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“Key wash’ Ghah, Do the best you can,” were some of the last words Florence
Calls Him, Cole spoke to her daughter before she breathed her last breath on February 7, 2011.
And so is the beauty of the Native American woman. Florence was one of those of our tribe who was of the vanishing elders. Loyalty to loved ones seems to be becoming lost in the winds of change as the dominant society pushes their values upon us.
Nevertheless, Florence’s daughter held strong and steady through her mother’s last days. Thankfully Hospice, an organization dedicated to the care of the terminally ill, steps across borders and supports those who wish to care for their own.
“I became the mother, and she was my child,” her daughter spoke as she was finishing her caretaker’s role.
We, as a family, can’t be sad, totally. Florence was fun loving and loved life. She dealt with every problem to come upon her great family with such a drive to maintain the ways of the ancestors she held dear. The wrath of hell could certainly come down on anyone who slighted one of her own.
If there was revenue to the tribe she certainly would not let anyone pass her own up on that.
As the descendant of Chief Yellow Berry she knew her rights.
“You better give it to them, or you will have to deal with Florence,” could be heard in ripples of admonishment as the words echoed from one council member to another.”
As the way of our folks she knew the social established practiced habits and customs to keep a peaceful society. As intricate but strong as lace these ways she practiced as skillfully as any dancer knows the choreographed sequence to perform.
It is the custom for sister-in-laws to engage in playful, yet pointed jesting. A stranger might not understand the friendly insults they exchange, but one of their own thoroughly enjoys the interchange.
“Sister! Did someone tear up your blouse?” Florence was heard to say on observing the cut out places on the arms going to style.
“Well, at least I tried to be in style.” The retort would come with innuendo that maybe Florence wasn’t! And, on and on it went with happy exchanges between the sister-in-laws so that any rivalry was blatantly out in the open for everyone to enjoy. This was so of the younger women. The eldest, in this case, myself, was kindly excused from the insults in a way of respect.
I knew the struggle to go through death was upon the family because the daughter came to my sister. I waited a few days and called.
“Let me help you, with anything.” I told her. “And please tell your Mother I called?”
Only a few days later Florence was gone. In my mind I felt honored. She seemed to be waiting for permission to leave from the elder sister. So is the strength of our vanishing culture, and how I do miss the old ones, especially as I go to the role of the eldest. I, who
do not know but of a few ways of our lost peaceful society. They wound every fiber of fabric and material of life with the strong ways of peace so cleverly manipulated.
Not to say any dare step into their domain without knowing about the fierce protective ways that could be suddenly upon them.
Florence’s husband, Gilbert Cole, my brother, our way because our grandmother’s were sisters, another peaceful key to the genetic engineering of strong people with no intermarriage even down to the last descendant as far as relatives go. He spoke at our aunt’s funeral, who was up to the top as far as her new Christian custom went.
She has requested, “no give-a-way. There usually is material to give away at this time, but my sister requested this not happen.”
Brother Gilbert seemed to be apologizing for this dropping of an important symbol for not putting material things ahead of life.
So it was, I carefully wrapped up some of the nicest pieces of fabric I had and took them to Florence’s daughter for the “give-a-way,” at the funeral, Thursday. The feast will be held at the Cultural Center, probably, because of inclement weather.
I may not be able to take Rhonda out into that, which is okay. The ancient ways were of abstinence, fasting and prayer, which itself has been pushed aside for the conqueror's European ways of feasting at the time of death. I think the Ponca oldest of customs were better. Who wants to eat when your heart is heavy.
Calls Him, Cole spoke to her daughter before she breathed her last breath on February 7, 2011.
And so is the beauty of the Native American woman. Florence was one of those of our tribe who was of the vanishing elders. Loyalty to loved ones seems to be becoming lost in the winds of change as the dominant society pushes their values upon us.
Nevertheless, Florence’s daughter held strong and steady through her mother’s last days. Thankfully Hospice, an organization dedicated to the care of the terminally ill, steps across borders and supports those who wish to care for their own.
“I became the mother, and she was my child,” her daughter spoke as she was finishing her caretaker’s role.
We, as a family, can’t be sad, totally. Florence was fun loving and loved life. She dealt with every problem to come upon her great family with such a drive to maintain the ways of the ancestors she held dear. The wrath of hell could certainly come down on anyone who slighted one of her own.
If there was revenue to the tribe she certainly would not let anyone pass her own up on that.
As the descendant of Chief Yellow Berry she knew her rights.
“You better give it to them, or you will have to deal with Florence,” could be heard in ripples of admonishment as the words echoed from one council member to another.”
As the way of our folks she knew the social established practiced habits and customs to keep a peaceful society. As intricate but strong as lace these ways she practiced as skillfully as any dancer knows the choreographed sequence to perform.
It is the custom for sister-in-laws to engage in playful, yet pointed jesting. A stranger might not understand the friendly insults they exchange, but one of their own thoroughly enjoys the interchange.
“Sister! Did someone tear up your blouse?” Florence was heard to say on observing the cut out places on the arms going to style.
“Well, at least I tried to be in style.” The retort would come with innuendo that maybe Florence wasn’t! And, on and on it went with happy exchanges between the sister-in-laws so that any rivalry was blatantly out in the open for everyone to enjoy. This was so of the younger women. The eldest, in this case, myself, was kindly excused from the insults in a way of respect.
I knew the struggle to go through death was upon the family because the daughter came to my sister. I waited a few days and called.
“Let me help you, with anything.” I told her. “And please tell your Mother I called?”
Only a few days later Florence was gone. In my mind I felt honored. She seemed to be waiting for permission to leave from the elder sister. So is the strength of our vanishing culture, and how I do miss the old ones, especially as I go to the role of the eldest. I, who
do not know but of a few ways of our lost peaceful society. They wound every fiber of fabric and material of life with the strong ways of peace so cleverly manipulated.
Not to say any dare step into their domain without knowing about the fierce protective ways that could be suddenly upon them.
Florence’s husband, Gilbert Cole, my brother, our way because our grandmother’s were sisters, another peaceful key to the genetic engineering of strong people with no intermarriage even down to the last descendant as far as relatives go. He spoke at our aunt’s funeral, who was up to the top as far as her new Christian custom went.
She has requested, “no give-a-way. There usually is material to give away at this time, but my sister requested this not happen.”
Brother Gilbert seemed to be apologizing for this dropping of an important symbol for not putting material things ahead of life.
So it was, I carefully wrapped up some of the nicest pieces of fabric I had and took them to Florence’s daughter for the “give-a-way,” at the funeral, Thursday. The feast will be held at the Cultural Center, probably, because of inclement weather.
I may not be able to take Rhonda out into that, which is okay. The ancient ways were of abstinence, fasting and prayer, which itself has been pushed aside for the conqueror's European ways of feasting at the time of death. I think the Ponca oldest of customs were better. Who wants to eat when your heart is heavy.