A Woodcarving of MineA Time to Remember
The Journey
By Ronnie Powell
There is undoubtedly an abundance of stories hidden in the minds of all people, stories that too often are never revealed and too late when death occurs. They are aspects of life, often simple tales, yet compelling, exposing unique qualities that fall by the wayside like autumn leaves and swept away into oblivion. Knowledge of these tales I have learned can often be easily acquired by asking or showing interest in the individual’s life. They may not be promptly revealed or may follow a negative train of thoughts at first, nevertheless they are given up often in an unusual way.
I sat quietly on the floor next to Delmae, (fictitious name) an old man of Siouan stock; the face bore symbols of time, deeply creased, weather worn to the texture of old leather. Grey black hair shadowed the eyes that reflected the single flame rising and falling like an ancient warrior of old in a stone fireplace huddled against the wall. The old man sat with his head bent in prayer and I waited, sipping cold coffee from a tin cup.
Delmae and I were not close friends, but we talked and respected each other. He said to me moments after I arrived that evening the dark eyes boring into mine. “The white man’s defeat was Custer’s last stand, but the Indian paid a terrible price for the victory.”
This statement seemed to open the door to many haunting tales of his upbringing. He believed a savior would come to right the world and replenish the buffalo. Delmae openly mourned the destruction of the land, rivers and its animal inhabitants.
“A time will come when Mother Earth will grow weary of man’s cruelties and cleanses her-self of the rape. It will begin on the White Mountain.”
The following is but a small part of our time together during the evening.
The grey dusk lingering in the window of the small room faded as night crept close and as if on cue many flames rose up in the fireplace, dancing to a rhythm as old as time. The old man lifted from his lap a small cassette player and set it on the floor. The distant bellow of a diesel truck on the highway broke the silence in the room.
“Hey. Hey." Delmae said softly. “I am ready for the journey. I doubt if you will follow, but say nothing and listen.”
He bent over and pushed the on button and the machine emitted only wisps of sounds at first and then faint drum beats began, unyielding growing in intensity, demanding attention.
“Look,” Delmae said softly, pointing to the fire, “the sunset. I see a trace that leads to the mountains and the Great Plains, with grass as tall as the buffalo. See? “
I leaned forward captivated by the deep pulsating sound of the drum beat, tempted to join the hypnotic rhythm, but hesitated and was left behind. I listened to the voice, sensing urgency in it, but could not determine whether it held fear or reverent appreciation.
“I am standing at the edge of the plains and beyond lies nothing but desert that should not be there,” he said gazing intently into the fire. “There are huge pinnacles of stones scattered out across this waste land as far as I can see and I am turning back.”
Delmae said nothing more for a time, sitting quietly, swaying slowly to the beat of the drums. Night had claimed the room and if not for the firelight pushing aside the shadows dancing erratically on the walls I would not have been able to see the old man’s face.
Delmae smiled and raised a hand as if in greeting and then he spoke. “I saw nothing but the remnants of mountains and man’s skeletons, bleached white and I felt the icy touch of fear, but beyond I saw the White Mountain and knew Grandfather has not forsaken the tribes.”
He reached out and touched the cassette player and the journey ended, the drums fell silent. “Hey. Hey.” Delmae whispered and scooted closer to the fire.
Reaching into the fireplace he picked up a glowing ember and scooted back to where I sat. “Hold out your right hand, do not flinch, for no harm will come to you.” He stated gruffly.
Slowly I extended my hand; it was surprisingly steady suspended near his. I could feel the intensity of his eyes and without hesitation he laid the ember upon my open palm. The ember glowed wickedly lying there for perhaps ten or fifteen seconds and then he picked it up and tossed it into the fireplace.
“Hey. Hey.” He said. “You did well, you are human like the Indian. It is late, you should go now.”
Delmae again turned the cassette player on.
I did not leave.
Delmae’s journey continued for nearly an hour, raising an arm now and then, looking up, and lapsing into silence a time or two as tears slipped from his eyes. The recorded drum beat was a remarkable hypnotic aspect and vehicle by which he traveled and I am certain was never out of his control. Perhaps it was only the musings or reminiscing of a time worn soul and he sang.
“The whole world is coming.
A nation is coming, a nation is coming.
The Eagle has brought the message to the tribe.
The father says so, the father says so.
Over the whole earth they are coming.
The buffalo are coming, the buffalo are coming.
The Crow has brought the message to the tribe.
The father says so, the father says so.”
The Journey
By Ronnie Powell
There is undoubtedly an abundance of stories hidden in the minds of all people, stories that too often are never revealed and too late when death occurs. They are aspects of life, often simple tales, yet compelling, exposing unique qualities that fall by the wayside like autumn leaves and swept away into oblivion. Knowledge of these tales I have learned can often be easily acquired by asking or showing interest in the individual’s life. They may not be promptly revealed or may follow a negative train of thoughts at first, nevertheless they are given up often in an unusual way.
I sat quietly on the floor next to Delmae, (fictitious name) an old man of Siouan stock; the face bore symbols of time, deeply creased, weather worn to the texture of old leather. Grey black hair shadowed the eyes that reflected the single flame rising and falling like an ancient warrior of old in a stone fireplace huddled against the wall. The old man sat with his head bent in prayer and I waited, sipping cold coffee from a tin cup.
Delmae and I were not close friends, but we talked and respected each other. He said to me moments after I arrived that evening the dark eyes boring into mine. “The white man’s defeat was Custer’s last stand, but the Indian paid a terrible price for the victory.”
This statement seemed to open the door to many haunting tales of his upbringing. He believed a savior would come to right the world and replenish the buffalo. Delmae openly mourned the destruction of the land, rivers and its animal inhabitants.
“A time will come when Mother Earth will grow weary of man’s cruelties and cleanses her-self of the rape. It will begin on the White Mountain.”
The following is but a small part of our time together during the evening.
The grey dusk lingering in the window of the small room faded as night crept close and as if on cue many flames rose up in the fireplace, dancing to a rhythm as old as time. The old man lifted from his lap a small cassette player and set it on the floor. The distant bellow of a diesel truck on the highway broke the silence in the room.
“Hey. Hey." Delmae said softly. “I am ready for the journey. I doubt if you will follow, but say nothing and listen.”
He bent over and pushed the on button and the machine emitted only wisps of sounds at first and then faint drum beats began, unyielding growing in intensity, demanding attention.
“Look,” Delmae said softly, pointing to the fire, “the sunset. I see a trace that leads to the mountains and the Great Plains, with grass as tall as the buffalo. See? “
I leaned forward captivated by the deep pulsating sound of the drum beat, tempted to join the hypnotic rhythm, but hesitated and was left behind. I listened to the voice, sensing urgency in it, but could not determine whether it held fear or reverent appreciation.
“I am standing at the edge of the plains and beyond lies nothing but desert that should not be there,” he said gazing intently into the fire. “There are huge pinnacles of stones scattered out across this waste land as far as I can see and I am turning back.”
Delmae said nothing more for a time, sitting quietly, swaying slowly to the beat of the drums. Night had claimed the room and if not for the firelight pushing aside the shadows dancing erratically on the walls I would not have been able to see the old man’s face.
Delmae smiled and raised a hand as if in greeting and then he spoke. “I saw nothing but the remnants of mountains and man’s skeletons, bleached white and I felt the icy touch of fear, but beyond I saw the White Mountain and knew Grandfather has not forsaken the tribes.”
He reached out and touched the cassette player and the journey ended, the drums fell silent. “Hey. Hey.” Delmae whispered and scooted closer to the fire.
Reaching into the fireplace he picked up a glowing ember and scooted back to where I sat. “Hold out your right hand, do not flinch, for no harm will come to you.” He stated gruffly.
Slowly I extended my hand; it was surprisingly steady suspended near his. I could feel the intensity of his eyes and without hesitation he laid the ember upon my open palm. The ember glowed wickedly lying there for perhaps ten or fifteen seconds and then he picked it up and tossed it into the fireplace.
“Hey. Hey.” He said. “You did well, you are human like the Indian. It is late, you should go now.”
Delmae again turned the cassette player on.
I did not leave.
Delmae’s journey continued for nearly an hour, raising an arm now and then, looking up, and lapsing into silence a time or two as tears slipped from his eyes. The recorded drum beat was a remarkable hypnotic aspect and vehicle by which he traveled and I am certain was never out of his control. Perhaps it was only the musings or reminiscing of a time worn soul and he sang.
“The whole world is coming.
A nation is coming, a nation is coming.
The Eagle has brought the message to the tribe.
The father says so, the father says so.
Over the whole earth they are coming.
The buffalo are coming, the buffalo are coming.
The Crow has brought the message to the tribe.
The father says so, the father says so.”
-Sioux Ghost Dance Song-
No comments:
Post a Comment