Every spring when the salmon run, the town packs up and heads upriver to fish camp where they catch and dry salmon for winter. If there is sufficient snow and rain, meat and berries come in plenty. This year there are worry lines in their faces at the potluck. The snowfall has been too low. There is a strict order in the food line.
Elders go first, then guests, then men, then women, finally children.
I worry the children will be left hungry, but the loaves and fishes prevail and somehow everyone gets something to eat. Not much, but something. The people want the old ways preserved. The young are taught the dances both at home and at school. They are willing to dance for me and once over their self-consciousness, throw themselves into it.