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“Everyone came from all over, Foxtown, White Eagle, Red Rock. They came in horse drawn wagons loaded down with food for a sumptuous lunch. Blankets were spread out on the ground and this is where we ate. We spent all day visiting up until time to leave before dusk. No one wanted to be in the cemetery after dark so we loaded up all our things and said a hasty good-by to our folks.” Mother, the keeper of history told us of the old ways.
“There were tears, of course, for our lost loved ones, but the kind compassion of our folks pulled us through. The gift baskets passed out were filled with the things those gone loved ones enjoyed and were gentle reminders of their spirit as it seemed to linger in our heart and mind for only these brief moments,” Mother seemed to be seeing the days of her childhood as she related her story.
Today on Memorial Day we stood on that same ground but what a different world was portrayed. How the traditions of our Ponca people were blended in with the holidays of their conquering race no one has told to me and, in fact, probably even remembers.
The scene today is of quite a different world. Few of the descendants of original elders themselves exist. I only saw one who wore vestiges of clothing marking him as Ponca. My brother with his long braids is such a throw back to a distant past, but was the only one I could see.
Sleek, expensive automobiles all whirled into the area as if they were punching the white man’s clock. No Indian time here. All raced onto the grounds with the same precision one sees as people hurry to be at their jobs, not one minute early, or late. This is a far cry of the leisurely traveling wagons who pulled onto the grounds in an unhurried way as Mother told about that
in another time.
“Don’t be crying, now!” I could almost hear Grandmother admonish, but I just couldn’t hold back the sudden tears as my brother’s old friend came walking across the cemetery to where we were. He spent a few minutes with us, chuckled over his memory of “Mike,” and picked up the small basket of memory tokens. There was a tape measure, a book he owned, a potholder to remember how he loved to cook a sack of sage, and a bookmark with a Chilocco invitation to the reunion, June 8, 2012, on it. There was a small bag of my apricots and a couple of bananas to go back to the time when we included gifts of food at this time.
As quietly as my brother’s friend came, like my brother, he was gone. I watched him with tears in my eyes as he quietly walked out across the new mown ground of this cemetery.
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