Archives for posts with tag: repatriate native american artifacts

This is about returning a family heirloom, an artifact from Little Big Horn, to the Oglala Sioux.

7/3/11

To The Descendants

Northern Plains Indian War Club
War Club From Little Big Horn

One of the reasons we are going out west is to hand over to its rightful owners an Indian war club.  It has been in my family’s possession for a few generations.  I first remember holding it as a young child – a long, leather-wrapped handle attached to a smooth, sharply oval white stone about 7 inches wide.  As I thwacked into my palm, it had a spring to it, and I could easily imagine its power as a weapon.  The story from my father was that it came from his grandfather who was a surveyor for a while.  He worked on a job at Little Big Horn, where he found the club.  A lot of family information is unreliable, but I know that it’s possible that the story is true.  As I learned about the battle and the history of the Native Americans, the artifact’s beauty became even more powerful, and it seemed strange to me that it was in our hands.  A few years before he died, my father asked me if I would like to have it, and I said yes, very much.  It was a true treasure.  But it was also a story that begged resolution.  When I told him that I would like to give it back to the Indians, he said that I would have to wait to do that.  After he died, his wife gave it to me.

It’s been a meaningful experience for me to hold it over the years, to gradually connect to the people who made it long ago, and to realize that there are people alive now for whom the club is a family heirloom with a deep and important history.  The Northern Plains tribes fought long and valiantly to hold on to their homeland and way of life. This may be one of the weapons used in a rare and great victory.  It was at the Battle of Little Big Horn that they defeated an enemy hell-bent on wiping them out – Custer and the U.S. Cavalry.  For the sons and daughters of its makers this club may be an inspiring reminder of their tribes’ fierce resistance to injustice and annihilation.

This trip started as a longing to return to Montana where my mother’s father had a ranch, but I soon realized that going to that area would bring me very close to Little Big Horn.  I could personally hand the club over to its rightful heirs.  We took pictures of it and tried contacting the Peabody Museum at Harvard, aware that they had organized a massive repatriation of artifacts from their collection to some western tribes.  No reponse.  We started doing our own research.  Looking on line, it was evident that the club could have been made a number of tribes – Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho – who were present at the battle.  We decided to contact tribal representatives ourselves. We have contacted a tribal representative of the Oglala Sioux and hope to set up the return.

7/12/11

Pine Ridge Reservation, The Home of the Oglala Lakota of the Sioux Nation

Pine Ridge Reservation, The Oglala Lakota Sioux

Pine Ridge Reservation, The Oglala Lakota Sioux

After an early morning walk out into the sere landscape of the Badlands, we started our drive to the visitors’ center at White River on the Pine Ridge Reservation to begin the process of handing over the War Club.  It was a small building with a tepee set up outside, and the flag of the Lakota Oglala Sioux Nation flew overhead.  To the attending ranger inside I explained what I had – the War Club from the battle of Little Big Horn (the Greasy Grass), and asked where we should take it.  The ranger, Sally O’Rourke, directed me to another ranger, M. J. Bull Bear, explaining that he was the son of a chief, and that they were officials of the tribe, with connections to the Oglala College and Heritage Center.  We brought it into their office, where they had carefully cleared one of the desks and brought out latex gloves in order to handle it.  A third ranger joined us while Mr. Bull Bear opened the box and lifted it out.  One of them noted that the stone was most likely Black Hills Alabaster.  I was quietly brimming over with emotion.  This was a treasured piece of identification that may link the club more certainly to the area tribes.  The rangers were very quiet, very curious, respectful.  As they looked it over, one chuckled, asking if there was any blood on it.  There was a small terra cotta colored line on it – they said it might be iron oxide, which had been used for paint back in the day.

The skull cracker: Black Hills Alabaster, with a smudge of red

The skull cracker: Black Hills Alabaster, with a smudge of red

They asked me to write a brief explanation of what I knew about it – my great-grandfather found it while on a surveying job on the Little Big Horn battleground; it must have been sometime around 1885; it stayed with our family until I inherited it; and here it is, offered humbly to its rightful owners.  We printed it out, and they asked me to sign it, which I did.

Sally O’Rourke spoke movingly of how rare it is, to get something back like this.  She described a recent Pow Wow where a descendant of one of the U.S. cavalry survivors of Little Big Horn presented the assembly with the medals the army had awarded his ancestor for that battle, saying that those medals weren’t deserved.  M. J. said that since the the repatriation act, many objects have trickled in and are now on display at the college and used to educate tribespeople and the general public about native history and culture.  I was very glad that we’d brought the War Club here.

I told them that the club had been very important to me, as I learned more about it, about the culture of the Indians, and the their battle for survival.   Sally said it was an odd feeling, to have this come back.  She welled up, as did I.  We took pictures and traded contact information.

The War Club comes home.

The War Club comes home.

Mark and I walked out of the office to look around and when we came back M.J. was holding the club like a baby, a living and fragile thing, as Sally was wreathing it with the smoke of some sage smoldering in a shallow stone bowl.  She approached us as we stood in the doorway and fanned smoke around us, too.  They said they were smudging the club.  Its owner was a spirit, and he had been looking for it.  They were purifying it for him.  They purified all of us there.

They wondered if my great grandfather had been a surveyor for the railroad.  They showed us an 1890 map of the Pine Ridge and Rosebud area produced by the Army Corps of Engineers which showed the F E and M Y RR snaking up around the Little Big Horn.  I’ll do some more research on my ancestor with that in mind.  He might have been in the army corps of engineers, for all I know.  The rangers said that so many German and Irish  immigrants joined the army to get a leg up in those days – not so different from many families now.  On my father’s side, my ancestors came over in that same wave, from Denmark and Britain, and spent some years on the northern plains.

The third ranger gave us a lot of very interesting information as he showed us around the many photos and displays .  We saw pictures of many of the men we have read and heard about, including Sitting Bull and Spotted Eagle.  There are no photos of Crazy Horse – just vivid stories of his brilliant leadership, tactical and moral.  He never signed a treaty with the U.S.  A treaty stems from a mutual recognition of conflicting rights.  There was no conflict in Crazy Horse’s mind.  The Indians’ territory was theirs, always had been and always will be.  The U.S. army lured him to one of their forts under the pretext of talks, a truce, and stabbed him in the back.  He was dead at age 30.  The ranger said that the Sioux were the only nation that ever defeated the U.S.  Crazy Horse and the northern plains nations were formidable warriors.

As they talked, the theme of betrayals and hostility as a matter of United States policy sounded again and again – the  annihilation of the buffalo, the Sioux economic base; Sioux couldn’t vote and their religion was illegal until very recently; and alcohol, brought in by whites, demoralized, destabilized and shredded the social fiber.

Just before we left, M.J. said good bye and walked out, gingerly carrying the club, repacked and sealed up.  Sally recommended a good route through the rez.  The other ranger pointed to the map and said, “That road is holy.”  He looked slyly at me.  “Full of holes.”  Since we were continuing down to Wounded Knee, Sally suggested that we stop in for lunch at Bette’s Kitchen.  She told us that Bette operated a nice lunch place.  And that she was Black Elk’s great-granddaughter.

Bette's Kitchen

Bette’s Kitchen

Bette’s place was perched on a grassy hill with a big kitchen garden and tables under pine-bough covered arbor.

Mark peruses the menu at Bette’s Kitchen

It was hot, so she had us come inside to have our meal of buffalo burgers and fries – delicious.

Tasty buffalo burger and fries

Tasty buffalo burger and fries

Her youthful grandson graciously waited on us, and Bette came over mid-way through to have us sign her guest book.  A dozen or more people had signed just the day before.  She makes very good food and does a good business.  She was a slight, elderly woman with a long and narrow face.  Her hair was curled and long.

All over the walls, were family pictures, many in traditional dress, many on horseback, many in military uniform.  On a little table to the side was a collection of books about Black Elk.

Bette’s walls were covered with family photos

As we finished our burgers, Bette came over and gave us some fresh carrot cake, on the house.  It was high and tender, not too sweet, with a strong taste of clove.  Again, very nice.

While we were there a young woman came in, chatting with the family as her children played outside.  She and the little ones spoke what I assume was Lakota. The children’s faces were as broad as little moons.  We glimpsed her again a couple of days later at the trail head at Harney Peak in the Black Hills, the sacred center of the Lakota universe, where Black Elk had his life-changing vision.

We went on to Wounded Knee – let the pictures suffice for an incredibly moving experience –

Mark at the Wounded Knee Massacre Memorial

Mark at the Wounded Knee Massacre Memorial

Offerings to the dead of Wounded Knee

Offerings to the dead of Wounded Knee

Leonard Peletier, Imprisoned Hero of Pine Ridge

“War Hero” – Leonard Peletier, Imprisoned Hero of Pine Ridge

You will never be forgotten

“You will never be forgotten”

As we drove back a huge cloud mounted up ahead of us in the otherwise crystal blue sky.  We could see the dark sheet of rain beneath it.  When we got back, the wind had dragged kettles off the table, and even turned our stove sideways.  Still, in the distance, stood the magnificent cloud, glowing more and more in the evening light.  I couldn’t help but think of another time a cloud like that presented itself.  We were at Black Lake in our kayaks, watching the eastern sky.  There it was, a monumental cloud reflecting the intensifying light from the west.  It really struck a deep chord.  I remember saying to Mark that it made me think of gratitude – how it wells up inside, and is really a reflection of somebody else’s light.  A couple of days later, I got word that my father was dying.  I spoke of that bright cloud, that gratitude at his funeral.  As I watched that cloud after our day in Pine Ridge, I thought again of gratitude.

I am thankful for the turn of events that brought me to this point, and honored to be the one to carry out a simple return of a simple, yet very important object.  It was a very big wheel that had to turn to get to this point, and I think many people helped to turn it.  I thank the Oglala Sioux for their continuous struggle for the dignity of human beings who live on, and of this earth.  I may live a very different life, but I am certain that their well-being is fundamental to mine.  I am deeply grateful to them.

The cloud appeared as we left the rez

The cloud appeared as we left the rez

The Cloud lit from within

The Cloud lit from within

That night the wind blew so hard that the tent was almost flat on top of us.  In the distance I saw the cloud, still in the same place, lightening flashing unceasingly beneath it.  It didn’t rain.  Black Elk described the Thunder Beings visiting him when he finally carried out his vision, enacting it with his tribe.  The cloud visited him with lightening and a great, purifying wind.  He wasn’t afraid of the cloud anymore.

The rangers said they would let us know what happens with the club, and we said that we’d send the pictures, and whatever else we learn about how it was found.  After spending a couple of wondrous days in the Black Hills – I’ll write about that later – we visited the Little Big Horn Battlefield.  There, in a display case in the visitors’ center was a war club, the twin of the one I had just brought back:

As we drove toward Wounded Knee, I realized with a clear jolt something should have been plain all along:  I gave them back their war club.  I want them to keep fighting.  However they choose to do it,  I want them to stay strong and keep going.  For our human dignity.

Sioux horses at Pine Ridge Reservation

Sioux horses at Pine Ridge Reservation

Next Up:  The Black Hills, The Center of the World

Save

Into the West

Crossing the Mississippi at La Crosse, Wisconsin was a many-channeled affair.  On the western shore the terrain changed from an even, rolling rhythm to steeper hills – obviously cut by water seeking the big river.  We climbed and climbed through out the day, through vast fields planted with corn.  We crossed the Missouri and suddenly the landscape changed again.  We were in very hilly country, not so easy to farm, that slowly yielded to grasslands with clusters of cattle – cows, longhorns, and even some bison.  We started reading Black Elk Speaks aloud to each other as we drove into the Great Plains.  By the end of this second day of driving, starting from the saturated green of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, we arrived, 900 miles on, in Buffalo Gap, north of the Pine Ridge Reservation.  The furrows of cultivated fields gave way to prairie grasses that grew high and wild.  Vistas stretched out for 50 miles. We approached the other-worldly Badlands.  The skies were clear, heat was intense, and we were entering the storied territory from whence the war club came.

Buffalo Gap - Where The Grasslands Meet the Badlands

Buffalo Gap – Where The Grasslands Meet the Badlands

After securing a tent site in the camp ground,  we crossed the park on our way to Wall for groceries.  More stopping than going, we turned out onto one overlook after another with sweeping views of rock spires and turrets  that cut through the thick green of the prairie.   Like the Pictured Rocks, this is a place where very different elements meet – the prairie and the sere and barren hills.  The scale is breath-taking, and I struggle with my little camera, trying to capture a sense of being in something so big, a sensation so complete.  By the end of the day I thought, as I did paddling along the cliffs on Lake Superior, that it’s better just to be in it, to soak it in.

On an amble off the road...

On an amble off the road…

Imagine endless birdsongs and the gentle jingle of crickets that rise off the grasses, sounds that tell of unfettered life in a world that goes on and on.  The wind is fresh and always playing with the grasses and my hair.  Looking close at the prairie floor, there are prickly pear cacti and small sunflowers, along with the big spheres of dandelions gone to seed.  This morning a donkey brays far off.

Imagine the crickets and the swallows' songs


July 8, 2011

We got out early to beat the heat for our hike through the sharp rock spires and low prairie grasses on a trail called Castle.  Labyrinths of towers and gullies – it reminded me of a miniature Grand Canyon, a teaching model of how erosion works.  There were the sunflowers and prickly pears in bloom, and we walked out just as the heat was forcing the sweat out of us.

Giant Mark in a minicanyon

We tiptoed across the fragile dried mud in the mounting heat.

We tiptoed across the fragile dried mud in the mounting heat.

Pine Ridge Reservation, The Home of the Oglala Lakota of the Sioux Nation

Pine Ridge Reservation, The Oglala Lakota Sioux

Pine Ridge Reservation, The Oglala Lakota Sioux

We walked out and started our drive to the visitors’ center at White River on the Pine Ridge Reservation to begin the process of handing over the War Club.  It was a small building with a tepee set up outside, and the flag of the Lakota Oglala Sioux Nation flew overhead.  To the attending ranger inside I explained what I had – the War Club from the battle of Little Big Horn (the Greasy Grass), and asked where we should take it.  The ranger, Sally O’Rourke, directed me to another ranger, M. J. Bull Bear, explaining that he was the son of a chief, and that they were officials of the tribe, with connections to the Oglala College and Heritage Center.  We brought it into their office, where they had carefully cleared one of the desks and brought out latex gloves in order to handle it.  A third ranger joined us while Mr. Bull Bear opened the box and lifted it out.  One of them noted that the stone was most likely Black Hills Alabaster.  I was quietly brimming over with emotion.  This was a treasured piece of identification that may link the club more certainly to the area tribes.  The rangers were very quiet, very curious, respectful.  As they looked it over, one chuckled, asking if there was any blood on it.  There was a small terra cotta colored line on it – they said it might be iron oxide, which had been used for paint back in the day.

The skull cracker:  Black Hills Alabaster, with a smudge of red

The skull cracker: Black Hills Alabaster, with a smudge of red

They asked me to write a brief explanation of what I knew about it – my great-grandfather found it while on a surveying job on the Little Big Horn battleground; it must have been sometime around 1885; it stayed with our family until I inherited it; and here it is, offered humbly to its rightful owners.  We printed it out, and they asked me to sign it, which I did.

Sally O’Rourke spoke movingly of how rare it is, to get something back like this.  She described a recent Pow Wow where a descendant of one of the U.S. cavalry survivors of Little Big Horn presented the assembly with the medals the army had awarded his ancestor for that battle, saying that those medals weren’t deserved.  M. J. said that since the the repatriation act, many objects have trickled in and are now on display at the college and used to educate tribespeople and the general public about native history and culture.  I was very glad that we’d brought the War Club here.

I told them that the club had been very important to me, as I learned more about it, about the culture of the Indians, and the their battle for survival.   Sally said it was an odd feeling, to have this come back.  She welled up, as did I.  We took pictures and traded contact information.

The War Club comes home.

The War Club comes home.

Mark and I walked out of the office to look around and when we came back M.J. was holding the club like a baby, a living and fragile thing, as Sally was wreathing it with the smoke of some sage smoldering in a shallow stone bowl.  She approached us as we stood in the doorway and fanned smoke around us, too.  They said they were smudging the club.  Its owner was a spirit, and he had been looking for it.  They were purifying it for him.  They purified all of us there.

They wondered if my great grandfather had been a surveyor for the railroad.  They showed us an 1890 map of the Pine Ridge and Rosebud area produced by the Army Corps of Engineers which showed the F E and M Y RR snaking up around the Little Big Horn.  I’ll do some more research on my ancestor with that in mind.  He might have been in the army corps of engineers, for all I know.  The rangers said that so many German and Irish  immigrants joined the army to get a leg up in those days – not so different from many families now.  On my father’s side, my ancestors came over in that same wave, from Denmark and Britain, and spent some years on the northern plains.

The third ranger gave us a lot of very interesting information as he showed us around the many photos and displays .  We saw pictures of many of the men we have read and heard about, including Sitting Bull and Spotted Eagle.  There are no photos of Crazy Horse – just vivid stories of his brilliant leadership, tactical and moral.  He never signed a treaty with the U.S.  A treaty stems from a mutual recognition of conflicting rights.  There was no conflict in Crazy Horse’s mind.  The Indians’ territory was theirs, always had been and always will be.  The U.S. army lured him to one of their forts under the pretext of talks, a truce, and stabbed him in the back.  He was dead at age 30.  The ranger said that the Sioux were the only nation that ever defeated the U.S.  Crazy Horse and the northern plains nations were formidable warriors.

As they talked, the theme of betrayals and hostility as a matter of United States policy sounded again and again – the  annihilation of the buffalo, the Sioux economic base; Sioux couldn’t vote and their religion was illegal until very recently; and alcohol, brought in by whites, demoralized, destabilized and shredded the social fiber.

Just before we left, M.J. said good bye and walked out, gingerly carrying the club, repacked and sealed up.  Sally recommended a good route through the rez.  The other ranger pointed to the map and said, “That road is holy.”  He looked slyly at me.  “Full of holes.”  Since we were continuing down to Wounded Knee, Sally suggested that we stop in for lunch at Bette’s Kitchen.  She told us that Bette operated a nice lunch place.  And that she was Black Elk’s great-granddaughter.

Bette's Kitchen

Bette’s Kitchen

Bette’s place was perched on a grassy hill with a big kitchen garden and tables under pine-bough covered arbor.

In Bette's place

In Bette’s place

It was hot, so she had us come inside to have our meal of buffalo burgers and fries – delicious.

Tasty buffalo burger and fries

Tasty buffalo burger and fries

Her youthful grandson graciously waited on us, and Bette came over mid-way through to have us sign her guest book.  A dozen or more people had signed just the day before.  She makes very good food and does a good business.  She was a slight, elderly woman with a long and narrow face.  Her hair was curled and long.

All over the walls, were family pictures, many in traditional dress, many on horseback, many in military uniform.  On a little table to the side was a collection of books about Black Elk.  As we finished our burgers, Bette came over and gave us some fresh carrot cake, on the house.  It was high and tender, not too sweet, with a strong taste of clove.  Again, very nice.

Generations of family

Generations of family

While we were there a young woman came in, chatting with the family as her children played outside.  She and the little ones spoke what I assume was Lakota. The children’s faces were as broad as little moons.  We glimpsed her again a couple of days later at the trail head at Harney Peak in the Black Hills, the sacred center of the Lakota universe, where Black Elk had his life-changing vision.

We went on to Wounded Knee – let the pictures suffice for an incredibly moving experience –

Mark at the Wounded Knee Massacre Memorial

Mark at the Wounded Knee Massacre Memorial

Offerings to the dead of Wounded Knee

Offerings to the dead of Wounded Knee

Leonard Peletier, Imprisoned Hero of Pine Ridge

“War Hero” – Leonard Peletier, Imprisoned Hero of Pine Ridge

You will never be forgotten

“You will never be forgotten”

As we drove back a huge cloud mounted up ahead of us in the otherwise crystal blue sky.  We could see the dark sheet of rain beneath it.  When we got back, the wind had dragged kettles off the table, and even turned our stove sideways.  Still, in the distance, stood the magnificent cloud, glowing more and more in the evening light.  I couldn’t help but think of another time a cloud like that presented itself.  We were at Black Lake in our kayaks, watching the eastern sky.  There it was, a monumental cloud reflecting the intensifying light from the west.  It really struck a deep chord.  I remember saying to Mark that it made me think of gratitude – how it wells up inside, and is really a reflection of somebody else’s light.  A couple of days later, I got word that my father was dying.  I spoke of that bright cloud, that gratitude at his funeral.  As I watched that cloud after our day in Pine Ridge, I thought again of gratitude.

I am thankful for the turn of events that brought me to this point, and honored to be the one to carry out a simple return of a simple, yet very important object.  It was a very big wheel that had to turn to get to this point, and I think many people helped to turn it.  I thank the Oglala Sioux for their continuous struggle for the dignity of human beings who live on, and of this earth.  I may live a very different life, but I am certain that their well-being is fundamental to mine.  I am deeply grateful to them.

The cloud appeared as we left the rez

The cloud appeared as we left the rez

The Cloud lit from within

The Cloud lit from within

That night the wind blew so hard that the tent was almost flat on top of us.  In the distance I saw the cloud, still in the same place, lightening flashing unceasingly beneath it.  It didn’t rain.  Black Elk described the Thunder Beings visiting him when he finally carried out his vision, enacting it with his tribe.  The cloud visited him with lightening and a great, purifying wind.  He wasn’t afraid of the cloud anymore.

The rangers said they would let us know what happens with the club, and we said that we’d send the pictures, and whatever else we learn about how it was found.  After spending a couple of wondrous days in the Black Hills – I’ll write about that later – we visited the Little Big Horn Battlefield.  There, in a display case in the visitors’ center was a war club, the twin of the one I had just brought back:

As we drove toward Wounded Knee, I realized with a clear jolt something should have been plain all along:  I gave them back their war club.  I want them to keep fighting.  However they choose to do it,  I want them to stay strong and keep going.  For our human dignity.

Sioux horses at Pine Ridge Reservation

Sioux horses at Pine Ridge Reservation

Next Up:  The Black Hills, The Center of the World

The Far End Of Lonesome Bay

The Far End Of Lonesome Bay

We left Monday morning June 27th at 6:50 am, ten minutes earlier than we thought we would.  Since I left work a week ago last Friday, spent every day preparing, it only made sense that we managed to leave a little early.  We decided to take a different route to Black Lake – our family’s cabin in St. Lawrence County, New York.  Instead of our usual 8.5 hour trek that takes us through the beautiful Adirondack Park, we opted to take Rt 90 west of the park, and go via 81 north past Watertown to Teresa.

A warp in the time-space contiuum

But, I thought we just left there...

Strangely, 5 hours into the trip, we found ominous signs that we hadn’t actually gone very far.

We were pleasantly surprised.   Even with an apparent loop back to Central Square north of Syracuse, the total time was a full 1.5 hours less. So much for 25 years of going the same old way.

Coming in to Edwardsville we were shocked to find that our favorite groceries-and-bait store was boarded up.  Hard times hit this poor county, the poorest in New York state, especially hard, I guess.

A sign of hard times

Good-bye to our favorite bait and everything else store.

We pressed on, found some milk, water, ground beef, bread, chips and beer.  With dinner in hand we headed to our beloved lakeside shack.

Black Lake Cottage

The Breneman Place, Black Lake

What you see is what you get...

Inside the cottage: What you see is what you get...

Emerald Green

 The lake is brimming full.  Everywhere we see the evidence of the previous spring’s high water marks:  rocks tumbled around at the bottom of our stairs to the water, an old torn shirt washed up and tangled in the tree roots four feet up the bank, our neighbor’s dock busted up.  There are traces of freshwater weeds, stuck in reeds and grasses a foot above the water level.  The lake usually recedes fast around the solstice.  Not this time.

Black Creek

Just Another Northern New York Swamp

We opened the cabin and took the kayaks out first thing, paddling up and down the shore, soaking in the emerald green life.  Mark spotted a thirty-plus inch fish swimming past him.  Two loons glided by on the water, and a pair of osprey soared above calling to each other.  An American kingfisher scalloped along at the shore.  All was right with the world.

The Fashion Column

Stink Shirts

At this early point in our travels we operate on a triage of dirt.  We have our “town” or “car” wear – shorts, shirts and shoes that don’t smell, look ok, which we wear over actual clean underwear.  Then there is the set of  “bed clothes” that are only for between the sheets, and are exactly as clean as the sheets.  Finally, what you will be seeing in most of the pictures of us, are the “stink shirts” and “garbage pants”, worn over marginally hygienic underwear.  As the weeks go on, the hierarchy will decompose, and everything will end up being dirt shirts and stinky pants.  Then we will go to a Laundromat.

Stinky Twinsets

On Sale! And Matching!

Sartorial Trouble

I have been very aware lately of the pitfalls of long-time couples.  Most frightening, maybe, is the dressing-alike syndrome (“These hats were on sale!” or “Black polar fleece has great solar gain.”).  Older couples, especially, think they are very smart, and the coziness of their relationship often reinforces and inflates the value of their discoveries and tastes to the point of obnoxious smugness.

Ouch.

Music notes:

Mark brought his guitar.  Can I persuade him to learn “I Won’t Back Down” so I can sing it at the campfire?  Question #2:  Will I sound like Johnny Cash?

Thinking of Josna and her wonderful tunely posts, I thought I should document our ipod output, day 1:

  • We started with The Pastoral by Beethoven, then went right into “Burnin’ Hell” by John Lee Hooker.  Do you see the sense in that?  Because I couldn’t really tell you.
  • “Route 66” did get played, the ever-elegant Nat King Cole doing the honors.
  • We listened to all of Tuku Music, by Oliver Mtukudsi.
  • Parliament got in there today with one of my euphoric faves, “I Just Got Back (From The Fantasy, Ahead Of Our Time In The Four Lands Of Ellet)”.  So, what else could I do but go on to Stevie Wonder (“you are the sunshine of my life”), and Gregory Isaacs’s perfect version of “(Why Can’t We Be) Like Storybook Children”.

Later, on the way across Ontario, the beautiful, high lake-y farmland, I played Neil Young, starting with “Helpless”.

To The Descendants

Northern Plains Indian War Club

War Club From Little Big Horn

One of the reasons we are going out west is to hand over to its rightful owners an Indian war club.  It has been in my family’s possession for a few generations.  I first remember holding it as a young child – a long, leather-wrapped handle attached to a smooth, sharply oval white stone about 7 inches wide.  I was awed by it then, and always have been.  The story from my father was that it came from his grandfather who was a surveyor for a while.  He worked on a job at Little Big Horn, where he found the club.  A lot of family information is unreliable, but I know that it’s possible that the story is true.  As I learned about the battle and the history of the Native Americans, the artifact’s beauty became even more powerful, and it seemed strange to me that it was in our hands.  A few years before he died, my father asked me if I would like to have it, and I said yes, very much.  It was a true treasure.  But it was also a story that begged resolution.  When I told him that I would like to give it back to the Indians, he said that I would have to wait to do that.  After he died, his wife gave it to me.

It’s been a meaningful experience for me to hold it over the years, to gradually connect to the people who made it long ago, and to realize that there are people alive now for whom the club is a family heirloom with a deep and important history.  The Northern Plains tribes fought long and valiantly to hold on to their homeland and way of life. This may be one of the weapons used in a rare and great victory.  It was at the Battle of Little Big Horn that they defeated an enemy hell-bent on wiping them out – Custer and the U.S. Cavalry.  For the sons and daughters of its makers this club may be an inspiring reminder of their tribes’ fierce resistance to injustice and annihilation.

This trip started as a longing to return to Montana where my mother’s father had a ranch, but I soon realized that going to that area would bring me very close to Little Big Horn.  I could personally hand the club over to its rightful heirs.  We took pictures of it and tried contacting the Peabody Museum at Harvard, aware that they had organized a massive repatriation of artifacts from their collection to some western tribes.  No reponse.  We started doing our own research.  Looking on line, it was evident that the club could have been made a number of tribes – Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho – who were present at the battle.  We decided to contact tribal representatives ourselves. We have contacted a tribal representative of the Oglala Sioux and hope to set up the return.

For My Food-Loving Friends

You know who you are.  How I wish you had been beside me as I picked out four quarts of small, dark red strawberries from the makeshift stand set up by an Amishman in front of his buggy in the parking lot of the big grocery store in Ogdensburg.  Two dollars a box.  The man peeled off the change in ones from a fat wad, counting them out with thick fingers, dirt in every tiny crease.  I tasted one as we got into the car, and was instantly disappointed:  they weren’t as sweet as I’d hoped, and were quite watery.  The lake is full, the puddles on the dirt road are deep, and I guess the rain came down hard on the man’s farm, too.Strawberries From St. Lawrence County

This is strawberry season in St Lawrence County and there are many Amish farms selling their crop.  We’ve been coming up here around the solstice for the past few years – the lake is clearer, there are not quite so many partiers on the weekends, and, we discovered, the strawberries and raspberries are in.   We look forward to going to up to the high back road where my friend Fanny Miller has a farm.  She always has a herd of children around, no doubt from nearby farms as well as hers, who do chores, including picking berries there.  Those are the barefoot Amish children who pick the berries for my pies.

On The Amish Road, DePeyster - The Miller Farm

A couple of years ago I documented my strawberry pie-making efforts.  Instead of the methods of my temperament – eye-balling, tasting, and otherwise feeling my way around the measurements – I was more scientific.  I measured what I did, and kept track of the results of changing variables.  I did come up with some useful knowledge, which I incorporated into my seat-of-the-pants technique.

So with my watery berries, I decided to add a little more sugar, to bring up the flavor.  I started the filling by simmering 2 quarts of berries with about ¾ cup of sugar.  Sure enough, the berries yielded much more juice than usual.  I simmered them for longer, letting them boil down a little.  There were islands of pink foam on top that reminded me of Tolstoy’s description in Anna Karenina of Kitty and the women and children making berry jam outside on the farm – big cauldrons set up  and the little ones eager for the sweet and tart foam.  The juice wasn’t bad, and I could taste the field they grew in a little better.  I turned out the crust, and while it baked, I put in another quart of berries, to give the filling some texture and intensity of the less cooked fruit.  I added cornstarch – again, more than usual to compensate for the volume of juice.  The flavor at that point was slightly metallic, but earthy.  The pie turned out with lots of flavor around the edges, but missing the middle.  I think the rain came and put the bum’s rush on the berries.  They didn’t have the chance to pull in all the nice, happy flavor from the dirt and translate it to strawberry-ness.

The kitchen itself is a cook.  Lake water, mice, old plastic tubs and aluminum measuring cups, spider webs, and years of garlic imbue the surfaces here.  The lingering flavor is sometimes a good thing, sometimes not at all.  It’s good to remember that this kitchen, on the cutting edge of funk and all that implies, has yielded up some amazing food, with its mystery ingredients and soulful locale.

Six Little Girls

I am thinking of my littlest friends today, and missing them very much.  Love you and your families, and my dear co-teachers.

Six Little Girls, Three Loving Women

Six Little Girls, Three Loving Women

Some photos from my trip out to the Miller farm:

Amish Clothesline

Amish Clothesline, Edwardsville, NY

Amish wardrobe

Amish wardrobe