Rememberance

 

Gib Eli at the Wellpinit Powwow, 1979.

Homestead

After lunch, my mother, daughter, and I visited the old Moses Homestead. It was wonderful for me to show my daughter where my great grandparents once lived. When we arrived, my mother remembered that my dad brought her to this same location many years ago. 

Después del almuerzo, my mamá, mi hija, y yo visitamos la vieja hacienda Moisés. Fue also maravillosa para mí poder mostrarle a mi hija el lugar donde vivían mis bisabuelos. Cuando llegamos, mi mamá recordó que mi papá la llevó a este mismo sitio hace muchos años atrás.  

We were caught in a wind storm mixed with hail and snow. When it started to thunder, I told them that we had better leave. 

Nos tocó una tormenta de viento mezclada con granizo y nieve. Cuando empezó a tronar, les dije que sería mejor que fuéramos de allí. 

Lunch

My mom brought me out to lunch this afternoon. She has been such a wonderful support ever since I suffered a stroke several weeks ago. Now she is supporting my recovery. 

Mi mamá me llevó a comer hoy en la tarde. Ella ha sido un apoyo desde que sufrí un derrame cerebral hace algunas semanas. Ahora está apoyando mi recuperación. 

Rhonda and Whitney had lunch with us. 

Rhonda y Whitney comerieron con nosotros. 

All the waiters at the restaurant know me. When they saw me walking with a cane, they all came out of the kitchen and greeted me. It was a very sweet gesture. 

Todos los meseros en el resaurante me conocen. Cuando me vieron caminar con un bastón, todos salieron de la cocina y me saludaron. Fue un gesto lindo.  

Many people have expressed concern about seeing me out of my house. You should know that part of physical therapy requires me to go outside and walk every day. Walking and other physical activities will help my brain to re-wire itself.

Algunas personas han expresado su precupación al verme salir de la casa. Deberían saber que parte de mi terapia física me requiere salir afuera y caminar todos los días. Caminar y otras actividades físicas ayudarán a que se sane mi cerebro. 

South Perry Pizza

When I woke up this morning, I had an unbearable craving for South Perry Pizza. More importantly, I couldn't stop thinking about my friend Erin. My wife treats me really well, so she drove me all the way to South Perry to fulfill my wish. 

Everybody wants me to stay home and sleep, but man, I get so damned bored sitting in my house all day every day. Boredom cannot be good for my healing. And besides, my physical therapist said that I really am supposed to get out and walk a couple times a day. 

My baby girl Whitney had pizza with me today. 

Here's my new look with short hair. I don't like the new hairstyle, 

but I am thankful to be alive. My hair will grow back. 

At South Perry Pizza, I was really hoping that I would see Erin by some chance, but it didn't work out. As we were leaving, I asked several of the waiters if they knew her. They all said no. Hmmmm. So then, I left a note for her on the bar and just asked them to give it to Erin when she came in. I had no idea if she would find her note or not, but I decided to just trust the universe to deliver the message to its proper destination. 

We saw these beautiful spring flowers outside the pizza place. I was just thinking, "I should take a picture of those flowers," when Whitney jumped out of the car and said, "I should take a picture of those flowers." Apparently, she learned something from me. 

When I got home, Erin re-posted my note on FB, so I guess the message found its recipient. Everything must have worked out. She said the note made her sniffle. :)

Kiowa Hymns

Sometimes people give me the most unusual gifts. I was sitting in my classroom today when an acquaintance unexpectedly gave me a vinyl record from 1972 titled Oklahoma Chants for the Classroom, compiled by Louis W. Ballard. I wasn't quite sure how to respond, so I simply thanked the individual and accepted the gift. 

My daughter got a record player for Christmas, so I had an easy way to play the record. As it turns out, the album was an instructional recording for school children. After each song, a narrator gave additional information about each tribal culture represented on the record. He also provided translations and musical transcriptions for every song. Ballard was a Cherokee-Quapaw composer with a passion for Native American music. The music seemed authentic, even if the presentation was somewhat outdated.  

The Kiowa Church Hymn impressed me as it proclaimed in the Kiowa language: 

Thank you Son of God. God's help is real.

As I listed to the record, I found myself singing along and remembering our visit to St. Louis last summer. We met some of our long lost relatives for the first time and discovered that they have a strong Kiowa connection. Now we are all connected as family.  

Kenny

My memories of Kenny are inseparably tied to my father. Life was beautiful, and sometimes more than a little crazy. 

When I was a little boy, my world was so different. My mother and father were still married, and all my aunts and uncles were still alive. In those early years, I was never alone because my dad literally spent every day with his brothers and sisters. They were his best friends. Kenny, Speedy, and Marlene were like third, fourth, and fifth parents to me. 

We went everywhere together. During the early 1970s, we never used seat belts, so the whole family piled into the car - all squished together, with some sitting on laps. My Auntie Marlene used to say, "We're gonna have some togetherness," then she'd laugh. 

Up until my fourth birthday, I was the only child and the only nephew, so I was a little spoiled. I didn't know how to tell time or read calendars, but somehow I always knew when Kenny and Marlene got their paychecks. Without mentioning money, I would cuddle up to whichever one got paid and say, "I got an idea. We should go to the White Elephant (a local toy store)." They never refused me. They would just laugh with a twinkle in their eyes and take me to buy whatever toy made me happy in the moment.   

They were always laughing and teasing. I hardly remember a serious moment. 

But it wasn't always love and togetherness. Sometimes they had a little much to drink and got into fights. Other times someone would get arrested and spend a few nights in jail. It was all a normal part of living with my dad's family. 

My childhood reality was unpredictable, and often unstable, but I realize now that my Uncle Kenny, and all the others, gave me one of the greatest gifts of my life: unconditional acceptance. In those days, we never really talked about Indian culture or spirituality, and yet my father's family unconsciously embodied an old ethic of community living. Everyone had a place, and everyone got the same share of life's privileges and hardships. 

Today, when we buried my Uncle Kenny, all the sadness finally spilled over. On one level, I grieve the loss of my childhood friend. On another level, losing Kenny is like watching another piece of my father disappear. One by one, my father's generation passes away into memory. 

Services for Kenneth A. Bonga

Funeral services for my uncle Kenny Bonga 

are planned as indicated above. 

The Eye Glass Ritual

The following is a painful story 

about my father's eye glasses... 

On January 8, 1994 - nearly twenty-one years ago - I received a call regarding my father's death, but the news rolled out gradually - little by little. The man on the other end of the phone asked me, "How's your faith in God? Are you still a warrior for Jesus?" I didn't know how to answer. The man rambled for several minutes about taking comfort in hardship and walking close to the Lord. I simply nodded to myself and wondered when he would finally get to the point. Unfortunately, the point came at the end of a sword. 

"I hate to be the one to say this," he stammered, "But your father had a heart attack."

It never occurred to me that anything serious would ever befall my father. He seemed invincible and larger than life, so I hardly blinked or skipped a beat. "Oh, that's terrible," I said calmly, "Where is he now? Did they take him to the hospital? What room is he in? When can I see him?" 

Silence - But finally, the man said, "Barry, he didn't make it." 

Suddenly the room began to spin around my head, and everything blurred together. I don't remember hanging up the phone or saying goodbye. I only remember crying inconsolably while my friends drove me to the hospital. My face was pressed against the cold glass of the car window while streaks of January rain refracted the street lights into a thousand drops of green and red. 

My mother divorced my father more than sixteen years before his passing, but she arrived at the hospital ahead of me and greeted me at the emergency room entrance. The expression on her face will live in my memory forever. She looked almost childlike as her lower lip quivered and tears streamed down her cheeks. Her hands trembled as she opened her arms to console me. We held one another and wept. 

When I finally saw the body, it hardly seemed real. There my father lay on a table, cold and covered in a white sheet up to his bare chest. A plastic tube stuck out from his throat. 

When I left the hospital, the paramedics gave me a plastic bag filled with items my dad was wearing at the moment of his death. My face was swollen and numb from crying, but I accepted the bag and clutched it close to my body. It seemed to me that opening the bag should be a sacred event, a private ritual far removed from sterile hospital walls and the cold stares of clinical staff. 

The ritual happened later that evening with a small group of friends and supporters. I knelt on the living room floor and gently removed each item one by one: a wallet and some spare change; a shirt torn to shreds when the paramedics ripped it from his chest and shocked his heart; a pair of white tube socks with red and blue bands on the top. Every article brought a new wave of recognition and sadness, but nothing prepared me for the last item at the bottom of the bag: my father's eye glasses. 

Throughout his life, he always wore the same thick, black-rimmed glasses. It was the only part of his appearance that never changed, from his wildest drinking days, to his life as a spiritual leader in the community. As I held the glasses in my hands, his eyes seemed to open one last time, and like Elisha in the novel Dawn, “I saw his face, with the eyes grown large with death and memory” (Wiesel, 1961). For one brief moment, the ghost of my father looked back with a lifetime of longing and regret, and then faded into nothing. Alone with my sadness, I buried my face into my hands and sobbed.

Twenty-one years later, the ritual was repeated when I collected my uncle Kenny's eye glasses in preparation for the burial, only this time, I could not weep. After so many years, my sadness has gone numb. 

References: 

Wiesel, E. (2006). Dawn. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Kindle Edition. (Original work published 1961).

Reunion

My cousin called this afternoon to inform me that our Uncle Kenny passed away. During the same conversation, she also asked me to help clean his apartment and pack some his belongings. A few hours later, we arrived at Kenny's apartment, and I saw this photograph taped to the wall . The picture shows my father and me sitting at the drum with Uncle Hank - a beautiful memory from a happier time. 

Today would have been my father's 67th birthday. For me, the wound of grief is re-opened, but perhaps somewhere in the unseen world, my father and his brother Kenny are in the midst of a joyful reunion. 

Family

Another old picture from the family collection: 

Sam Moses, Messie Haines, Bessie Andrew, and Pat Moses. 

Memories

Thanksgiving is a season for family and loving memories. Just this evening, I found an old photograph of my yayas and me. I was probably four or five years old at the time. My yaya Bessie was holding me on her lap, and my yaya Messie was holding my hand.  

The Funeral

The community gathered recently on the Kalispel Indian Reservation to remember the life of my auntie Libby. It was a service made beautiful by traditional clothing, singing, and prayers. Many of the women wore wing dresses and colorful head scarves, while the men wore ribbon shirts. A chorus of Salish speakers sang the old Indian hymns - just as I remember from my childhood - and elders delivered prayers in the Kalispel language. The sadness was real, but the love was also real. I can't imagine a better way for my aunt to begin her journey to the other side. 

A temporary marker on Libby's grave. 

Flowers.

The cemetery. 

A view of the Pend Oreille River on our return drive. 

More scenery from the drive home...

Libby

My auntie Libby passed away this week. We saw one another just a few weeks ago at Richard's memorial, but now she is gone. Libby was always very good to me; she will be dearly missed. 

Minnehaha Park

This fall season has been exceptionally beautiful. Even as the days grow shorter, the colors have been unusually bright. In the past, the fall has often caused me a kind of sadness or depression, perhaps even a certain grief to see the dying days of summer. This year is different. The autumn colors have kept me spellbound.  

Minnehaha Park in northeast Spokane holds some history for my family. When I was in high school, we lived just a few blocks away. But the history is even older: My mother went to school just down the street at Cooper Elementary, and my great grandmother Alice Meier lived in a small house on the same street. I remember visiting her when I was a small child. 

On my father's side, my great grandparents lived nearby in an Indian camp.  

The old stone house was a source of ghost stories when I was a kid. 

The trees have all turned color. 

Minnehaha is connected to a natural area with a network of trails. 

Belated Birthday Lunch

My sister and I enjoyed a belated birthday lunch at Soulful Soups in downtown Spokane. Apparently, coordinating our schedules is a major ordeal, considering that her birthday was almost a month ago. But regardless of the time that passed, I was glad to finally get a chance to re-connect. The time is never enough. 

My sister persuaded me to try the beer cheese soup. It was a little spicy for my taste, but the basic flavor was amazing. It's strange that the taste of beer is so repulsive to me, but beer used in cooking is quite enjoyable. 

Baking Bread

My family was enjoying a relaxing Sunday afternoon when my daughter said, "Dad, I want you to bake bread." It seemed like a fairly random request, but enjoyable nonetheless.

It's been more than 15 years since I last attempted baking bread, and that was a disaster. My bread come out of the oven like a brick. This time turned out much better. I'm not really sure what I did different, but maybe I've learned a little about working with the dough. It seems like there should be a life metaphor here, but warm bread, butter, and jam gave us a great way to end our day together as a family.

By the way, the two different shapes were the result of having only one bread pan.

tulmnetkʷ

Twenty-four years ago, my father took me to a stream in British Columbia where the water flowed red with tulmn (red ochre). Before that, he learned about the tulmn deposit from a Yakama tribal elder who ironically, traveled hundreds of miles outside of her direct cultural area to collect the red earth from that specific stream bed. 

To be honest, I once regarded the tulmn river as a curiosity of nature or an interesting side show to our vacation. However, after my father passed, I felt an inexplicable longing to return. In time, I came to realize that my father showed me something important that I failed to appreciate in my youth. 

Years passed, but I never got the chance to return, until now. 

This week, a close friend helped me remember the general location, and my friends from the Colville Tribes arranged transportation for my daughters and me.

When we arrived in the general area, nothing looked the same as I remembered. So much can change in a quarter of a century. In particular, human development can alter the course of nature and cause the water to flow in other directions. Plants and trees can appear where once only grass grew. 

At one point, the environment looked so unfamiliar that we almost turned back. But in the end, we finally parked the car, searched on foot, and quickly found a small pool of red water sitting amid the cattails and skunk cabbage. Perhaps the water flows in springtime, but now in September, the stream was reduced to a collection of muddy bogs. We were able to skim small amounts of red earth from the upper layer of the tulmn deposits. 

Everything seemed different than I remember, but it was quite emotional for me to return to the sacred red ochre stream of my father.  

Skunk cabbage grows near the red ochre. 

Red pools of water. 

tulmnetkʷ is a word I have never seen or heard, but Salish languages allow for the creation of new words based on many possible suffixes and prefixes that can be added to a root. In this case, I used tulmn (red ochre) as the base, and added the suffix -etkʷ, meaning water. Based on this combination, tulmnetkʷ would mean 'red ochre water.'  

Bad Fog

Years ago, Martin Louie took my father as a son. As a result, we usually called him Grandpa Martin, but sometimes we affectionately called him “The Old Man across the River.” Martin was an elder and spiritual leader who lived at Inchelium, near the western shore of the Columbia River. He was a colorful character, often remembered for his wisdom and humor.

From time to time, Grandpa Martin shared the most profound sayings. Recently, I found a partial transcript of his stories. The following paragraph contains an excerpt. He said:

inxaʔcin, isx̌ax̌paʔ, inqaqnaʔ, istəmtima, ink'ík'waʔ, kʷu c'q'misəlx, kʷu nc'q'mnitkʷsəlx iʔ k̓əl saʔtitkʷ, məł kʷu cusəlx, ‘lut aksk'əłʔitxm i təmxʷulaʔxʷ. k'əłʔitxməntxʷ iʔ tmxʷulaʔxʷ, məł yaʕyaʕt way' suxʷxʷ iʔ skəkʕakaʔ iʔ kəl wist. yaʕyaʔt way nłxʷtl'ilx, mi kʷ xʷt'i…lx, məł iʔ skəkʔakaʔ wikənts t'i kʷ xʷʔu…l ixiʔ t astk'síc'aʔ.’

In English:

My ancestors, my paternal grandfather and grandmother, my maternal grandfather and grandmother, they threw me out of bed, they threw me into the river, and they said to me, ‘Don’t sleep while the world goes by. If you sleep while the world goes by, all the birds will leave and go to the mountains. They will be gone into the bushes before you wake up, and the birds will see you as a bad fog surrounding your body.’

This was a story I had never heard before. In particular, the words ‘bad fog’ caught my eye as an enigmatic or mysterious phrase. I wondered about the meaning, so I decided to ask sʕamtic'aʔ – one of our fluent speakers of the Okanagan language.  

She said, “xʷʔul is like steam that might come up from a boiling pot, but it’s also like what people say nowadays when they talk about an aura – it’s your energy.” In that exact moment, a two-year old boy bounded into the room and pounded a drum with a stick. sʕamtic'aʔ pointed to him and said, “x̌ast i sxʷʔuls. His power is good.”

*

Notes:

The Salish text from: i‿ƛ'ax̌əx̌ƛ'x̌aptət i‿scm'iʔm'ay's.

The photograph from: The Grand Coulee: Savior For Whites, Disaster For Indians by Blaine Harden (http://aliciapatterson.org/stories/grand-coulee-savior-whites-disaster-indians). 

The Salish text in this post is not 100% correct. The blog font prevents an accurate writing of the font. For a correct version, click here. 

Family Portrait

Our family picture was unique this year because it included pioneer style clothing in Nauvoo, Illinois. It also included Rhonda's mother Glenda. 

Cousins

The organizers of the Nauvoo Pageant prepared a "cousin finder" using the LDS genealogical services. If you entered your family tree, the computer would prepare a report showing everyone else in the cast who was related. Supposedly, I was related to the majority of the cast, but most of them were like 12th cousins 7 times removed, through dubious or unproved connections. 

On the other hand, Rhonda was 4th cousins with a member of our district, and her connection is solidly proven through their common ancestor James Holt. Now that I think of it, they almost look alike. 

Holt was an early Mormon convert who settled in Nauvoo and later served a mission for the church in Tennessee. Through miraculous means, he learned of the prophet's death on the same day, even though he was hundreds of miles away. When the saints traveled west, he settled in southern Utah. Rhonda's grandmother gave us a typed copy of his diary.