Farewell My Love

Tags

cars, movies, Music, Mustang, nostalgia, reviews

I saw Bullitt so long ago it was at a Southern California drive-in. I distinctly remember jamming my foot on imaginary brakes on the car’s floorboard throughout the car chase sequences. Baby Driver may put Bullitt to rest when it comes to breakneck driving but will never (be still my beating heart) remove my adoration for a Mustang GT. Alas, the stunt driving in in Baby Driver may have nudged Bullitt from its top spot.

Time to gladly eat my words. I’ve complained about films with distracting loud soundtracks, but Baby Driver makes it work in overdrive and—dare I say it—with synchronized perfection. Magnificent sound editing. Can’t see how any film could beat it come awards time. The only issue I had happened at the opening, the first bank robbery, when the robbers didn’t put masks on until they got to the bank door. That didn’t make sense with security cameras everywhere nowadays. The other issue I had was driving stolen cars to the meeting site after the robbery. That didn’t fit the slickness of these operators. Maybe it was some sort of statement about their arrogance and confidence, but it seemed sloppy to me.

I know other reviewers are raving about this flick as a “car chase action” film, but I have to take issue with that. I watched the entire movie seeing it as a beautifully written, exquisitely realized character-driven story enhanced by excellent direction. I decided to see it because of the marvelous cast and was not disappointed. The music, pacing and controlled violence will hopefully not distract from the cast’s superb ensemble work. The characters are clear-cut and diverse, ranging from the sweetness of youthful romance to the bizarrely sociopathic. The final topping on this delicious flick was the credits rolling to a fabulous rendition of Simon and Garfunkel’s Baby Driver.

The driving scenes brought back memories, things done that I’d never tell my mom about, (like burying the needle on the Hollywood Freeway in the middle of the night in a Mustang, of course), and made me long for the days of the gearshift on the floor. So, if you have one, slide it into fourth and go see this film.

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Dedicated to Marlane Sturm

Tags

culture, customs, doctrine, dogma, Indian, Lakotah, Little Big Horn, Ministry, Missionary, Missions, Music, Muslim, Native American, religion, Sioux, spirituality

For almost twenty-six years, Marlane Sturm directed Music Ministry at Aldersgate UMC in Fort Wayne, IN. Music was not her only calling. She nurtured a fierce interest and commitment to Native Americans, especially the Sioux, and created the Bear Creek Mission. Her aim was to help. She understood their beliefs and culture. She never went to the reservation to preach, only to help, and in time, was given their trust and respect—not an easy achievement.

I only know bits and pieces of the indigenous peoples of the costal and southern US. Due to a character in one of my works, Jacob Sampson Williams, I had to research the plains tribes. Since there is so much written, and I wasn’t a scholar, I chose to use the perspective of the Northern Cheyenne.

John Stands in Timber, the late tribal historian for the Northern Cheyenne wrote Cheyenne Memories. His book became my source material for Jake, half Indian, whose mother was a German immigrant. In 1860, she travels west to help a relative and is nearly killed when pitched from a carriage during a prairie fire. She would have died, if not for Jake’s father, who finds her wandering in shock.

The Northern Cheyenne, at that time, had a different viewpoint when it came to crazy. We lock up, drug up, or shun people with mental issues. They considered them somewhat blessed, touched in the head by spirits, and therefore, were carefully treated. The camp accepted the woman who would become Jake’s mother as Human, one of the People.

Another profound difference between our belief systems is the Native American respect for Nature, their understanding that all things relate to all things. The world, its peoples, the stars and moon, everything is interconnected. Some plains tribes thought of farming the land as “cutting the Mother’s breast,” while Eastern tribes were wonderful farmers.

Two hundred years ago, our expansionism refused to accept that Indians had nations, spoke and believed differently, until they realized tribal feuds could be a useful tool. The battle at Greasy Grass (Little Big Horn) is quite different in Cheyenne Memories from the deification of Custer’s role. Industry and railroads owned the politicians and newspapers. It was essential to vilify anyone and anything seen as a barrier to expansion. The mutilations to dead soldiers at Greasy Grass was exploited in the press. The mutilations and horror of Sand Creek, where Black Kettle had been told to safely camp, then ruthlessly massacred, were far worse than Creasy Grass and included the women and children. Warriors had no respect for anyone who hurt the innocent and had long memories.

Unlike our culture, tribal leaders were chosen for their generosity, (often the poorest in camp due to giving away everything they owned), or for their spirituality and wisdom. All males fought, while the women and children hid. Some women stayed behind to fight, but children were cherished. To bombard a peaceful village was incomprehensible and profoundly evil to the People.

Why all the sad parts of history? The point is to illustrate the differences in cultures and how Marlane understood and demonstrated her awareness. We live in a world where strict adherence to religious dogma has created chaos and violence. I knew nothing about Muslims until one married into our family. He explained the kindness inherent in those who practice the Muslin faith with true dedication. I felt shame and despair that doctrine is used as a justification for hatred. I learned from his patience with my ignorance, discovered a need to study other religions, and have had my own faith enriched by the differences.

Marlane was graced with an understanding—the heart to know and live it. There are Lakotah who will never think of her as a waśicun but as wicaśa okinihan.

Enjoy your well-deserved retirement, Marlanie, but we will miss you.