Daddy often took a little notebook with him and he would attempt to record her stories as she told them. Sometimes at night, if it wasn't too late, Anna got to sit in and listen too, and she would watch in wonder as Grandma closed her big brown eyes and tried to get the stories just right. Anna didn't get to hear all of Grandma's stories because, as Daddy explained to her privately one night, some tales were better understood by grown-up ears. "Someday you will hear them too."
Because of this, Anna became even more curious as to what was in Daddy's "legend book." She sneaked it to her room and tried to read from it once, but because Daddy's mother tongue was Swedish, his phonetically challenged spelling was rather strange and difficult to unravel. That was why Mother always kept the books for the store. Anna wondered if Daddy's notebook might still be around the house somewhere, although she doubted she would have any more luck understanding it now than she had back then.
One summer, an anthropologist had stopped by the store for supplies, and Daddy had mentioned that he was trying to record Grandma's stories. At first the anthropologist was very interested, but when he learned that Grandma had become a Christian during a turn-of-the-century revival that had taken place in Florence, he waved his hand in dismissal, saying that Grandma's stories would be tainted with Christianity now and no longer authentic. Anna asked Daddy what "Authentic" was, and he said it was like telling the truth. That's when Anna decided that the anthropologist was full of beans because she knew that Grandma stories were authentic. Grandma Pearl wouldn't lie.
Anna couldn't specifically recall her mother ever taking the path that wound back behind the store over to Grandma's cabin, except perhaps the time when Grandma was very sick and Mother had taken her soup and medicine. Grandma drank the soup, but wouldn't touch the medicine. Instead, she relied on her own herbal remedies. And the herbs must have worked because Grandma was up and well after just a few days. After that, whether it was an extra loaf of bread or eggs or produce from the garden, Mother usually sent it by way of Anna.
By the same token, Grandma Pearl rarely came into the store. And although she was quite old, it wasn't that she couldn't get around easily, because the fact was, most of the time Grandma was as healthy as a horse. She would take a large root basket and spend hours in the woods collecting berries, nuts, and herbs until the basket was heavy and full. Anna suspected the reason Grandma didn't come by to visit was because she didn't feel very welcome at the store or the house. The only time that Anna could recall Grandma stopping by the store, her mother had grabbed up the broom and become very busy sweeping an already spotless floor. At the time, Anna had thought it strange; now she understood it was Mother's way of keeping Grandma at a distance.
Mother didn't approve of Grandma's long gray braids ornately tied with strips of deerskin, or her homemade clothing, often decorated with found embellishments from nature—things like shells, feathers, and carved bone. Nor did she approve of Grandma's smell. Mostly it was kind of a smoky, musky smell. Anna never understood the problem. But when Mother gave Grandma Pearl a bottle of toilette water (Babette's suggestion) Grandma Pearl took it home. But thinking it was something to use for cooking, she sampled it. Naturally, it tasted terrible, so she poured out the cologne and saved the bottle to fill with "good medicine." Later she told Anna, with a sour expression, "The stinky water was no good. Rotten."
Anna remembered a day when she'd been sitting on the old hewn log that served as a bench in front of Grandma's cabin. She and Grandma Pearl had just finished shelling a basket of pea pods that Anna had picked and carried down from their garden. It was one of those flawless summer afternoons, and the glassy surface of the bluer-than-blue river reflected a perfect mirror image of towering trees and cloudless sky. They both sat peacefully, without speaking. The only sounds were the birds' occasional calls and the lapping of water at the river's edge from a fishing boat that had recently passed, and then Anna had spoiled everything by asking Grandma why she and Mother didn't get along very well.
After a lengthy silence Grandma answered, her dark eyes serious, "Your mother, my Marion, lives in moving man's world." Anna knew by then that "moving man" was an old Indian term for white man, assigned to them when they moved to this part of the country from somewhere else about fifty years ago. "Your mother does not know the ways of her people, Anna. She does not want to know . . . she wants to forget. I accept this. I, too, once tried to forget the ways of my people."
"Why would you do that?"Anna asked. "I think your ways are wonderful." She held up a basket recently made by Grandma's old wrinkled hands. "The things you make are so beautiful."
Grandma smiled, revealing uneven yellowed teeth. "There was a time when it was very good to be a Siuslaw Indian. Before my time. When my mother and father were young people, they were free to hunt and fish and live good life. Our people on the Siuslaw were not many, but they strong people—good people. They work hard and they help each other." She pointed to the basket in Anna's hand. "They skillful people too."
"But then the white man—the moving man—came?"
"Yes. Before I was born, the moving man came to the river. Not many at first. Our people welcome them. Our chief share his home. We share food. The moving man hunt our otter, our beaver. Not for food. For skin only."
Anna nodded. She had read of trappers and such in school. History books credited companies like the Hudson's Bay for settling the Northwest Territory.
"First the moving man say this"—Grandma waved her hand in all directions—"All you see from here to the ocean, to Tahkenitch to Yachats; all is your land. Reservation."
"All the land?"Anna was surprised. "All belonged to the Indians?" She had never heard this before.
Grandma Pearl waved her hands more vigorously. "All the land; all you see and more." Now she pointed to her head with a sly look, cunning like a fox. "But moving man, he change mind. He think—no, no, wait, let's see . . . this good land. This very good land. Too good for Indian only." She clapped her hands together so loud, so fast, that Anna jumped. "No more reservation!"
"Then what?"Anna waited anxiously for the rest of the story.
"Sickness come with moving man. Our numbers became less and less. I think about one hundred then. My grandparents die of moving man diseases. The others, my mother and my father, they taken from their homes and their land. They herded like horses onto beach. Walking, walking, north to Siletz Reservation. My mother walk for fifty miles up beach"—she pointed to her belly—"with me inside of her! She walk carrying baby. Many, many people walk. Coos, Siuslaw, Alsea, Coquille, Umpqua—all our people from here walk. My mother almost die, but she strong woman. I born on the reservation. Only moving man food on the reservation, bad food. Make us sick. But no one can go gather berries, fish, bring good food. One night, my father worry about my mother and me. He sneak out to gather clams and berries. He never come back. Before she die, my mother tell me, white man chase my father, hunt him like coyote, and kill him because he want to find food."
"How horrible!"
Grandma nodded. "Then one day when I am girl, about as big as you, moving man take our people, the Siuslaw, aside and say, 'You free to leave reservation now.' They say we can have land back, only we must file claim. My mother cannot read, cannot write. Her younger sister, Aunt Dora, she white man's wife. They live in Florence town. Because her husband white, she not go to reservation. My mother say, 'Dora will help us. We go to Dora.' And so we walk and walk and walk. Fifty miles down the beach. But it is a good walk. We are happy. We are free. We gather berries. We catch fish and dig clams. It is a party. But much walking."
Anna had listened carefully, hoping that Daddy had heard this story too, had written it all down. She had no idea that Grandma Pearl's life had been this exciting. It was almost as good as a motion picture. Naturally, Mother had never mentioned any of this to Anna. Most of the time it was almost forgotten that they had any Indian blood. This was the way Mother wanted it. She never said as much, but Anna knew it was true.
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br /> "We go to Dora," Grandma continued her tale, her eyes looking far away. "But Dora is unhappy. When her husband at work, she tell us he is mean man, that he beat her like dog. Dora show us bruises and scars. So Mother tell her sister about free land, and when Dora's husband hear about free land, he act nice. He help write claim. He think he get land. After claim is filed Dora leave her bad husband."
"And is that when you came to live here?"
Grandma shook her head. "No. My mother and Dora work in the town. They clean house and wash clothes for moving man wives. I sit on chair for hours and hours waiting for my mother to finish her work. And sometimes the white woman yell and call my mother bad names. But my mother does not fight back. I ask her why. She say it is only way for us to survive. Then white man say I must go to mission school. I must learn to read and write. I must learn white man ways. To talk right. I go and I begin to forget the ways of my people. I learn that life is easier when I look and talk like the white people."
"That must have been sad."
"Yes. Then I get older and my mother send me to Indian school up north. I ride train by myself. I am frightened. I learned more white men's ways at their school. I unhappy there. But I meet John." Now Grandma smiled, once again revealing her yellowed teeth.
"Is that my grandpa? John?"Anna knew she had heard the name before.
"Yes. John was also at Indian school. His mother was Siuslaw, a friend of my mother. John's father was from Alsea Tribe, but he die on the reservation like my father. Most men die on reservation. Only women and children live. John promise to marry me when we finish school and return to Florence town. And he keep promise. John build this house." Grandma set down the bowl of peas on the rough-hewn table outside of her cabin, looking proudly at the little two-room wooden house. "My mother and John's mother live here too. John was logger. He be in woods for two, sometimes three weeks before he come home again. We women only at home."
"And were you happy then?"Asked Anna. She had been reading fairy tales lately, and liked the ones where everyone lived happily ever after the best.
Grandma smiled. "We were happy. The mothers knew old ways. They remember how to gather what we need from the land. John's mother know how to make medicine with plants. My mother know to make baskets. They teach me their ways. I know to sew because I learn at Indian school and I make clothes for us, for Marion too. Living on river is good medicine, Anna. River make us well again." And just then, Anna's mother had called, saying it was supper time. It had been like being pulled out of a storybook, but it was a good place to end. It wasn't until many years later that Anna had heard other parts of Grandma Pearl's story, and much of it was not so happy.
When Anna was almost twelve, Grandmother Pearl died suddenly, taking all of her Indian ways with her—or so it seemed at first. But to everyone's surprise, especially Mother's, the coastal newspaper ran a special obituary, noting that Pearl Martin might have been the last of the full-blooded Siuslaws. Anna had proudly clipped it out and read it aloud with tears choking her voice. For the next few weeks, she spent many hours in Grandma's little cabin mourning her absent friend. It was the first time she'd ever lost a loved one and it hurt deep inside of her, like a stomachache that wouldn't go away.
At first, Anna held it against her mother that she hadn't been kinder to Grandma Pearl while she was alive. Later Anna became confused and even rankled at the way Mother seemed to slip into a deep depression over the death of her mother. Anna couldn't understand. If Mother had cared so much about her mother, why hadn't she spent more time with the old woman? It just didn't make sense. Now she understood the sorrow only too well.
Anna picked up another basket, running her hands over its smoothly woven surface. This one was probably watertight. She traced her fingers over the dark, triangular design of the intricate weave. It seemed familiar, and suddenly she wondered if Mother might have saved some of Grandma Pearl's things after all. At the time of Grandma's death, her mother had dismissed Anna's questioning about Grandma's things, saying that they were all old and worthless and "probably full of bugs." For the first couple of years, Anna had maintained Grandma's little cabin, almost like a shrine. But then as time passed and she grew older, with more distractions at school and in her social life, she went to the cabin less and less.
It wasn't until she was sixteen that she realized that everything had been cleared out of the small cabin. Anna had assumed it was her mother's doing and she feared that everything had been dumped. In fact, she punished her mother with the silent treatment for nearly a week as a result. She later learned that several years after Grandma's death, Daddy had decreed that nothing should be thrown away. Just stored. And he told her that he'd very carefully boxed up some of the more special things, like trade beads and a ceremonial dress and some old beaded baby moccasins . . . things he thought Anna might appreciate when she was older. As far as she knew, these were still safely stored somewhere in the attic.
But by far the best thing that Daddy had saved was the River Dove. Apparently, Grandma Pearl had told Daddy that the little dugout canoe was to go to Anna. Grandma Pearl had told Anna about how she'd acquired this sound little boat. Her husband—not John but the second one, Crazy Bob, the one who drank too much—had brought it home quite late one night. It was only a "squaw canoe," only big enough for one small person, and Crazy Bob could barely squeeze in or out of it. He told her he'd won it gambling, and since no one ever showed up to reclaim it, she figured it must be true. She was glad to have the canoe and happily used it for many years.
Daddy told Anna that dugout canoes had been fairly common before the turn of the century (and the reservation woes) and that many Indians had used them as their primary mode of transportation, traveling up and down the river to follow fish and food wherever it was to be found. "But," he explained quietly, probably so that Mother wouldn't overhear, "nowadays the old craft of making the dugout is nearly lost, like so many of the Indian ways. Lucky for you, Grandma Pearl told me all about it, and I'll explain it all to you too someday."
That summer, Daddy made Anna prove her aquatic ability by swimming all the way across the river while he paddled the little canoe alongside her. "Grandma told me that no selfrespecting man would use a canoe like this," he called out as she swam. "But I kind of like it so if you change your mind and decide to swim back, I won't mind." The twinkle in his blue eyes told her that he was just teasing.
And Anna showed herself to be a strong swimmer that day. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been able to at least dog-paddle, but she had never actually swum all the way across the river before; in fact she'd been forbidden to even attempt such a thing. But she had always accepted her parents' extreme caution when it came to river safety because she knew they had lost their firstborn child, a brother she'd never even met, when he apparently toddled off the edge of the dock and drowned. No one had witnessed the tragedy, but the theory was that the child had been tempted by Grandma Pearl's canoe, which had been tied to the dock at the time. He had been begging for rides in the canoe, but Mother had been afraid it was too tippy for a small child.
Daddy had spotted him from the store, floating just below the surface of the water. Dropping a bottle of fish oil, which shattered right behind the counter (the stain remained after all those years), he'd dashed out to rescue his son . . . too late. Little Eric Joseph, named after a grandfather in far-off Sweden, never saw his third birthday. It had been the one dark shadow of sadness on their otherwise rather blissful little lives, and they rarely spoke of it. But because of losing little Eric, Daddy had made certain that Anna could swim even before she could walk.
Anna could still remember the look of sheer joy on her father's tanned features when she triumphantly reached the other side. She would never forget how he had pulled the canoe onto the shore and handed her the paddle. Then, to her surprise, he stripped off his shirt. "It's your canoe now." Then he jumped in the river, swimming next to her this time, as he shouted instructions and she clumsily p
addled back across the river to their own dock.
After that day, the canoe became her ticket to freedom on the river. And before long, at least during summer and on weekends, she took to wearing her dark hair in two long pigtails, just like Grandma used to do. And as she paddled along the river, she imagined herself to be a Siuslaw Indian princess. Like her grandma before her, Anna called her little canoe River Dove because of the bird's head that was carved into the bow, but unlike her grandma (at least she'd assumed) Anna secretly called herself the "Indian Princess of Shining Waters." Because in her mind, she ruled the river—or at least the portion directly in front of their store. Customers seemed to acknowledge her reign as they smiled and waved to her, careful not to rock her in their wake as they docked their boats and went into the store for supplies and the latest news. Life had been so sweet and simple then.
Anna sighed. If only it were so simple now. She looked out the window again. At the present moment, her river didn't look any more like the Shining Waters than she felt like an Indian princess. She set the woven basket down and sank onto the old, familiar camel-hair sofa, pulling a shabby pink and green knitted afghan over her legs. She fingered the crocheted throw with sadness. Already it was falling apart, whether from moths or too much use, and it would soon be a useless pile of pink and green yarn bits. And yet her mother's own hands had meticulously hooked each loop on this blanket. Anna still remembered how, so many years ago, after several months of crocheting each evening, her mother had draped the pink and green fruit of her labors over the back of this very sofa with such pride—a white woman sort of pride. And now the blanket looked so shabby and pathetic and stringy. Compared to the beautiful Indian baskets on the coffee table, the afghan seemed rather silly . . . and useless . . . and sad.
River's Song - The Inn at Shining Waters Series Page 3
