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A Simple man
As for you who read this - I am sure it has been a year of struggles and
trials. The land struggles here continue as well as all the ndn issues across
this land. Legal cases are won in court and our hearts are lifted -- maybe
things will change. Only to have legislators pass new laws to reverse our
victories. So it continues.
On the eve of a struggle here to stop clear cutting on the mountain that
is my home and mother -- my troubled heart leads me in another direction. I
am reminded of a teacher, a friend -- a relation.
My mind travels back in time to my youth. The man I think of is my uncle.
When my uncle walked this land it was a different time. Here in the East
conservation groups and those who respected the land were few and far
between. They were looked on as strange. My uncle walked his path straight --
undeterred. He has taught me well.
Every fall my family would gather at my grandparents home. My uncle would
show up bright and early. His attire was predictable. He was a tall man of
over six feet and lean. His face was weathered from all the time in the
mountain. His voice was soft. Words were precious and he used them precisely
and with conservation. He was straight to the point with a dry humor though.
Each year he would walk over to me and ask if I was ready to go with him.
There he stood towering over me. Strong, yet gentle in heart -- his presence
could be felt without a word spoken. There he stood in a plaid flannel shirt
with red as a theme. His trousers were a brown soft corduroy. His feet were
attired in wool socks of gray and suede brown hush puppy shoes. His warmth
would be provided by a woolrich plaid coat also with a dark red theme running
through it.
I loved to go with him any time of year but this walk was special -- a
tradition in the making. One I still take even though my uncle walks in my
heart now and not at my side. His voice echoes in my head and his wisdom
still flows though me.
This journey is when I am about eight years of age. They continued for
many years after. I bundled up and together we headed out the door. The
mountain was always in my life. The first view to my eyes was the mountain
rising up before us and blocking the horizon. As now, it was a beckoning
feeling and one of welcome home. Many generations tie me to this land. This
land is family to my heart!
Two cement pillars guard an old cobble stone path. We pass through
without a word between us. The wind bites at my checks and my eyes tear. The
air is clear and crisp and I am alive! Once through the gate a strange land
opens before me. It is a land of small shrubs and large trees. White stones
of all shapes rise from the earth. The grass here is shaggy and unkept.
Brown leaves are trapped along the curbing and I shuffle through them. The
smells of the damp leaves invigorate me.
My uncle finally speaks. He tells me to stay on the path and he will
return. He walks up a small rise and stands before a stone of polished white.
He stares for a long time in silence. He returns as in years later with a
tear in his eye. No words flow between us as we head down the path.
Later in life I will learn this stone marks the grave of his wife. She
had crossed before I was born. He never spoke of her. Yet year after year
this part of our journey was never overlooked. His love for her never
diminished. One only had to look into his eyes -- words could not speak the
story any clearer. Here I learned of true love -- undying without one word
being passed between us. My heart reached out to him -- what could I say --
there were no words. Only my presence at his side.
Here was this large man -- strong and weathered still able to carry a
soft heart after all his losses and hardships. I try to remember these
lessons. I tend to pull back and sometimes protect my heart from hurt by
building a wall. To live the wall must be removed for ever -- a hard task.
The path opens into the foothills of the mountain. Here a familiar sound
greets my ears long before my eyes can see.
A rushing stream with small cascades is heard -- it calls to us to come
home once more. The stream is clear and swift. It winds up the steeply
climbing pass through the mountain. Here my uncle smiles and starts to tell
me of the land and her children. He speaks of the plants and animals. He not
only teaches me of respect for these things but shows me this respect in his
own walk.
He knows every plant and mushroom. There is a joy in his voice as he
shares these things with me. A joy I understand well as I too share these
things with those who wish to truly learn. The valley is tight and narrow.
The trees are bare now of there leaves. A thick carpet covers the earth with
a rich brown fragrance.
The stream is full of small round boulders of dark stone. Many are
covered partially in thick green moss. The stream is bordered by patches of
small laurels and leafless shrubs. Thick areas of honeysuckle crowd in around
us. Now only a shadow of the thick green shiny leaves of summer and fragrant
flowers of white and yellow. Oh how I love to suck the sweet nectar from
these flowers and the fragrance is that of a fine perfume.
We pass a small water fall of about twenty feet. Here fragile icicles
hang from outcroppings of the fall s face. Placed there drop by drop from the
up swelling spray of the falls. My uncle has no sense of time and we stay
along time watching the water drop and dance upon the rocks at the base of
the falls. The spray is carried up to our faces and the cool mist chills me.
The water swirls in a small pool carved out by the relentless falling water
and then rushes down stream. I drop a small twig above the fall and watch its
journey.
The twig floats gentle to the falls then tumbles over disappearing below
the surface of the pool. Only to reappear by bobbing to the surface. It
remains trapped in the swirling pool for a few minutes, then shoots forth in
the streams current and disappears from view. My uncle tells me one day I
will understand this journey of the twig is no different then our own journey
across this land. Only now do I truly begin to understand his words.
We reach an area of very little slope. Here the water slows and softly
speaks to us. It trickles between a bed choked with rocks of all sizes. Along
the shore are many small pools cut from the earth bank by a stream of more
forceful nature. Today the pools are still and the stream flows gently.
Something wet hits my nose. I look up a snow flurry is scurrying by. Oh how I
love winter -- it will soon be upon us in earnest.
My uncle squats at one of the small pools. In the clear water the bottom
can be seen covered with this years leaves. The leaves are also banked up
and trapped at each small boulder giving an illusion of small islands before
each rock.
Also in the water are smaller stones of maybe six inches in diameter. My
uncle slowly lifts them so the unearthed part is down stream from the rock.
In this way the current is kept out of the new orifice created by the
displaced rock. Mud swirls in the newly created opening as we strain to see
what lies there
Slowly the muddy water is cleared and before my eyes is a crayfish
walking slowly on the bottom. My uncle reaches in and catches it. He holds it
up for me to examine. He explains this is an animal that provides food for
many animals and fish in this region. He also reinforces the belief that it
too is to be respected a piece of Creator is in this life as in our own. He
gentle returns it to the stream and returns the rock home to its original
place.
We continue our search through the afternoon. In other pools more
crayfish are found and even a small mud puppy. This salamander of brown with
exterior gills fascinates me. Its gills float as small tree limbs brown and
branching from its neck. Yet they are so fragile. My uncle reminds me we are
one. We are all tied together and what effects one ripples out to effect all.
The water they live in supports our own life and we must cherish and care for
it as it does us. These are old ideas and truths to the oyate (people).
Strangely though these ideas are foreign here in the East and most do not
hear the teachings or see they are poisoning themselves.
We reach a small valley. Here a tiny lake resides surrounded by many
hardwood trees and firs. The grass peaks through the brown of the leaves
carpeting the area as a deep snow fall. The lake is bordered by drying
cattails and tall grasses. the lake is emptied into the stream we follow over
a small waterfall.
We stare into the water and are greeted by silhouettes sleek and gliding
beneath the surface. Here are bass of many sizes. This small lake is used to
raise bass to restock areas that were depleted by over fishing or pollution.
My uncle works hard to restore purity to the stream water and restore the
native fish to their beds. In his day this was a very unpopular idea --
ecology of any type. He was looked on as a radical and strange by a society
that still does not see the lessons clearly.
He told me he had a gift to share with me. My eyes sparkled as we walked
through the pines. Then in a small clearing were some trees with no leaves
and dark rough bark. Hanging from the limbs were shriveled fruits. He said
there it is. I thought this cannot be my present can it? He told me these are
wild persimmons very rare in this area. The fruits are picked after several
hard frosts. This brings the natural sugars full into the flesh of the fruit.
He handed one to me. We each bit into them. A smile lit up his face and mine
too! now.
Sadly the trees have been cut down and the fruits are gone from this
area. The gift remains forever. I still make this journey once a year alone
But not really. I stop to visit the white stone and now the tear clings
to my check. I walk the stream and remember his work to protect it and all
children of the earth. The lake still supports bass and in the water I see
his reflection in my own. For his gift was far more then a persimmon fruit.
He taught me to follow my path and no others. He taught me the true
meaning of love. He taught me the value of the earth and all her children. He
taught me we are connected. He taught me to respect all life and to love
Creator. He taught me time is not important.
I sit here and ponder these gifts and teachings -- teachings that are
passed on to my son and any who wish to learn.
My uncle has passed but he lives in my heart -- as in the lakes reflection
our images are one on top of the other -- our hearts are one.
I do not know if the clear cutting can be stopped tonight on the mountain
home of mine. I do know the lessons will live on and those who hear will keep
on teaching -- and honoring all life.
Mitauye Oyasin Onsimalaye
written late fall 2001
ShyHawk(FM)
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