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Booming thunder awoke me at 5 p.m. on the morning of Ronnie’s funeral.
The weatherman did forecast rain so I wasn’t surprised to hear grumbling
skies. For three days I worked at cooking food so that it could be stored in
Corning ware and then lifted easily to heat on the stove. Place small flat plastic
cutting boards between the Corning Ware and these can be stacked successfully
in a corner of the ‘fridge so as to not take up too much room. Spanish rice, Giblet
gravy, ham and beans, all can be stored for a day. The success for cooking for
a crowd must be had by planning, planning.
A friend of my daughter’s volunteered to take us in his car so that he could sit with
her which freed me up from having to drag her wheelchair through the muddy
ground at the Indian cemetery. The little bit of distance from the burial site gave
Rhonda a slight removal from the actual group of mourners. Probably, she had
contributed more to his well being than anyone standing around the grave and her
heart was heavy. The short distance was a kind of barrier for her. Rhonda did roll the
window of the car down so she could hear the drum beat of the closing prayer in our
language. The only part of the ceremony that was ours. All the elders are gone now,
and only one older man nodded to me in quiet courtesy with the statement.
“Sister! Rain band, Ah!”
And the rain did pour. It brought the chill of the season on us to make us shiver.
Great drops splattered on the grey colored coffin as it was being lowered into the
ground. The only one to protect herself from it was a small child, beautiful of face and
countenance. She ran to their car and hastily climbed into that warm place.
The Native American Christian minister of the Anglo persuasion and assistant read
words from their Book under the protection of umbrellas and maybe no one but me
mourned the loss of any words for our Ronnie, son of a great people, who lived through
all the history of what happened as the tribe was at the lowest place to survive. I could
see him as a child while his mother stayed the night with us for a warm place to sleep,
but then, proudly picked up and walked to where with her children?
Sometimes, she could be seen trailing the one little boy behind her and the other one,
Ronnie, in her arms as she wandered the roadways. I never knew when she died and for
how long Ronnie was an orphan until he came to us.
This battle for housing I’ve recorded in my book, Velma, Fleur D’Narcissus by Jen nee’.
It was Mother’s wish to have that information recorded and as I stood beside his grave
I thought about how wonderful it would have been for his mother to have had the
benefit of a warm house. Verma Eagle may have been able to live and raise her sons.
The weatherman did forecast rain so I wasn’t surprised to hear grumbling
skies. For three days I worked at cooking food so that it could be stored in
Corning ware and then lifted easily to heat on the stove. Place small flat plastic
cutting boards between the Corning Ware and these can be stacked successfully
in a corner of the ‘fridge so as to not take up too much room. Spanish rice, Giblet
gravy, ham and beans, all can be stored for a day. The success for cooking for
a crowd must be had by planning, planning.
A friend of my daughter’s volunteered to take us in his car so that he could sit with
her which freed me up from having to drag her wheelchair through the muddy
ground at the Indian cemetery. The little bit of distance from the burial site gave
Rhonda a slight removal from the actual group of mourners. Probably, she had
contributed more to his well being than anyone standing around the grave and her
heart was heavy. The short distance was a kind of barrier for her. Rhonda did roll the
window of the car down so she could hear the drum beat of the closing prayer in our
language. The only part of the ceremony that was ours. All the elders are gone now,
and only one older man nodded to me in quiet courtesy with the statement.
“Sister! Rain band, Ah!”
And the rain did pour. It brought the chill of the season on us to make us shiver.
Great drops splattered on the grey colored coffin as it was being lowered into the
ground. The only one to protect herself from it was a small child, beautiful of face and
countenance. She ran to their car and hastily climbed into that warm place.
The Native American Christian minister of the Anglo persuasion and assistant read
words from their Book under the protection of umbrellas and maybe no one but me
mourned the loss of any words for our Ronnie, son of a great people, who lived through
all the history of what happened as the tribe was at the lowest place to survive. I could
see him as a child while his mother stayed the night with us for a warm place to sleep,
but then, proudly picked up and walked to where with her children?
Sometimes, she could be seen trailing the one little boy behind her and the other one,
Ronnie, in her arms as she wandered the roadways. I never knew when she died and for
how long Ronnie was an orphan until he came to us.
This battle for housing I’ve recorded in my book, Velma, Fleur D’Narcissus by Jen nee’.
It was Mother’s wish to have that information recorded and as I stood beside his grave
I thought about how wonderful it would have been for his mother to have had the
benefit of a warm house. Verma Eagle may have been able to live and raise her sons.