A Short Story About a Russian Sailor and a Squirrel

                    The continuing tale of my father, David Owen, and his adventures along the Oregon coast.

 

     While my dad lived in Oregon with his brother Harold, their father George and LaVera, their stepmother, I don’t think the boys went to school. He never mentioned attending classes. It seems he just got into a lot of mischief, as youngsters that age are prone to do with little supervision and guidance.

     My father told me that many ships came into port from all over the world. One time he spent the day playing in a park close to the docks, running in the grass, and dodging tall trees. The cool shade was adequate, but he was thirsty and made his way to a fountain. As “Davey” took sips, he watched several squirrels scampering up and down limbs.

     In the meantime, a freighter docked from Russia. The weary sailors disembarked, many making their way to the very park my dad was playing in. One burly maritime comrade separated from the others. He said in broken English that he was from Russia. My dad kept a safe distance, not wanting to be shanghaied, but observed that the man was also eyeing the squirrels.

     “Good eating, those?” asked the sailor.

     My dad had eaten a few that his big brother shot and cooked during hard times and nodded. “Yes, they are.” He imagined fresh-fried squirrel and dumplings were better than the buggy sea rations and salted fishes that the sailors must have consumed for several weeks.

     The sailor reminded Davey just a little of the cartoon character Bluto from the Popeye comics and he watched with amusement as the large-armed stranger casually walked toward a bunch of the rodents. Their bushy tails twitched a little, but generally they had little to fear from the average picnicking families and their children. The little animals went about their business.

     The Russian set his sights on a fluffy momma squirrel with large haunches who rested beneath a tree that had a wide girth. As the foreigner approached, she eyed him with disinterest. The Russian looked to see if his audience was watching. Yes, indeed, Davey wanted to know what would happen next. The big man got closer, so the bushy-tailed animal jumped, but instead of scaling up the tree bark, it ran to the other side of the trunk. Davey and the man could still see the tip of a wee tail flicking from the other side, just above some gnarled roots. “Bluto” ran to that side of the tree, so Momma Squirrel did the same, running to the opposite, as if she was playing a game. Davey laughed, the Ruskie guffawed and grinned. He looked around the thick trunk; she looked from the other side, and it went on like that for several minutes until the squirrel had enough and climbed about five feet up, clinging to bark. She was still and quiet. Davey could see large shoulders heaving on the other side, then two hulking muscular arms reaching out as if to hug the tree. Then came the two hands with sausage-like fingers that, in an instant, throttled the squirrel around its slender middle.

     Just as quickly, the toothed, angry creature began to chew the man’s hands. He screamed and howled, but for some reason he would not loosen his grip! My dad watched in stunned horror as the fierce battle for survival went on and the intense pain-infused yelping from the other side of the oak continued.

     Suddenly the fingers disengaged. The squirrel dropped to the ground and hobbled off. Bluto came from the other side of the log, blood dripping from his meaty hands.

     “You!” He lifted a digit that looked like it had met with a sausage grinder and pointed it at Davey. “Look at my hands! They are no good to me now! YOU said it was good to eat! I should kill you!”

     My dad, with the swiftness of the unremorseful boy he was, ran a ways and said, “Yes, they are good to eat, but I never told you to catch one with  your  bare  hands!”

     So, the boy ran as fast as his feet would carry him, out of the park and as far from the scene as he could reasonably get. He did not go back there for some time, but there was more mischief to be enjoyed, as we shall see next week.

                        Harold Klein Owen and David Evert Owen in Detroit, just before their big move to Oregon

My Father's Journey to Oregon and Sneaking Into The Temple

     About 1942, my father David Owen, and the brother closest in age to him, Harold, ventured to Oregon. My grandparents had divorced and remarried—in fact my grandmother, Arizona was newly wed to her second husband, Roy Farmer.

     These two youngest sons, were about to enter puberty and were full of mischief. They were no longer little children digging forts in a backyard in Detroit. The United States had only just entered World War two; Eugene and Edward, the older sons, were soldiers. Sisters Lynn-Marie and Delma were married and engaged, respectively.  It’s understandable that Zona and Roy needed some time to themselves.

     Grandpa (known as Ransom by friends and siblings, and Papa George by the youngsters) lived in Oregon with his second wife LaVera, so the boys were shipped by bus, west from Detroit. It was a long journey for two boys almost twelve and ten. They sat, day after day, city after city, state after state. They left the concrete of Detroit and soon entered highways lined with trees, drove past lakes, then farms, and through Chicago’s streets famed for gangsters, hooch and speakeasies only a decade or two before. When the boys left the Windy City, tall buildings behind them became smaller in the distance and soon there were only small towns, fields and little farmhouses to break the landscape during the day. If sleep came at all, it was fitful, bouncing and jostling in the hard seats. The whir of the large tires was their lullaby.  During the crossing, trees gave way to plains, plains changed to arid landscapes and within days, the Rocky Mountains came into view.

     In those days, older children could safely wander most cities as long as they didn’t venture far from the station. They’d listen for an announcement calling them to board yet another bus.

     Just as their transportation was entering Utah, the driver said, “Utah was settled by the Mormons in the 1880s. They turned a desert wasteland into what today, is a thriving state. Many of you have heard of Brigham Young and his many wives. He sent missionaries out into the world to preach, and when they departed, those boys were told to gather more women. ‘Bring them back and bring ’em young! bring ‘em young!’” the man joked.

     The vehicle pulled into the station in Salt Lake City. Passengers departed, some meeting relatives and others stretching their aching legs. Davey and Harold were told to return at a designated time, but they had a few hours to explore. They day was warm and the sun was shining. Davey toured around Temple Square and learned about the miracle of the seagulls who had flocked in to eat an invasion of crickets that were devouring the newly sprouting crops; the only food that the pioneers had. If not for those birds, the newly arrived families surely would have starved.

     By mid-day, alone in the bright direct sun, my dad being the curious boy he was, sought shade and respite in the large building he was nearest to. He entered a door that was obviously not being used. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, the boy looked around, saw alters and such. There was some light and he saw a group of people in another room, dressed in white.

     A very surprised older gentleman saw him. The man walked over and asked, “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

     Davey pointed, then answered, “I’m waiting for my bus. I came through that door over that way.” The old man gently guided him right back out the door, into the bright sun. He found Harold and the two made their way through the city and back to the station.

     Soon they heard a voice call them to board their bus to Oregon and days later, the boys were reunited with their Papa George. Davey was bound to get into more mischief and his brief adventure into the historic Salt Lake City Temple was only the beginning.

 

To be continued.

Photograph of the bus station in Salt Lake City ca. 1940's

All Mixed Up, With A Twist of Teriyaki

 

     I had a conversation today that made me remember events and consider things anew.

      At church, I met a young man that told our ward (congregation) about his mission to the Philippines, the various languages, the many islands he lived on and, of course, the people that he’d taught the scriptures to. I told him that half my family is Asian and several of those are of Pilipino descent.

      I recounted the time I was working at a museum a couple decades ago. I hadn’t seen my co-worker (I’ll call her Deborah) for several days as I’d been in Lake Tahoe for a family wedding. I told her that I’d be making a scrapbook and I’d bring it in. (Scrapbooking was a thing in southern Utah where I was living at the time.) It was slow that mid-morning. I counted my drawer and slid it under the register. Before we shared my photos, I asked Deborah how she was doing. “Well, I spent too much time on the phone with some Asians. They kept forwarding my calls to different departments! Why can’t we just have Americans answer customer service calls?” I agreed with her. “Then there was this Asian at the grocery store; why did they hire her? She doesn’t fit in. Also, there’s some Asian dating my nephew. She has funny-looking eyes, but enough about my week. Show me your photo album!”

      “No, it can wait; we’re bound to get some tourists soon," I declined. "Maybe another day.” (I wasn’t ashamed of my family. I really didn’t want to get into a big discussion just before welcoming customers, selling tickets, talking about the history of our museum and the discovery of dinosaur prints on the very rock our building was standing on.)

      “Oh, is this it?” She asked, reaching for the white book next to my purse under the cash register.

     “Yes, it is,” I answered as she opened it up. It was too late to stop her.

      As she thumbed through the pages, Deborah saw the bride, the wedding party, my nieces, nephews, spouses and the reception photos. Asian Americans. Beautiful, slanted eyes. She looked at me and turned as white as a sheet of paper. She kept saying, “Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry!” She was embarrassed. I was embarrassed for her. It was very awkward. “I didn’t know!” she gasped. How could she? Despite all the things that I am, I present as white. She mumbled her apologies and repeated that she was sorry.

      I mentally asked, ‘You’re sorry I have Asian family or that, unlike you, I am not a bigot?’ but I kept my mouth shut. This wasn’t about me. People were ready to come in and enjoy themselves. I wasn’t about to steal their joy with a grumpy attitude. Soon a few families came through our big, glass doors, approached our counter and before long I was selling tickets.

     A few weeks later, I was back in Michigan for the summer; Deborah found other volunteer opportunities in our community, so I didn’t see her when I returned, and I don’t give the incident much thought, except that it makes me laugh sometimes. What else can I do when someone makes a fool of herself?

     I repeat -- how could she know? I myself was raised Japanese. I realize that sounds delusional to someone who casually knows me, but I was.

     My Scots-Irish Cherokee dad’s significant other while he served in the Navy, Mary-Hana, ¹  was Japanese. While living in Japan, he learned how to make tempura vegetables and shrimp, teriyaki marinated beef, shrimp curry, and much more. He taught me how to count in Japanese, how to say phrases like good morning, and I’m sorry. My mother’s first husband, Kiyoshi, was born in Hawaii but was 100 % Japanese by ethnicity (possibly Okinawan). My mother cooked a lot of fried rice. Of course, there were other things she’d learned but about a third of our meals were Japanese.

     The home that I grew up in was decorated with what my parents brought into the marriage: Delicate Japanese paintings of flowers and birds, bamboo furniture, a low to the ground octagon table with accompanying large pillows that we sat on for some meals, Asian rugs and more. It wasn’t until 1976 that my mother came into the 20th Century and purchased modern American furniture. She sold much of what she had on the walls and on shelves. So, it was exciting to finally have nice American furniture and new (to me) meals that my mother was learning to cook while watching talk shows on the Detroit area TV stations.

     Once in a while, at school or at the skating rink, kids would bad-mouth Japanese factories and cars. They’d talk about their grandfathers fighting the Japanese soldiers and how our Detroit-made cars were far superior to those ugly little Japanese automobiles infiltrating our neighborhoods. My sisters were living in California, with their biological dad, so when Margie ² the one closest in age to me would visit, I’d have some explaining to do. My “Koshi-Daddy,” an American citizen, fought in World War Two for the United States. I tried to explain that to some of the other kids, but they just didn’t care to listen and learn. To them, all Asians were dirty, potential spies, apt to torture you just for fun. It  gave me a weird feeling that anyone would believe that nonsense. How could they lump my sisters in with such paranoia? Some kids (and teachers) were already mad at me for having a German mother.

     It was refreshing that I’d occasionally see two really nice kids from Canada who were of Asian descent at festivals and venues in the Great Lakes Region. We’d run into each other sometimes. I bonded with them right away (but I’ll leave that for another blog entry).

     I had other things to deal with: Black children spitting in my curly hair at the mall for being white. White kids beating me up and calling me the N---word for having tight curls. A mother clueless as to how to style my hair, my dad loving each and every lock on my head. A broad nose that, when I found out there was a thing called “plastic surgery,” I couldn’t wait to “fix” it.

     The ethnic confusion continued. My Japanese-German sister Margie would visit from Stockton, California, and share her Motown albums with me, then she was perplexed that I was listening more to country than my city’s trademark music style. All my neighbors’ families listened to Charlie Pride, Hank Williams, Conway Twitty, Glen Campbell, Johnny Paycheck and Kenny Rogers, so that is what I sang and played up until just before high school.

     That brings us to today: I really pondered what it means to be me, a mixed-identity soul in a world of labels and constructs. If I embrace my Japanese upbringing, then some misguided people call it culture appropriation. My own sisters didn’t eat (or remember) the meals that my dad cooked. They didn’t have Asian furnishings and art in their father’s home. They didn’t know ANY Japanese words because their dad didn’t speak it. Maybe one or two ancient aunties did, but those dear ladies were living in Hawaii and had little influence on Jeanette³and Margie.

     I thought even more about what it must be to identify with a culture but be ethnically different. What about the part African American child that is raised with a white-European mother? What about a man who was very much Native American whose family suppressed their heritage for a century, yet subtly instructed their children and grandchildren in the old ways, whether they knew they were teaching it or not? I was blessed to have the influence of many cultures growing up. What I wasn’t, my neighbors were. I don’t feel that I missed out, but these past two decades I feel very confused.

     In 2025, I hope to touch upon these subjects. Some of them are: being a curly-haired little toddler in Georgia at a funeral, my uncles having served during World War Two just to have their baby-brother (my dad) marry a German-born woman with Japanese-American children, my uncles fighting during that war, how my father’s younger siblings fought at home, their life on a houseboat, my dad surviving a tornado, my Uncle Harold’s pet pig, my Papa George meeting the great escape artist Harry Houdini,  how my American grandparents met, their unusual marriage ceremony, their ways of camping under the stars, how my Auntie Delma met Oak Spiering who was the love of her life, good things my daddy showed me how to cook, some food history that he taught me, how I gained a Vietnamese brother, my great-grandfather who was a country doctor in North Carolina a century ago -- and that’s only the beginning!

     My late father, David Owen, often shared tales of the rollicking life he had in the Navy, and I hope that I can relate those experiences to you in his words. He was quite a character.  I recorded his tales more than forty years ago, and they're on old cassettes. 

     This New Year will be full of the stories that made me the complex human being that I am today. You may not understand. Don’t fret; I do not even fully understand! I just hope you enjoy my family history. 

     See you next year – 2025 here I come!

 ¹  Mary was not Ms. Hana’s actual given name. This is just what my father and other Americans called her. My dad wanted to marry her in the States and make the marriage legally recognized, but she would not leave Japan.  They lost contact with one another.

  ²  Known as Maggie in my first published book Lizzie’s Blue Ridge Memories.

  ³  Known as Jenny in my first published book Lizzie’s Blue Ridge Memories.

Christmas Traditions

                                            Merry Christmas

     Today I want to briefly talk about Christmas traditions. I am not talking about mine versus yours, specifically. I’m referring to a cultural construct that actually evolved over the centuries.

     The basic Christmas celebration, as we in America know it, originated from mainly European (specifically German) traditions and beliefs. Queen Charlotte, the German wife of King George III, introduced the first known Christmas tree to England in December 1800. The fragrances, art and songs have grown (snowballed you might say) since the days when Charles Dickens’ much loved and lauded novella A Christmas Carol was published in 1843. A decade or two later, the common masses slowly took on these traditions, and the United States, still in its infancy as a nation, followed suit.

     Some of our own U. S. citizens (as noted in previous posts) were of the belief that pine bows in a home were a tradition of fetishistic heathens. It’s true, such practices were pagan in origin. Many cultures, even inside our nation, still reject the bringing inside and decorating of pine trees. Some may even profess that those of us that decorate for Christmas are going to Hell!

     Take for instance individuals that reject science (yet it is my belief that God is the greatest scientist of all). You have people who emphatically adhere to a flat-Earth notion. You might meet people who believe if you and your children get inoculated for any disease, your souls will be in Satan’s grip. They seem to think that their version of Christianity is the only form of Christ-following. 

     Conversely, there are some ladies and gentlemen that attend each and every parade, cookie exchange and pageant. Some people watch Hallmark holiday movies, take their toddlers to visit Coca-Cola inspired Santas, giggle at Rudolph's exploits as he frolics with an elf who wants to be a dentist, sing Jingle Bells at the top of their lungs, (even yapping and growling along with Carl Weismann's barking dogs version). Many of these people start to decorate just before Thanksgiving.

     I meet individuals that state our dear Savior could have only been born at lambing time and reject that Jesus’ birth was actually in the winter season. Others will debate with their neighbors, point at a calendar and loudly say, “You heretic! Jesus’ birthday is on December 25, it has always been December 25 and if you don’t believe it, you’re going to spend eternity gnashing your teeth in Hades!” (Never mind that the Gregorian Calendar that we hang in our homes or glance at on our phones was first used in 1582.)

     Christmas as I celebrate it is not exactly like the observance of December 25 that my American great grandmother knew. The one that I celebrated with my children is not like the tradition of exchanging gifts on December 24 like my German-born mother. She decorated on Christmas Eve as a child and when I was a little girl Mommy allowed the tree to go up only a week before Christmas. It was then taken down New Years Day. The ceremony my own descendants will experience will most likely change with every generation.

     Does your family open gifts the night before Christmas or the day afterwards? Maybe you and your friends wait for New Years when you get together? If you have a tree, should it be festooned with red and green bulbs or blue and silver? Maybe burgundy and pink ribbons and little else?

     Do you serve ham in your home, or goose? Do you have a green bean casserole or a salad? Biscuits or rolls? Late lunch or dinner? Wine or water? Does it matter?

     Now, I want you to think of a Christmas dessert. Let’s use cake as an example. You might have the sweet cake of Christianity at your core. Your icing is blue, mine is red. The next person has sprinkles, the one down the street has piping. The core of our belief should be something sweet and good. Does it really matter if your church meets Sunday evening or Saturday morning? Does it matter if you have baptisms the first Sunday of every month only or anytime people are gathered? Does it make a great difference if that baptism takes place in a warm font or at a pond in Grandpa’s old pasture?

     The essence of the season is remembering the birth of a baby boy whose young mother accompanied her new husband for a long-distance journey. She was a stranger in another city and she gave birth without the comforting aide of relatives. Her son grew to teach radical ideas that irked the traditions of powerful men in His own community. He dined with people considered unworthy and filthy. He welcomed the friendships of political adversaries. He listened first, then taught truths that changed ingrained dogmas and customs. He instructed all who would listen to give second and third chances (and seventh chances!) to people who followed His path – the path that taught them that if they kindly gave second chances they’d be forgiven as well. He knew then (and knows now as an immortal being) that even the worst of us can mature spiritually and become better people as we follow Him. He proclaimed that He was sharing the teachings of His Father in Heaven. Whereas ancient Jewish tradition taught that women must be stoned to death for sexual indiscretions, He stated that all people are sinful (mortal and imperfect) and nobody was (or is) pure enough to execute another person for being human. He was called a heretic by leaders in His own religion. He healed the sick of mind and infirm of body. Miracles were documented by contemporaries of His own time. Stories were told of Him for many decades and centuries. He was killed for what He believed in. Even now, people who may or may not be religious, ascribe teachings to Him that He Himself never preached. Yet if each of us studies the Bible, we will find the true nature of this great man who was more than just a mere human.

     This miraculous man’s name is Jesus. We also call Him Christ, meaning that He is the only one anointed (christened) as the Son of God. If we take on His teachings and follow His path, we can call ourselves Christians.

     This Christmas no matter how you proceed with your gala, the core of our celebration of Christ’s birth should center around a special baby, born in a humble stable, to a poor mother who was a visiting stranger to an unfamiliar city. Know that this child grew to teach love and buck accepted traditions that were doing more harm than good. This child of wayfaring strangers claimed to be the Son of God and performed miracles, not to make money or entertain, but to mend the broken. He wouldn’t want us to argue about who has the best gingerbread house, which community had the best marching band in the holiday parade, or who doesn’t have a decorated tree no matter the reason. If your holiday meal is merely a ham sandwich in a motel, that is enough. Most importantly we must remember why we celebrate to begin with and follow His teachings.

     Jesus is NOT the season. He is the reason for the season.

     Merry Christmas

Journalism Is Not What It Used To Be - Distilling The Facts

 

      A good reporter cuts through the BS. A good reporter also stays neutral and unbiased, at least for his or her subject, story, and research, and in the final result of what is, at some point, published. If he is anything else, the article is no more than an opinion piece better left for the editorial page of what remains of print media.

     This evening, I went to a lecture given by Roger Rapoport. He is a producer, investigator, and author. His most recently published book is Searching for Patty Hearst- A True Crime Novel (Lexographic Press, 2024). I purchased a copy tonight and I look forward to reading it, partly for the sake of nostalgia and mostly to see if there was anything I’d missed in my younger years.

     Once upon a time (okay, fifty years ago) I was a ten-year-old. One of the most memorable news stories was the kidnapping and search for Patty Hearst. I remember the actual nightmares my mother had for my sisters' safety following Hearst's abduction. They both lived in California at the time. One was newly married and the other attended high school in Stockton. Mommie would wake up from nightmares that her two oldest children had been kidnapped or murdered. One time she had a dream so vivid of my sisters' severed arms left on our doorstep holding small notes in their fists. Once contacted, my sisters would reassure our mother (each and every time) that they were safe and happy. 

     On the other hand, Ms. Hearst was held captive and  brainwashed and, as a result, robbed banks with her captors. What would make a teen girl, barely a woman, participate in these dangerous and violent capers? Was it the brainwashing? Was it Stockholm Syndrome? Was it fear or even boredom?

     Having been locked in a closet and her life threatened, Ms. Hearst emerged days later to find out that her father was unwilling (yet able) to pay the ransom. In her mind, the young abductee's whole world became an illusion; reality distorted. Her father, Randy Hearst (heir to the powerful Hearst Publishing machine), was advised by the government's negotiators not to pay the requested money. Whatever the reason, Patty's heart and mind were broken. Into the cracks were poured the views of her terrorist captors. Following the isolation and deprivation of the dark and tiny closet, she was fed tales of the war in Vietnam, starving communities not far from Ms. Hearst’s own mansion, and of course, threats to her loved ones.

     Roger Rapoport’s book promises to enlighten and educate readers with facts as well as anecdotes. After all, Patty Hearst’s fiancé (at the time of her kidnapping), Steven Weed, lived with Rapoport in California, shortly after his intended bride was taken for ransom and he was beaten horribly. The men had even worked on a book together about Ms. Hearst but later published separate accounts.

     Having not read the book yet, I can only recommend the author by his other notable works and movies, one of which is the obscure film Waterwalk, which I remember as a hidden gem. After the meet-and-greet, Rapoport asked me what my name is. His was, of course, familiar to me. I was impressed by his knowledge and research. He said that he wouldn’t give his opinions of Patty Hearst’s motives for wielding a machine gun and robbing banks with known domestic terrorists. I admired that. It lent credibility to his lecture and research—but here’s what I liked best: as he asked me my name and complimented me on presenting good questions at the end of the lecture, I mentioned that my email address was on the guest-list next to the words Manitowen Press. He asked where the Press is based out of. I answered in Michigan, yet he wanted to know specifically what city. He was direct. He cut through my bull. I am not always forthcoming about what city Manitowen Press runs its business in for a multitude of reasons, mainly because I hold the privacy of some authors in my hands. It is also because, as an author and editor (a poorly skilled one at that), I have made a few public comments that would have been brushed off decades ago. In today’s world there is always some crank with a propensity for violence. I even had a stalker. In separate instances, I’ve had threats made against me and even one made online at a family member's dog. (Briefly, I had Ollie's photo set to public on one of my online media accounts. I have a small farm as well as an interest in hunting and fishing. An overzealous person threatened to hang the dog and skin it like farm animals are slaughtered for consumers. I'm digressing, but you can see that these kinds of people don't think logically. I am getting over my own traumas, and I don’t welcome much attention.) Yet, there was Rapoport, a stranger, looking me straight in the eyes, asking very direct questions, and no amount of charm would dissuade him.

     That is how he remained a key player in the media game, by distilling a potential story down to its essence, and that, my friends, is how a reporter strikes gold.

 

(I’ll give you an opinion about Finding Patty Hearst at a later date.)

 

Bill, George, David, Olegineni, Tahnie, and Tales of Nature

     I loved listening to the tales the old folks used to tell. These relatives and friends were clear of mind and recounted the stories of their youth, the admonitions of their parents and grandparents, and other wise counsel as they sat, gathered at kitchen tables or in living rooms. I miss those experiences and I am afraid the younger generations are being cheated of similar moments. This is the way things used to be taught and how history as well as tradition was passed on.

     My father, David Owen, taught me how to plant trees and shrubs. He said to dig in a suitable spot, water the hole, place the roots in and pat the soil and also sometimes actually pound the earth with our boots. (I’d used my bare feet then, and I still do now! Somehow, I feel closer to mother earth when I take my shoes off.) My daddy cautioned me not to leave air pockets around the roots. He’d water some more (usually that meant I’d hold the hose in my tiny fists). Then he showed me how to do a little “dance ritual” around the tree, further patting the soil. Later I added a solemn invocation to the four directions of the earth: One to the east where the sun comes from, a second to the west where our wind and rain originate, third the north where I believed our Cherokee ancestors came from before they went into what is now the Appalachian region, and lastly, the south, where warmer temperatures return from in spring. That is, I thought I’d added those supplications to the four winds. I learned recently that it is an indigenous prayer and that the “planting dance” is known to many Native Americans and First Nations People east of the Mississippi. I wonder if my daddy taught me that entreaty, as well as the dance, because it was hidden deep in my conscience. I know it was all passed down by some ancestor at some time from another ancestor at another time. My father passed away in 2007. I cannot ask him the particulars, but I do know my Cherokee ancestors had the Anglicized surnames of Silver and Walkingstick. Their Cherokee names were Olegineni U-Ta-Lv-Nu-Sti and her husband Tahnie Udalvnusti. They were both born in 1735 and both died in Bird Town in what is now Swain County, North Carolina. I can only speculate that each generation passed this planting dance down to their children all the way to me, and it hurts when people in my own family accuse me of culture appropriation when I pass these traditions down to my own grandchildren. It is my history. It is what I was taught and it is what I do even now when I plant fruit trees.

          Everybody has a story. I have mine, my ancestors had theirs. Some stories are lost along the way.

          I was told the adventures of two men in my ancestry: Bill and George. It was said that Bill, on my Parker side, was out hunting when he was a young man. It was a beautiful autumn day in North Carolina. The long walk and refreshing air made him weary, so he took a nap at the base of a tree. A sound sleeper, he later woke, but his eyes were blurry. He had a difficult time adjusting his vision and soon realized he was under a pile of leaves. He carefully dug his way out and wondered what in the world had buried him and for what reason. Old-Man-Curiosity had Bill by the heart so he climbed the tree and patiently waited. Later a mamma mountain lion came into view with her half-grown cub. The two large cats neared the pile of leaves. Bill could have shot one or both, but he saw no need to, and he wanted to observe a little longer. The lioness gave a signal, sort of a squeak, and indicated to its youngster. The baby cat leapt onto the pile and dug with ferocity but there was no meal beneath. The disappointed mountain lions waisted little more time investigating where their dinner had gone and padded off. Bill realized that had he slept much longer, he’d have been eaten.

     George’s story was a thrilling one also and began as a hot summer day in Georgia. Even in the woods, there was no respite. The humidity was oppressive. The man found a stream, stripped down and jumped into the cool water. He waded and swam for some time, then made his way to some roots that provided a little shelter by the streambank. George relaxed in the dark, damp, coolness. Not long after, he heard a rustling close by and saw a buck and a couple does tentatively walk to the stream. The buck somehow signaled his okay and the small herd dipped their heads in and drank. The animals also sought out the coolness of the water and waded in. The stag came closer to the bank where George rested, and soon, all he could see were spindly, brown legs at eye level. Closer and closer came the buck as he passed the sheltered spot where George held his breath and waited, in stillness. The deer turned his haunches toward the bank. On a whim, George quicklymgrabbed onto the animal’s back legs. With a whoosh the startled stag leapt as best he could with George holding on for dear life! The man tightened his grip as imagined scenes of the large cervid potentially turning to gore him with dagger-like antlers flashed in his brain -- which by that time was being shook in his skull all while sharp pointed rear hooves kicked at his face. Within a few more bounds, George lost his grip and the herd fled the stream.

     Many years later, I asked the old folks about these stories. They could not remember which old uncle had nearly become the cats’ chow. I asked my dad about Papa George grabbing the stag’s back legs. I recounted it word for word. He just shook his head in doubt. My dad told me that he didn’t believe his father, a very smart man, would have been that foolish. Daddy had never known about that story.

     Tonight, I realized, we all know an Aunt Marie or an Uncle Raymond that did something of note. There might have been an old friend named Verna who was born in a barn. We say, “That was quite a story.” We believe that at each family gathering, the tale will be retold of how it was a cold night right after Christmas and Baby Verna was put in a tomato crate, her cheeks and all ten toes and all ten fingers -- cold to the touch. Nobody will ever forget the details. Then decades later our kids say, “Mom says Raymond was quite a character!” yet they don’t quite remember why he was a character. Even later, our grandchildren ask, “Who was Raymond? Who was Marie? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of Verna.” Another generation passes and these people are barely names on a family chart, even if someone is doing family history.

     This upcoming year I urge you readers to start your own blog. It shouldn’t matter if nobody else outside of immediate family or your close friends reads it. Tell your story. Tell your parents’ stories. Recount the adventures of what it was like to go to a pajama party, ride a bike, go on a trip to your grandma’s house. Commit to write one day a week, or one day a month. Set aside a couple hours or an evening to do one story at a time, Write that day and time on your calendar. Make it a ritual. Let it become a habit. Put down that remote. Set down your phone and stop zombie scrolling. I guarantee, the same silly reels will be waiting for you on TikTok and in the long run, you won’t really miss them. Don’t let your stories fade. Tell your true, authentic history before you are history.

Abundance and Gratefulness - True Thanks and Giving

     Happy Sunday. I wish to add a little more to what I shared last week, since technically, it's still Thanksgiving Weekend.

     As I was about to speak in church last Sunday, I looked out at the people in the pews. Some of them I’ve known for a few years. Some are new move-ins. I put my reading glasses on to look at the pages before me and saw them with a different perspective. They were the same people, same families, same clothes, in the same seats - yet with my lenses on, I saw them differently. On and off, blurred and defined. I realized, seeing that we are abundantly blessed is a similar process. It’s all how we see our circumstances.

     I began my talk with this sudden realization and opted to leave my spectacles on my nose, telling my listeners what was happening with my glasses. Then I said to them that there is so much to be grateful for. Psalm chapter 118 verse 1 says, “Give thanks unto the Lord.” For instance, we can be angry that roses have thorns or grateful that a thorn bush produces flowers.

     About 80 years ago, there were two sisters: Corrie and Betsie. They were thankful for, of all things, fleas! At the time, they were imprisoned in a concentration camp. Most books were confiscated. They even had to hide their scriptures! Those Bible verses were written on playing cards and hidden, because the “offense” of being caught with a Bible meant beatings and less rations (if you could call a bit of stale bread, dirty water, rotten meat or gruel with rat droppings food). They could have even been executed. As a result of the flea infestation, they were spared an inspection by an otherwise fastidious prison matron.

     I’m grateful for simple blessings like indoor plumbing, my own shower and my own toilet. I am even grateful for McDonalds. I’m what my dad called a ‘Heinz 57” kid. My dad’s people  were pre-Revolutionary War, European and Mixed-blood Cherokees. My mother was born in Germany. When I last visited Europe at the age of seven, my grandmother and aunt lived in apartments with shared toilets down a hall. What could be loosely called “toilet paper” was brown and stiff, like shopping bags. Oh, and the toilets had no seat. They were mere holes in the floor attached to pipes. Even at the age of seven, this was mind-boggling for an American child. Also, the food was strange to me. After several days of picking at what was put in front of me and refusing to eat, my mother thought I would starve. My dad and mother asked a US soldier (who risked punishment) to sneak a hamburger out of the commissary for me. For three weeks I ate mostly bread, carrots, and simple things -- and I grew to love grape juice while there. If I’d liked McDonald’s before that trip, I was nearly obsessed with their cheeseburgers by the time I got back to the states.

     Likewise, I am grateful for clean drinking water from a tap. In some countries, the women and children carry buckets to streams that are miles way. Sometimes there are cattle wallowing in the same water. Carrying the containers back to their simple homes is backbreaking work involving a yoke balanced across their shoulders. Then the families wait for the mud to settle at the bottom of the buckets.  Although the liquid at the top might look clear, in the water there are worms, flukes and germs that can sicken and kill people. Even then, these villagers grateful when the streams flow.

     As stated previously in this blog, I’ve had two major accidents in my life and a multitude of little wrecks. I was grateful to come back from the multi-vehicular wreck in which, according to witnesses at the scene, my head went through the window of a pickup truck. That was 29 years ago. A counselor reassured me that it was unlikely to happen ever again. He urged me to be less hypervigilant. But guess what? I was rear ended a couple more times, and then nearly 14 years ago, my family and I were in the deadliest trainwreck in Nevada’s history. People died in front of us! As we left the train cars, a billowing, intense fire consumed the section we'd just left. 

     I can either lament that we were injured and traumatized, or be grateful that we survived. It still took effort to heal. The Lord spared our lives, but I had to make an effort to come out of it: with prayers, physical therapy, yoga, massages, and counselling.

     By the way, our luggage was consumed in the fire we escaped. Collectively we lost almost everything we’d packed:  our clothes burned, a library book burned, my laptop burned, and yet my daughter’s scriptures were not burned.

     In the course of recovery, the best counselors urged me to keep a gratitude journal where each evening I’d write at least five things I was grateful for. Then I thanked my Heavenly Father for those blessings. My therapists urged me to see the bright side of all my trials.

     To illustrate, in the classic movie, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, there’s a scene where Mr. Smith’s girlfriend says she envisioned a tunnel and every time she’d come out of that tunnel and into a bright new world. She appreciated the beautiful things she hoped to see all around her. Could we all make an effort to see the beauty in the little things all around us? Thankfulness is appreciating abundance and not dwelling on the darkness we’ve left behind; it’s looking at the new things set before us. To look back on the tunnel, in my case, only led to further depression. To simplify it down to its essence, Jesus can be our light at the end of the tunnel.

     Recently Hurricane Helene Ravaged the Appalachian Mountains and their citizens. The deluge washed away homes, businesses, farms, and entire communities. In many cases, all the survivors had were the muddy clothes on their backs. That’s just one of the few times in recent American history that our citizens actually “lived” Timothy verse six, chapter eight. How can anyone have gratitude in that situation? For some, the alternative was being exposed to the elements in complete and stark nakedness. Some districts did not even have potable drinking water. Many towns were remote and unreachable by truck or even helicopters. The people were grateful for mule teams that brought in basic supplies and tents for shelter. 

     To paraphrase, Timothy verse six, chapter eight says,

“Godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. Yet if we have food and clothing, we should be content with that.”

 

     The people in my church have said that if you are prepared you won’t have to fear. Like the boy scout motto, it’s good to be prepared. However, what if you lose your home and family along with all you’ve set aside for sustenance? Some homes in the hills of North Carolina were just gone. Other people were grateful that their houses were spared, but barely, and even then, in many cases, they didn’t have clean water.

     So, what can we do to help our “brothers and sisters” in similar situations? People from my church volunteered their time to clean up parts of North Carolina where some of my distant family members were born. Preparation is the first step. When that isn’t enough, love, kindness and the ability to assist will help us all keep walking in the right direction.

     We can show our gratitude for our abundance by choosing to share. Some of us can help by donating to reputable organizations that build water tanks and purifications stations in Africa and South America. If you message me in the comments, I can list a couple for you. Then there are the Giving Machines that will be placed in malls this holiday season. They are large, red, vending machine-like kiosks.

     Yet, what happens if someone we know and love has died in one of these recent tragedies? Their suffering is at an end. That is a simple truth. Isn’t it a blessing that the ones we loved no longer struggle to breathe or feel pain? It’s hard to feel grateful for that stark reality, but it’s a blessing in its own way.

     What if we die? We might find ourselves wandering in the valley of death. We might be consumed by the darkness around us, hoping to find a light to guide us. If we see that glimmer before us, we must follow the light. Know if we die, we die in Jesus. That is a simple blessing and yet in its simplicity, it is profound.

     For that I am thankful. Amen.