Every August, just downriver from the old mill towns and quiet farms of Franklin County, something extraordinary happens. The Pocumtuck Homelands Festival, held on the banks of the Quonektakut River (Connecticut River), brings together Indigenous artists, leaders, and community members for a weekend of storytelling, music, crafts, food, ceremony, and healing. I’ve attended several times, and each visit leaves me more moved than the last.
This year, I decided to write a song in honor of the festival—and of the people who make it possible. Pocumtuck Homelands is more than a tune. It’s a folk story, grounded in real names, real places, and a history that still echoes in the trees and water of Western Massachusetts.
The festival and the land
Organized by the Nolumbeka Project, the festival takes place near the site of Peskeompskut, a historical Native village near today’s Turners Falls. The area holds deep significance for Native communities, particularly in the wake of the 1676 massacre during King Philip’s War, when colonial militias killed hundreds of people as they slept. The scars of that violence remain. But so too does the determination to remember, to honor, and to rebuild.
Today, through events like this festival, you’ll find joy, pride, and fierce cultural resilience. Artisans line the banks of the river with handmade jewelry, drums, and carvings. You’ll hear traditional music, from Eastern Woodlands flute to contemporary powwow drumming. Elders share stories with children. Leaders speak openly about environmental protection, language preservation, and sacred land reclamation—especially the efforts to protect Wissatinnewag, a ceremonial landscape now threatened by development.
Why I wrote the song
I don’t have Native ancestry myself, so I approached this with care. My intent was not to speak for anyone, but to listen, absorb, and reflect. Over time, I’d read stories from the Nolumbeka Project and spoken to folks who live in the area. I watched a mishoon—a traditional dugout canoe—being carved and launched on the river. That image stayed with me: fire, smoke, ash, and the steady rhythm of creation.
So the song began there, with the mishoon, as a symbol of memory and motion. The first verse came quickly:
Mishoon carved from ancient wood, with flames and steady hand,
Paddlin’ through the waters of our sacred land.
From there, I wove in the festival’s details—real people, real roles. Jesse and Annawon, two respected community leaders and educators, appear by name. I mention the absence of plastic, the presence of healing, the stomp dance, the vendors, the children, the stories. This is all intentional. Folk music, for me, has always been a way to preserve and witness. If you’ve been following my work, you know I write a lot about place, labor, resistance, and continuity. This song fits that thread.
The process
Musically, I kept the structure simple: old-time rhythm guitar, a melody reminiscent of river songs and protest tunes. It’s sparse on purpose, to let the words lead. The verses came first, then the chorus—which had to be singable and strong:
Pocumtuck Homelands, sing it loud and true,
Native hearts a-beatin’, under skies so blue.
I wanted it to feel like something you could belt out at the campfire. The recording is raw—just me and a mic—but that’s how it should be. Folk songs aren’t supposed to sound polished. They’re supposed to sound lived-in.
All proceeds go to the Nolumbeka Project
This part is important: every dollar from this track goes to support the Nolumbeka Project. They’re working tirelessly to protect sacred sites like Wissatinnewag, to offer educational programming, and to hold space for intergenerational cultural healing. If you believe in any of that, even if you’ve never attended the festival, I hope you’ll consider supporting.
🎧 Listen to the song here
🌿 Learn more about the Nolumbeka Project
Thanks for listening—and reading.
—Adam Sweet
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