430 ft severe right dog-leg, I wasn’t expecting par. I scouted the hole and had a plan in my head. If I threw each leg of the hole perfectly, I thought I would do alright. And, amazingly, I did. None of the first two shots were easy, requiring me to throw long and accurately while turning the disc over on one shot and hyzering on the other. After nailing the two shots, there I was staring at a chip for par. It was a rather long chip, so I was not at all displeased when my chip landed at the perfect distance, but just a tad off-line. I don’t know if a bogey has ever felt so satisfying.

The rest of the round was pretty uneventful except for 12 and 13 which found me in the water.
In the end, I finished up +23 for a 77.

I was very happy to walk into the airconditioned IDGC after my round. I walked around looking at the collection of historic discs. In a glass case, they had one of the Steady Ed memorial discs in which Ed’s ashes are embeded. I couldn’t help but think that from what I’ve read about him that he wouldn’t actually like so much to be locked up in a glass case instead of flying free. But at $200 each, I guess no one’s going to be throwing those discs much. It was something of a contrast to see theone disc displayed in the glass case and a pile of other memorial discs (complete with ashes) stacked in a milk crate in the pro shop. There’s something creepy about playing with a disc impregnated with someone’s ashes, and there’s something even creepier about having a crate of those discs for sale in a shop.

After some final pictures of the IDGC, I went back to Augusta where Sherry and I continued our nice visit with C.

After walking back to the hotel and enjoying a nice breakfast (Good job, O’Keefe Plaza Hotel!), I was about ready to depart for the DG when Sherry called desperately hoping that I had not left the hotel yet and wondering if I could walk her laptop to the hotel. Seems she, in fact, did need it for her presentation even though she’d been led to believe that all she’d need was her flashdrive. So, I packed up the laptop and ambled off six blocks or so to the hotel. I considered hopping in the car and dropping it off in front of the hotel, but it turns out it was good that I didn’t. When I delivered the laptop, Sherry, with hope in her eyes, asked if I could stay for the presentation to run the PowerPoint since the projector connection was far, far away from the podium.

The presentation went off very well, if I do say so myself. Sherry was examining the “Schoolhouse Gothic” mode of the 5th Harry Potter novel. It was well received. At least the middle-aged woman wearing full wizarding regalia–and a bowler hat–sitting to my right kept nodding and jotting down notes.

I did locate a DG sign which had a map; however, even though the map was fairly well drawn, I had great difficulty figuring out where hole 1 was. I could see baskets and tee signs everywhere, but not hole 1. Soon I noticed two guys playing a nearby and walked over to ask where I should start. As I approached, “Dixie,” a middle-aged guy with a gray, scruffy beard, round face, a perpetual smile, and something of a cajun accent, asked if I needed help. I said, why yes I do. And he invited me to join them. So I did. The other gentleman was also very friendly. I forget his name, but I did learn that he grew up in Shaker Heights, OH. So, with them showing the way, we teed up on Hole 6 and played on.

After just two holes, the Gentleman from Shaker had to leave and go to work painting a house or something. Before he left he told me that Dixie’s house had been demolished by Katrina. As he put it, “He had 12 ft. of water in a one-story ranch.” Evidently Dixie’s daughter and son-in-law had been in the house; as the waters rose, they had gone into the attic, but the water started into the attic. The survived by somehow punching a hole in the roof and clinging to the top. Throughout the day, Dixie never mentioned or spoke about his troubles. He did constantly point out places where things had been bad but were now recovering.

So, Dixie and I played two more holes until we met his friend Jet. Jet wore a floppy hat with the sides curled up, sun-glasses, a John 3:16 T-shirt, and a big smile. He was clearly the best player of our little trio. And so we continued on with the rest of Lafreniere’s 22 holes.

I didn’t keep score on this round because I was enjoying the company too much. We did keep track of hole honors, so I was able to get the sense that I was doing ok. I got two birdies in a row thanks to some rather nice tee shots. I kept the box for several holes, and I was at the bottom of the box for several.

The course is fairly wide open. On many holes there are some very well placed trees that make things interesting. In the middle of the park is a lagoon which comes into play on two holes; today though, the pin placements didn’t force us over the water. All in all, it’s remarkable how nice the park as a whole and the course in particular has recovered. All around us people were walking, playing, and jogging (Both Jet and Dixie remarked on how they didn’t mind the “distractions” of the jogging path when young females ran by.)

Once we hit hole 22, I had a sense of where the first holes were, and after thanking Dixie and Jet for their hospitality, went over and tossed the first five. It was a great day of DG.

• Only in New Orleans: Everyone I met on the course today made a point of mentioning that in NO you can walk around the park with a beer, and no one will hassle you about it. There was some lamenting of the fact that you can no longer drive around with an open container of beer. It was rather clear that folks make a distinction between beer and spirits. The former being almost a soft drink, and the latter being something that is reserved for the porch or dinner table.

Just outside the patio, an African-American preacher stood with a trumpet. He’d play or sing gospel tunes–I heard “Amazing Grace”, “This Little Light of Mine”, “Old Rugged Cross”–and “Danny Boy.” In between he’d give some uplifting words and encourage folks to put tips in his trumpet case. He also had CD’s available. His voice was strong and crystal clear, and his trumpet a silver goblet of tunefullness. After he played for a couple of hours, he was replaced by a bluesy trio: a dark woman in a bright white dress singing while another woman strummed a guitar, and an old fat man in a red shirt and a comical hat blue a wonderful harmonica.

I sat reading and writing in my journal and watching the folks come and go. Sherry got delayed meeting me, so I ordered another round of coffee and beignets. I love New Orleans.

After leaving Tulane, we headed back to the French Quarter. After wading past the nudie clubs and the bars with loud, bad music (Did I really come to New Orleans to hear a bad cover band do ‘Sweet Home Alabama’?”) we finally found Fritzel’s, a bastion of good, live jazz in the haze of frat boy chic. We settled in for a good set of music from the small combo on the stage: piano, sax, clarinet, and drums. It was the essence of what I think of when I go to New Orleans.

Sadly, it seems that such experiences have been curtailed somewhat by Katrina. The small, live jazz clubs seem not to have made the comeback that the corporate sponsored tourist traps have. Makes a certain kind of sense. But it’s still sad to walk down Bourbon St and be bombarded with hyper-loud taped music or third-rate classic rock cover bands. Even the nudie places have the taint of corporate-ness with Hustler sporting at least three spots of their own. As NO recovers, it may be that one of the lasting impacts of Katrina is that the small businesses may have been largely knocked out of the Quarter.

It was still somewhat early when we called it a night, but we’d all had full, busy, good days. Tomorrow we shop, we eat, we listen one last time.