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Brother laughed as we commiserated with me on the telephone about the freezing cold of the old farm house of our grandfather’s where we lived.
“Brother and I would huddle up in bed in that old feather mattress and keep warm enough to
sleep that way.” He chuckled again as if reliving the place in his mind’s memories as reverie
of unpolished wood floors, walls where wind blew through the cracks and the eternal, grabbing
winter cold where we could see our own breath within the inside of the house. The only warmth was, indeed, the heavy comforters stacked atop us as we sank into the feather bed. Summer days were but a memory of when Mother and Gramma sat over pieced together pieces of wool fabric
salvaged from cast off worn out winter coats. Any worn places were simply cut out and was the only thing wasted.
“Gramma Bell and her feather mattresses!” I too laughed. The memory of such hapless surroundings was as fresh in our minds as if it were yesterday instead of some 60 years ago.
“I used to hate the first getting into the thing. The cold of the fabric almost burned until the
warmth of my body began to let me relax and go to sleep.” I told my brother, and we both laughed together at the shared memory.
“It was cold as blue blazes in that farm house, but at least we had each other. The year I tried to
tough it out when I was a teenager by myself in the ranch house was much worse. I remember I
had a small heating pad and I kept moving it around on my body to warm a new spot. Those folks were too proud to use Gramma’s old feather beds, and their thin satin quilts weren’t much of a comfort for warmth. I was too broke to buy the expensive propane needed to usually warm that uninsulated barn of a house. Now that was pure misery. Finally, the neighbors took me in, but their house wasn’t much better. Cold! I’ve never been so cold.” Brother laughed at the memory and seemed to be glad that part of his life was over.
The visiting on the phone brought thoughts to my mind of that time and space, and I remembered how I became enthralled with Zane Grey’s writings. His books took me away from any and every circumstance in my world. Much of his writings appealed to me because of the western flair in them.
This morning as I took a minute to pull up some of his books I was shocked to see how much my own writing seemed to be trying to mirror his style. What a world it is. Sixty years ago and implanted in my mind so deeply was his work.
Here’s one of his quotes:
The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
“The Vanishing American,” was one of my favorite as was everyone else’s. It was considered the best of his writings:
It is the story of Nophaie, a young Navajo, who is picked up by a party of whites at the age of seven. White parents bring the child up as though he were their own, eventually sending him to a prestigious Eastern college where he distinguishes himself by his outstanding athletic skill. The Vanishing American is about Nophaie's struggle to find a place in society. On a larger scale it is about all Native Americans and their future in America.
Today, 60 years later, how much more I see these Vanishing Americans. For instance, and old friend derided me for not taking part in the traditions surrounding my brother’s death.
“This wasn’t our way,” I told him.
“Sure, it is. ‘Been that way ever since I can remember.” His retort was.
“It isn’t, I know it isn’t, we were born long after the missionaries came.” And, for the life of me,
this was the only thing I could think to say.
Recently an Osage friend shared with me a video the family had made of their elderly aunt. I was surprised to see the language was so much like our Ponca language, but the ultimate satisfaction were her words.
“Now a days, when someone dies they have these big feasts. We didn’t used to do that. We buried our folks right away by putting them on a high hill and stacking rocks around them. Then we fasted and prayed. There wasn’t anything like a feasting.”
“BINGO!” My slang riddled mind thought. “I knew it, I knew it!” I remembered going to the highest bluff in the area to view the graves of the last chief of the Osages, Chief Look Out and his wife, Julia Mongrain. The Jeep of my friend was at risk to traverse the steep incline.
“Who will know?” I wondered. The video is almost sacred to that family and I was only allowed to view it.
I was satisfied, though. The niggling little bother to my conscience for not taking part in all the wakes over a four day period was gone. Somehow, my grandmother must have implanted in my mind the truth and reality of our Ponca ways, and like Zane Grey’s wonderful novels the knowledge stuck, even though, las is The Vanishing American they are lost to us now.
“Brother and I would huddle up in bed in that old feather mattress and keep warm enough to
sleep that way.” He chuckled again as if reliving the place in his mind’s memories as reverie
of unpolished wood floors, walls where wind blew through the cracks and the eternal, grabbing
winter cold where we could see our own breath within the inside of the house. The only warmth was, indeed, the heavy comforters stacked atop us as we sank into the feather bed. Summer days were but a memory of when Mother and Gramma sat over pieced together pieces of wool fabric
salvaged from cast off worn out winter coats. Any worn places were simply cut out and was the only thing wasted.
“Gramma Bell and her feather mattresses!” I too laughed. The memory of such hapless surroundings was as fresh in our minds as if it were yesterday instead of some 60 years ago.
“I used to hate the first getting into the thing. The cold of the fabric almost burned until the
warmth of my body began to let me relax and go to sleep.” I told my brother, and we both laughed together at the shared memory.
“It was cold as blue blazes in that farm house, but at least we had each other. The year I tried to
tough it out when I was a teenager by myself in the ranch house was much worse. I remember I
had a small heating pad and I kept moving it around on my body to warm a new spot. Those folks were too proud to use Gramma’s old feather beds, and their thin satin quilts weren’t much of a comfort for warmth. I was too broke to buy the expensive propane needed to usually warm that uninsulated barn of a house. Now that was pure misery. Finally, the neighbors took me in, but their house wasn’t much better. Cold! I’ve never been so cold.” Brother laughed at the memory and seemed to be glad that part of his life was over.
The visiting on the phone brought thoughts to my mind of that time and space, and I remembered how I became enthralled with Zane Grey’s writings. His books took me away from any and every circumstance in my world. Much of his writings appealed to me because of the western flair in them.
This morning as I took a minute to pull up some of his books I was shocked to see how much my own writing seemed to be trying to mirror his style. What a world it is. Sixty years ago and implanted in my mind so deeply was his work.
Here’s one of his quotes:
The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
“The Vanishing American,” was one of my favorite as was everyone else’s. It was considered the best of his writings:
It is the story of Nophaie, a young Navajo, who is picked up by a party of whites at the age of seven. White parents bring the child up as though he were their own, eventually sending him to a prestigious Eastern college where he distinguishes himself by his outstanding athletic skill. The Vanishing American is about Nophaie's struggle to find a place in society. On a larger scale it is about all Native Americans and their future in America.
Today, 60 years later, how much more I see these Vanishing Americans. For instance, and old friend derided me for not taking part in the traditions surrounding my brother’s death.
“This wasn’t our way,” I told him.
“Sure, it is. ‘Been that way ever since I can remember.” His retort was.
“It isn’t, I know it isn’t, we were born long after the missionaries came.” And, for the life of me,
this was the only thing I could think to say.
Recently an Osage friend shared with me a video the family had made of their elderly aunt. I was surprised to see the language was so much like our Ponca language, but the ultimate satisfaction were her words.
“Now a days, when someone dies they have these big feasts. We didn’t used to do that. We buried our folks right away by putting them on a high hill and stacking rocks around them. Then we fasted and prayed. There wasn’t anything like a feasting.”
“BINGO!” My slang riddled mind thought. “I knew it, I knew it!” I remembered going to the highest bluff in the area to view the graves of the last chief of the Osages, Chief Look Out and his wife, Julia Mongrain. The Jeep of my friend was at risk to traverse the steep incline.
“Who will know?” I wondered. The video is almost sacred to that family and I was only allowed to view it.
I was satisfied, though. The niggling little bother to my conscience for not taking part in all the wakes over a four day period was gone. Somehow, my grandmother must have implanted in my mind the truth and reality of our Ponca ways, and like Zane Grey’s wonderful novels the knowledge stuck, even though, las is The Vanishing American they are lost to us now.