When I look upon the picture of a story teller above, I do not see them dressed in fine buckskin clothing or with fine beaded ornaments. I see old men in faded jeans or coveralls and undecorated wool shirts. On there feet I do not see the finely stitched moccasins, but black rubber boots or those high tops they called clod hoppers. Their long hair, which they wore with dignity, was not braided, but hung loosely down their backs, sometimes bound about their heads were kerchiefs, some a simple band of leather, but most wore simple hats.
This was in Ohio in 1933.
Those of whom I speak, were no less noble than those romantic figures shown above. They were our Elders, passing down the wisdom of their Elders. They were the people, no less proud of their heritage than any other of those who are called Indians.
It would be nice to say that we who live together at this time could be called a tribe, of such and such. But if there could be a title or name for our assemblege, I guess it would be called the conglomerate tribe. Not very romantic. No princesses no proud chief's with shield and spear on horseback, shouting defiance to the winds. But proud people from many nations intermingled by neccessity, each proud of who and what they represented, no matter what language it was spoken in whether translated into "The Real People", or whatever they were Earthkeepers.
It was they who sprinkled tobacco on the graves of the nameless left behind. It was they who taught the children respect and honor through example. It was they who told the stories that caused the children to think and relate to. They were our Elders, our teachers, our doctors, our heroes.
We children were always taught to approach them bearing some sort of gift, whether it be a potato, apple, pretty stone, feather or hand full of berries. Each gift was honored by those Elders by some story that offered a bit of wisdom to be contemplated and remembered. This very same courtesy extended beyond childhood into adulthood when the adults would come bearing food or other useful gift, to ask advise on not just important matters, but sometimes just some silly thing, just as an excuse to help that Elder without hurting his feelings.
I remember one of my first lessons taught by an Elder. To this day I can't remember his name, but his lesson still lives. He was very old and was always going out of his way talk to the children. I was still a toddler as I recall and I had picked this pretty flower and took it to him. I had expected him to smile as he usually did when we children handed him some small gift like a pretty stone or feather, but instead his face got sad, and tears flowed down his cheek. He knelt down in front of me so that he could look into my eyes and said, " Yes little Tulpe, it was a beautiful flower! But did you have to reward its beauty by killing it? Had you but come and led me to it then its beauty would still be there for all to see. Now what child of this flower will there be to inherit that beauty?"
Such was the gentle ways our Elders had in their teaching. I know I was devestated by the fact that I had made an Elder feel sad. So much so, that even after sixty-three years the memory remains fresh to my mind.
I think the greatest gift the our Elders gave the people, other then stories, was the ability to make the people laugh. No matter how hard the times, or what season, they could come up with some joke or saying to make you laugh and cheer you up. I think some of them could even have given Bob Hope some lessons. Only now as an Elder myself can I realize how great a gift it was that they were giving us. For it is not easy to see past the aches and pains of age and remain cheerful.
It may be important to note, that the eyes of our elders were not all dark, some were as blue as my own. And not all had dark hued flesh, or that typified "Indian" appearance. But they were Native American to the core. You see this was Ohio, where there are no reservations. A place where no Native American was allowed to own property, unless sponsered or intermarried. The nearest reservation was in upper New York, a long walk, or horse ride for the many of us who didn't have motor vehicles. We had our Pow Wows though. The new Earth in Spring, and the Harvest in fall as well as social occasions. But these were held deep in the North-East woods where the drums would draw little attention. It was surprising to see how many of the people came. They would arrive by old hay wagons pulled by horses. Some walked, some rode, but always they came. It was during these times that the carefully treasured clothing and beadworks and feathers were unwrapped and the fancy shawls and moccasins were worn. A happy time. A time that now only lives in memory.
Perhaps it is only childhood memory that glorifies those days. I never knew bigotry or heard harsh words spoken about past injustice from them. Maybe they were spoken, but not before the children. We children were taught to be a part of this Earth, not to consider ourselves apart from the Earth.
Of all the Elders, I think my G.Grandmother Umati, left me with the greatest wisdom. She would say that these bodies which our lives possess are nothing more than what our Mother's ate and what we have eaten since birth. All comes from our Mother Earth whose dusts are enriched by our ancestors flesh.
When I look at things from that prospective, I see untold thousands of years of Native American flesh in that beautiful mixture of dust, compared to a few centuries of European dusts. So each new body born of this Earth we call Turtle Island consist more of the original people than that of the interlopers.
I was also taught that we leave the essence of ourselves on everything we touch upon this earth, and that the more it is touched or held the stronger that essence. Think then how strong the essence of our ancestors dust must be within that earth. Enough said!
Even with those few lines above I feel I have allowed myself to think in terms of us and them. This is not honoring the teachings of those Elders. But it does demonstrate how difficult the task before us will be as Peace Elders to bring about world Peace. While our bodies may unified by the dusts of Earth, each mind is the sacred space of the individual and must be honored as such.
It would be nice to say that hidden deep in North-Eastern woods of Ohio there was some vistage of those old ones. But today, not even those deep woods of childhood remain. Few if any of those childhood companions still walk among us to remember those days and pass on the Elders teachings. The wars have had a very devastating effect upon us. During the second world war, when jobs became available in abundance, the people left the Elders behind to move closer to work. Those Elders were left to whither and die on the vines like unpicked grapes. Some to go to nursing homes to quickly perish feeling useless and unwanted. Others lived out their now lonely lives in those secluded shacks, which their children and grandchildren enjoying new found wealth, now found repulsive. Ah! I wonder if these people ever discovered the true price of their wealth?
Today as my own days draw to an end, I write this tribute to them, not just for my children and grandchildren, but for all who would care to read it. Perhaps the mistakes of the past may have some weight upon the conscience of those who are to be the future.
Today as I tune into the Native American web, I hear all kinds of talk about new agies, and how we should honor our ancestors by speaking their language and all sorts of things like that. Well I'm not sayin anything to insult another, but I am reminded of an old saying. Acorns were not planted in the earth to become potatoes. And foundations were layed to be built upon. Our Elders laid out those foundations and planted those acorns. It is for us to sprout forth and build from them. Enough said!
Thus do I pay tribute to the memory of those Elders of youth.
Blue Turtle
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