could be hard. “The school will board you,” he said.
Watch out, be good, or the white man will come and take you away!
So that’s how it went. Grandpa and I spent the night under the wagon in case it rained, the last time I would see him for thelongest month of my life. Unchee, Angelee, and Mayana got the wagon bed, Senior and Mom the front and back seat. In the middle of the night I woke up. Probably, until then, I’d never wakened in the middle of the night in my short life. I felt odd, out of sorts, itchy. Little sparks ran up and down my arms, like flicks of electricity. I looked up at the black bottom of the wagon, and suddenly couldn’t stand being penned in.
I rolled out. The sky was brightened by a half-moon, the this-or-that-way moon. The hills around caught the moonlight and held it. The grasses glowed softly, and even the parched earth of August looked gentle, inviting, and beckoning. My legs felt jumpy. I could take off. I knew that. I could take off. There would be spot work on the ranches—it was haying season, and beet harvest time. Maybe I could hook up with someone and do the Indian rodeo circuit, which attracted me. Maybe I could improve my hoop dancing and do the competitions on the powwow circuit. People did make a living that way. My legs were jumping, saying “Go, go, go!”
I turned and looked at the wagon. The women were out of sight behind the sides, and Grandpa was invisible underneath. I looked at the car. Somehow a glance of moonlight hit part of the front seat just so, the driver’s side. My father’s head, upper chest, and arm were caught in the light. The arm was crooked against the steering wheel in a way that looked uncomfortable, and the head propped against the door at an awkward angle. It looked to me like his neck was broken. My lungs and belly felt a breath of fire.
I stood there in the moonlight a long time. Finally I crawled back under the wagon. Nowhere else to go .
In the morning, without breakfast, they caught a ride to Wambli. Senior went along, intending to thumb to Martin from there. Martin is a white-man town between the reservations. I toldmyself that this time he would really look for ranch work, that he wouldn’t just booze everything away, that he would put together some money, go get my mother and sisters, and make them a family again.
But I knew the real story, past, present, and future. The story of booze doesn’t change.
I didn’t have much time to think about it. “I have something to give you,” Unchee said. She looked at me, and it seemed like she was there with us, not off in her own world. I felt … hopeful.
From underneath the wagon seat she took a long, hide-wrapped something. Grandpa stood to the side and looked on.
Had I not been in a funk, I would have been thrilled. I knew what it was.
Unchee set the package on the seat and unfolded the deer hide. There lay a Pipe bag, elaborately beaded. “Open it,” she said.
Reverently, I took out the Pipe within. The bowl was an L shape of pipestone, which you call catlinite, with four parallel rings carved in the upright part, representing the four directions, and lead inlaid in the rings. The stem was of water birch, decorated with brass tacks, and near the mouth part, tight beadwork with tiny beads. Tied to it with red ribbon was sage. Though the Pipe had the look of something a hundred years old or more, the sage was fresh. I looked at Unchee and thought, You have been changing the sage regularly all these years. Her face was unreadable.
This was the long stem of an important man. If you were going to carry such a Pipe, you need to be working for the people. Correction, if I was going to carry this Pipe, I needed to work for the people.
I touched both stem and bowl gently. The bowl of a Pipe is of stone, and it represents Earth. The stem is wooden, and represents all that grows upon Earth. The Pipe is the center ofthe Lakota way, and has been since White Buffalo Woman brought it to us
Watch out, be good, or the white man will come and take you away!
So that’s how it went. Grandpa and I spent the night under the wagon in case it rained, the last time I would see him for thelongest month of my life. Unchee, Angelee, and Mayana got the wagon bed, Senior and Mom the front and back seat. In the middle of the night I woke up. Probably, until then, I’d never wakened in the middle of the night in my short life. I felt odd, out of sorts, itchy. Little sparks ran up and down my arms, like flicks of electricity. I looked up at the black bottom of the wagon, and suddenly couldn’t stand being penned in.
I rolled out. The sky was brightened by a half-moon, the this-or-that-way moon. The hills around caught the moonlight and held it. The grasses glowed softly, and even the parched earth of August looked gentle, inviting, and beckoning. My legs felt jumpy. I could take off. I knew that. I could take off. There would be spot work on the ranches—it was haying season, and beet harvest time. Maybe I could hook up with someone and do the Indian rodeo circuit, which attracted me. Maybe I could improve my hoop dancing and do the competitions on the powwow circuit. People did make a living that way. My legs were jumping, saying “Go, go, go!”
I turned and looked at the wagon. The women were out of sight behind the sides, and Grandpa was invisible underneath. I looked at the car. Somehow a glance of moonlight hit part of the front seat just so, the driver’s side. My father’s head, upper chest, and arm were caught in the light. The arm was crooked against the steering wheel in a way that looked uncomfortable, and the head propped against the door at an awkward angle. It looked to me like his neck was broken. My lungs and belly felt a breath of fire.
I stood there in the moonlight a long time. Finally I crawled back under the wagon. Nowhere else to go .
In the morning, without breakfast, they caught a ride to Wambli. Senior went along, intending to thumb to Martin from there. Martin is a white-man town between the reservations. I toldmyself that this time he would really look for ranch work, that he wouldn’t just booze everything away, that he would put together some money, go get my mother and sisters, and make them a family again.
But I knew the real story, past, present, and future. The story of booze doesn’t change.
I didn’t have much time to think about it. “I have something to give you,” Unchee said. She looked at me, and it seemed like she was there with us, not off in her own world. I felt … hopeful.
From underneath the wagon seat she took a long, hide-wrapped something. Grandpa stood to the side and looked on.
Had I not been in a funk, I would have been thrilled. I knew what it was.
Unchee set the package on the seat and unfolded the deer hide. There lay a Pipe bag, elaborately beaded. “Open it,” she said.
Reverently, I took out the Pipe within. The bowl was an L shape of pipestone, which you call catlinite, with four parallel rings carved in the upright part, representing the four directions, and lead inlaid in the rings. The stem was of water birch, decorated with brass tacks, and near the mouth part, tight beadwork with tiny beads. Tied to it with red ribbon was sage. Though the Pipe had the look of something a hundred years old or more, the sage was fresh. I looked at Unchee and thought, You have been changing the sage regularly all these years. Her face was unreadable.
This was the long stem of an important man. If you were going to carry such a Pipe, you need to be working for the people. Correction, if I was going to carry this Pipe, I needed to work for the people.
I touched both stem and bowl gently. The bowl of a Pipe is of stone, and it represents Earth. The stem is wooden, and represents all that grows upon Earth. The Pipe is the center ofthe Lakota way, and has been since White Buffalo Woman brought it to us
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