TALES FROM THE BAYOU: Staying True To My Roots

For many years when I was growing up, the whole family would pile into the old family car every summer and make the trip over the mountains to visit my Aunt Betty and Uncle Elmo. They lived in Oklahoma, not far from the Cherokee Indian Reservation, and ran a small gift shop and general store just outside the reservation lands. We would even sometimes visit some the buffalo farms scattered among the rolling hills not far from where my aunt and uncle lived.

I grew up knowing I was part Cherokee. It comes from my mother's side of the family and I can only imagine what my mother's ancestors must have been like. My mother was many things, good and bad, but the thing I remember most about her is what a strong spirited woman she was. 

At least one branch of the Ownby family tree was made up of full-blooded Cherokee and my grandparents even traveled from North Carolina by covered wagon...from an area where the Eastern Band of Cherokees remain today... to eventually settle in the mountains of Arkansas where my mother, eight siblings and her parents lived in a log cabin barely big enough for all of them. Mother was one of the oldest and worked hard on the farm to help put food on the table. 

During the summers when we would make the trek to Oklahoma, I would get a chance to visit with some of mother's relatives from the Cunningham side of the family and I knew right away they were descendants of the Western band of Cherokees. Those Cherokee were the people who survived the Trail of Tears and settled on the reservation set up for them in Oklahoma. Today I wonder if my Oklahoma cousins actually lived on the reservation back then...maybe my sister knows...but I always felt like I had stepped into another world when I would visit.

I can remember helping out in the general store and shyly hiding behind the counter to watch the people from the reservation as they would come in to do business with my aunt and uncle.  Black hair and deeply tanned skin wouldn't match my auburn hair and very fair skin but still our spirits called to one another and I knew in my heart my roots would always be with the Cherokee people.

For many years one of my favorite souvenirs was a small indian doll dressed in buckskin dress that was given to me on one of my visits. I'm not sure where that doll is now, but I still have the cherry colored doll house dining room set my Aunt Betty gave me for my birthday one year. It had belonged to her mother and is now more than 75 years old but I still have it...a reminder of my annual trips back to the reservation and a step back in time to the world of the Cherokee...

The Vikings Are Coming!

Everyone comes from somewhere.  My ancestors on my father's side came from Cajun stock.  My mother's ancestors hailed from Scots-Irish and Cherokee blood.  All my life I was made well aware of where I came from.  The only problem...I spent many years not quite knowing where I was going...

I kinda like the history of the Vikings.  Yeah, there is that whole bloody pillage thing, but when you get to know them a little bit better you find they were a vibrant people with a strong definition of both where they came from and even better, where they were going.  And where they were going was into the great unknown where they had the chance to change the course of history.

Kinda sounds like the life and times of writers, doesn't it?  I mean, if we truly want to call ourselves writers, we must be willing to step out into the unknown.  To step foot on that ship bound for publication and eagerly travel uncharted waters in search of a way to leave our mark on the world.  

The vikings encountered adversity and so will we.  It just comes in a different form.  Writer's block, insecurity, rejection letters, deadlines...the list can be endless and yet, so can our faith in ourselves.  Faith in our ability to charm the world with our words.  Faith there is indeed someone out there who believes in us as well.  Faith that one day we might do as the vikings did when they conquered new lands and step into our own new worlds as published authors.

Let's just not get too carried away...

Giving Thanks...

The branches tug at my skirt and the leaves whisper softly under my moccasins as I follow the trail of the raccoon. Hunting is warriors' work but too many of our braves have been killed by the white man and now I must put on the cloak of hunter or my small village will go hungry.

Mother Earth is drowsy and all her creatures are getting ready for the long winter's sleep.  We have gathered our harvest and smoked much meat, but food is becoming scarce.  I do not understand.  Why must the white man kill more than can be eaten in two day's time?  I have come across his savagery on the trail as he takes the best and leaves the rest to rot in the forest.  His scent is so strange to me...a heavy, musky smell which blends with the smell of death until I think the white man must dance with the evil spirits.

The elders of the village warn me about the pale-faced visitors...how they take from us that which is not ours to give, and sell to other white men what they do not own until Mother Earth's tears fall down like rain upon this land.  When will they realize we are one with all living things?  That we come from a sacred people who guard the spirits of the forest and whose ancestors have been on this land for many moons before they came?

I am startled from my thoughts by the low growling of a black bear breaking through the trees in front of me.  How can I be so foolish to not see the signs I have crossed the path of my people's enemy? The elders of the village call him Unole Asgina or Thunder Devil because of his great, thundering roar when he attacks.  He is but one leap away from me.  So close his scent burns my nose.  I stare into the black pools of his spirit as I realize I will die this day.  What will become of my people when I am no longer around to help provide for them?

But wait...what is this other smell I catch floating on the wind?  Even the bear stops for a second and shakes his head as if to clear his nose of the stench before turning in the direction of the forest to the right of me.  There,  just beyond a broken tree stump, is a white man kneeling with a fire stick my grandfather has warned me about.  Unole Asgina has seen this white man too and stands on hind feet to roar at this new intruder before charging toward the trees.   I think this white man will die today, but suddenly I see a flash of smoke and clamp my hands to my ears as a sound even louder than the bear's fills the air around me.  As if in slow motion the Thunder Devil falls to the ground and I watch it's life spill onto the forest floor.

For just a moment I look into the eyes of the white man and wonder if he will point his fire stick in my direction?  But he lowers it to his side and stands up to face me.  White and brown stand together and look into each other's souls.  I can not forgive what the white man has done to my people but for today I can give thanks to the Great Spirit that he sent such a man to save my life. He slowly nods his head in my direction and I do the same before I melt back into the forest behind me.  The raccoon long forgotten,  I will return to my village campfire with stories to tell and much to give thanks.   I can always save the hunt for another day.