9-28-92

Sunday we got on the bus,

A kind of time machine to the 17th century.

When we entered the gates, our little game began.

I called you Peasant,

You called me Milady.

We were no longer at Purdue,

We were in the wilderness of Ft. Ouiatenon.

Then you just picked me up and carried me

over the muddy field, surprising me.

I told you it was a chivalrous act, and you bowed.

As we walked past teepees, lean-tos, tents, and food booths,

We watched little children play.

I sighed disappointedly when they lowered the flags at the fort.

The cooking fires were put out,

and once again, the smell of diesel fuel

Descended like a sticky, gagging cloud,

And engulfed us as we boarded the bus back.

First there was a fife and drum core playing.

The piercing tune carried over the large crowd,

but the mournful cry of bagpipes wove its way into the scene too.

The thump of skin drums from somewhere up the

fairway called watchers to an Indian demonstration.

All these sounds clashed in my head along with

the sounds of the crowd.

My mind overflowed with sounds.

I covered my ears.

Jennifer Kelbaugh

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