My grandfather packed his tools into his canoe and outfitted himself to camp along side those trees for as long as it would take. After he got to the place and set up his camp, he examined each tree for rot, chose one and cut away the branches from the smoothest and most symmetrical part of the trunk. He carefully marked the trunk all around and used an ax, saw and wedge to remove a section that would make the body of the drum. Once he had that section, he rolled it to his camp, where he would hollow it out. He already had a pile of smooth rocks heating in a blaze and he kept that fire going, feeding it hotter and hotter until the rocks glowed red when he rolled them from the fire with a piece of ironwood. He used a pair of antlers to place each rock exactly where he wanted it - on the heart of the wood. The stone burned itself in, leaving a shallow, charred hole. Once the stone cooled he replaced it with another, and so it went, a tedious, exacting process. The time it took seemed endless but my grandfather needed that time now, because the drum could not be made with a wholly conscious plan. Parts of its making had to be dreamed.
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November 2017
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