A Mother's Heart - TCH 2004

From a Mother’s Heart

Published May 9, 2004

Editors note: Today, Americans honor all mothers, but special thoughts and prayers are reserved for mothers with sons and daughters in harm's way in Iraq and Afghanistan.

We invited Nancy, a Marine mom who works in the Herald's advertising department, to share her thoughts on this Mother's Day.

Her son, Lance Cpl. Noah, graduated from Kennewick High School in 2002. He is currently stationed near Ramadi, Iraq, where he is a military policeman. This is his second deployment to Iraq.

   People ask me how I'm doing and I give them the automatic "fine," knowing that most of the time that's the acceptable response. How can I tell them how I really feel?

I'm worried. They would tell me not to worry. They tell me not to expose myself to the news. When I cry, they tell me my tears won't change anything.

There are some people who understand, like my Aunt Elene, who tells me that God wouldn't have given us tears if we weren't supposed to shed them.

My tears are valid; my son is fighting the war in Iraq, and fear is a normal response to war.

Often, the only access I have to my son is through the news media's reports on the war, and I can't stop watching the news.

Other times, just knowing that he is in Iraq is so frightening I don't want to hear about it, and I try to silence the voices reporting the story, counting the casualties, selling papers, voices that remind me I could lose him to this war.

I realized early that most people I talk with aren't close enough to the situation to really understand. Max Beerup, a Marine family support volunteer, told me about a Web site  for Marine moms. I seek it out for information and support. I have learned a lot from the other moms, and have also found none of us are alike, any more than our sons and daughters are alike. They all wear the same uniforms, but each is unique.

Other Marine moms have told me to visualize Noah in his uniform. They remind me that he is a Marine, with the best training in the world. I have tried picturing Noah this way, but always in my mind's eye, he is my little boy, setting jumping records on his pogo stick. This is the boy who took his teddy bear to Camp Pendleton with him.

Some people would say he is a warrior, but the voice I hear is not a warrior's voice, it is Noah's voice. I can still hear him as a 3-year-old, singing, "I was borned in the U.S.A."

Easter Sunday was a particularly bad day for me. My daughter called to tell me that she had some scary news about Noah. She had received an e-mail from him the night before.

He wrote: "Anna, I am going to Fallujah tomorrow.  My buddy  just got back and he was in a fire fight and killed 3 guys. This is real. I'm kind of freaking out. I can't tell mom. If anything happens tell her what I am doing and that I love her. I will e-mail you as soon as I get back, probably around midnight tomorrow night, your time.  God I love you Anna. Take care of mom and dad and Adam for me. WRITE BACK SOON."

Five days later the phone rang and it was Noah, asking how work on his '66 Buick was going. All I could do was laugh. He is still a kid in so many ways. He's decided to use the money he is earning in Iraq to completely restore his car. This is his "happy thought."

I know there are many things going on in his daily life in Iraq, but we just talk about the car. He is protecting me from the realities of war. Noah's voice tells me not to worry; he is well trained and safe with his company. I realize that is what he has been trained to say to me.  Noah's voice tells me what I want to hear.

Recently, he told me that I can't worry about him because it will make me sick, then he will have to worry about me and his head won't be in the "big game."

On the Marine moms' Web site they call Iraq "the sandbox." It's interesting that Noah would refer to the war as the big game — and it's being played in the sandbox.  A sandbox used to be a place where children played, now it's where they die in war.

 I remember the Gulf War, when my children were small. I remember what it was like to be removed from it. I cared, but didn't really understand. The casualties were nameless to me. Now they are real, they are my son and his brother Marines. They are the sons and daughters of women I have met online. They are the Iraqi children smiling out from the photos Noah brought home after his last deployment.

I was discussing this with my daughter and she made the comment that ignorance of war is really a blessing in many ways. I understand that not everyone can empathize with my daily fears. They don't hear the same voices that I hear. Hearing on the news that there were 12 Marines killed in Ramadi doesn't carry the same weight for them that it does for me.

I was recently talking about a mom I had met online whose son was killed in Iraq. A close friend overheard me and asked, "Is she from here?" My first thought was, "Aren't they all from here?" Our country has become a much smaller place for me since the beginning of Operation Iraqi Freedom.

This war, for many, is only a newspaper headline, or a television news break. For others, a good excuse for a political debate. For me, it is so much more. It's my first thought when I awaken, it accompanies my every nightmare and every dream. It is each knock at my door. It is the anxiety I feel rounding the corner to my home after work each evening. It invades every conversation and haunts every task I do. I can never go back to being someone remembering our heroes only on Veteran's Day or Memorial Day. Heroes have become a part of my daily life. War is now very personal.

I often work late so I won't be at home if the news I fear most arrives. I learned from an ex-sergeant that they  come in threes, a Marine, a chaplain and a state patrolman. I try not to, but I find myself constantly looking for them and praying that they will not appear.

 I pay attention to Iraqi time. If I think Noah is sleeping, I find I can relax a little. When I should be sleeping, I know he's awake and doing his job. If I know his job for the week is to guard the base, I am able to get a little sleep. I know he is still in danger, but not so much as when he is guarding convoys, traveling the dangerous roads and highways of Iraq.

When I hear about new casualties, I want to know if they are Marines. If they are, I wait for Noah's call. Noah, of course, doesn't know what I've heard, so his call to ease my worries doesn't always come. When that happens, I anxiously wait 24 hours, and if that dreaded knock hasn't come and it is after10 p.m., I breathe a little easier — until the next time.

Some say I am lucky because I can communicate with my son in a way that wasn't possible in past wars. Others think the communication makes it more difficult. I just know that the one thing that gets me out of bed in the morning is the possibility of receiving an e-mail or phone call from Noah.

When a few days pass without contact, I begin disconnecting from others. I feel myself shutting down and quietly going about my work. All the while, the voices inside scream louder. I write him letters and send him care packages. I keep everyone informed on his situation. I pray. The biggest comfort I have is that millions of people are praying for our troops.

The best thing anyone can say to me is that they will pray for my son. No other words are necessary. Please remember Noah, and all the other men and women who are fighting the war against terror, wherever they are.

Don't let the daily news become so commonplace it makes you minimize the importance of their service or the depth of their sacrifice.

Remember that each has a name and a face. To their mothers, the faces are those of their children. They have parents, sisters, brothers, spouses and friends who love and miss them.

They all made the selfless choice to put themselves in harm's way for our country. They, too, have voices that are being heard, all around the world.

Unfurl your flags and tie your yellow ribbons. Let the voices that mothers hear be your voices echoing support for our sons and daughters.

The letter that started my writing

Monday, January 21, 2002 - Page updated at 12:00 AM- Seattle Times

Letters to the editor

Wilbur lives

A dying town wouldn't have this strong heartbeat

Editor, The Times:

Regarding "Pockets of grief in dying town" (Times, Jan. 12), I grew up in the small community of Wilbur. The bluffs on each side of this little haven are snow laden in the winter and bloom with wild flowers in the spring. They are the places of imaginary alps and Easter egg hunts. They are the bluffs of my childhood and contributed to the person I am today.

I go home, which is what I still call Wilbur, as often as possible. I go downtown and I don't find it bleak. Downtown is where I go to see old friends, and where even the newer residents will offer a friendly word and a smile.

I go "home" to see my family, my mother, two sisters, numerous aunts, uncles and cousins who are part of a family that settled in Wilbur in the 1800s. I go "home" to see some of the classmates who went through 13 years of school with me. Many of my classmates are members of "deep-rooted families that go back generations." They have taken over the family farms.

Many or them did what young people do in what you consider dying towns, they went to universities, trade schools, or community colleges. Some of them returned to Wilbur where they teach the children of their former classmates. Some of them never left.

Those of us who did leave still consider ourselves members of the community that you think is dying. I have news for you, not only is it not dying, but it might be living next door to you. It is living in each and every one of us who grew up there.

Your story insulted and hurt a community already reeling with grief. If you didn't see it, perhaps you weren't looking closely enough. Maybe grief looks different in a small town. The Wilbur I experience is still close-knit and caring. Your negativity did nothing for the memory of Nathan Hays, but the people of Wilbur will remember him well, as he remembered them.

Nancy Arvan, Kennewick

A Bold Spirit - book review

A Bold Spirit

For most of my life I have been intrigued by the past.  When I was a child, my mom made sure we always had a good amount of old photographs, books and stories around to tie us to our family history.   I have childhood memories of exploring the old farm house that served as a wood shop for my Uncle Nordahl.  I remember wishing I could go back in time and really see what it was like to grow up there, to know my grandparents and see my mother as a child.  I had a craving to understand the hardships and challenging way of life that they endured, as well as the simple loveliness of it all.

So often it's hard to grasp the past and have a true picture in our minds of things we can't experience first hand.  The book, "A Bold Spirit" offers a wonderful view of the Victorian age, with vivid descriptions of life in what is essentially my own back yard, Eastern Washington. It is a remarkable story about the strength and fortitude of a brave pioneer woman, Helga Estby and her eldest daughter, Clara. The two women took on a dangerous and controversial challenge in an effort to save the family farm.  Dangerous; because a trek on foot across America in the 1890's was an extremely treacherous undertaking.  Controversial; because women in the Victorian age were viewed as weak and it was unacceptable to leave their children at home with the father to take on such an unlikely wager.  

What made this book even more interesting to me is that I grew up with Helga's great grand children in my home town of Wilbur, Washington.  Amazingly, I had never heard the story of Helga and her daughter.  Reading it now, it seems such a waste that it was not shared for so many years.  Rather, it was a family secret that might have remained so, had it not been for Doug Bahr, who decided to write a paper on his Great Grandmother's journey for The Washington State History Day Contest.  The author of "Bold Spirit", Linda Lawrence Hunt found the essay so compelling that she decided to write a book about Helga's journeys, an endeavor made more difficult by the fact that none of Helga's letters, diaries, sketches or manuscript pages had been kept. 

  The book follows the life of Helga Estby, from her childhood in Norway, to her immigration with her mother and step-father to Michigan.  The book details her marriage to Ole Estby and their life in Minnesota, where they survived prairie fires, cyclones, tornadoes and an outbreak of diphtheria. With the promise of a better way of life, including mild climate, available land, education and cultural opportunities for their 6 children and carpentry work for Ole, they decided to immigrate to the West. They settled in Spokane Falls, Washington for a time and later bought a farm at Mica Creek.  They had a rich social life with their Scandinavian neighbors, they prospered emotionally and financially.  The bliss was, however, short lived. One year later events changed their life.  After the Spokane fire, Dutch investors began foreclosures, which precluded the depression of 1893, when farmers could no longer afford to hire Ole for his carpentry work.  The Estby's were living on credit and loans and were at risk of losing their farm.

By 1896, Helga was praying for a solution to their financial problems. It was during this time that the mysterious offer was made to Helga.  She was offered a prize of $10,000.00 if she and her daughter could complete an unescorted walk across America.  Helga must have given considerable thought to all of this, knowing it would be viewed with disapproval by the community, but believing the prize would be the answer to their financial woes.  Helga had dreams of college for her children, in addition to her need to pay the mortgage. In May of 1896 Helga and Clara set out to make the walk across America, with a contracted goal of completion in 7 months.  They took with them only $5.oo each, as they were to earn their way to New York City.  They wore Victorian dresses, sturdy shoes and heavy coats and each carried a revolver and home-made pepper spray.

They carried with them a letter written by the Mayor of Spokane stating that they were good and moral women, and in each city that they visited they collected signatures from local dignitaries.  Along the way they were interviewed by the local newspapers and had a photograph taken, which they sold for money.  They also did laundry and worked in restaurants to pay their way. They were not allowed to accept transportation or monetary help.  The letter and signatures helped them gain welcome to homes of influential and wealthy people, including William Jennings Bryant.

They endured many hardships as they followed the rails, including wild animals, bad weather, and robbery.  They survived illness and injury as they traveled diligently on, spurred by their deep Christian faith and resolve to succeed.

After traveling over 3500 miles, they arrived in New York City several days after their December due date. The contract allowed extra time for illness; however, Clara sustained an injury to her ankle that did not qualify as illness. The benefactor refused to pay and didn't even give them the money to return home.  They were forced to stay in New York for five months trying to earn enough money to get back home.  During this time, Helga received the heartbreaking news that 2 of her children died of diphtheria while she was gone.  Ultimately, they lost the farm and Helga's story was buried for 70 years by the anger of her family who never forgave her for leaving them. 

While Helga and Clara were never rewarded for their efforts, they did gain a greater knowledge and understanding of America, which strengthened their relationships and role in the community.  If we can gain anything from Helga's story, I hope it will be the determination to embrace and preserve our family histories. 

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian

Never Published book review

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie is absolutely the best book I've read in a long time. I read the first chapter, picked it up again the next day and couldn't put it down.  I read up to the last chapter and only stopped then for the selfish reason that I didn't want it to end. 

The character of Junior is smart, insightful, brave, and someone I would have wanted to be friends with.  The story is set in the 90s in a town so close and similar to my own home town that I felt slightly ashamed in the beginning and proud as the story progressed.  Junior is a fourteen-year-old Spokane Indian growing up in the reservation town of Wellpinit.  Encouraged by his "weird old coot" teacher Mr. P, Junior makes the tough decision to transfer to high school in the nearby farm town of Reardan – where the mascot was, ironically, an Indian.

By making the choice to get a better education Junior is viewed by many in his tribal family as a traitor and faces the heartbreak of losing his best friend, Rowdy. 

On his first day at school in Reardan he is made fun of for his name and then accused of lying when it is revealed that his first name is actually Arnold.  As the title of the book infers, it is just the beginning of his identity struggle – he is Junior on the reservation and Arnold in school.  He is ridiculed by Indians for "trying to be white" and discriminated against by the whites for being an Indian.

Along the way Arnold makes friends - Roger, the football star who he punches in the nose, Penelope the beautiful bulimic and Gordy, the smartest person he'd ever meet who he describes as "an eighty-year-old literature professor trapped in the body of a fifteen-year-old farm boy". Eventually Arnold's mad basketball skills and newfound friendships make him more popular than he ever thought possible. 

While reading this book I remembered a time when I was in the Reardan grocery store about ten years ago. I noticed a sign at the check stand that said no movies would be rented to people from Wellpinit.  I was shocked. This book brought home to me (literally) that racism will always exist.  I grew up not far from Reardan, in another small farm town – Wilbur, where our team mascot was the Redskins.  It has since been changed to Wildcats. Our towns were similar in many ways, although having Indians in school was normal in Wilbur. The school in Keller, on the Colville Indian Reservation, only went through 6thgrade and then all of the Keller kids were bused to the Wilbur school. I am sure there was racism but I was never aware of it. My dad was Native American, but I have to admit that what I know about Indians I have learned from reading books by authors like Sherman Alexie and Lawney Reyes.

You should read The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian.  You will love the characters and be entertained and enlightened by the writing of Sherman Alexie. 

Even if you have never spent time on a reservation or in a small farm town you will enjoy Sherman Alexie's honest, heartbreaking, comical account ofArnold's experiences.

I laughed out loud and I cried.

As stated by the character of Gordy in the book – "you have to read a book three times before you know it.  The first time you read it for the story.  The plot. The second time you read it for its history. For its knowledge of history." Gordy never said why you read it for the third time but I think it is just for the joy of reading it.  With The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian I intend to find out. 

TCH book review - The Cat and the Tao

The Cat and the Tao

The Cat and the Tao, by Kwong Kuen Shan

          An intriguing title, but the thing about this book that I find really captivating are the paintings.  Unlike the author, I have always liked cats.  This delightful book by Kwong Kuen Shan illustrates all the elements of a cat's personality.

                   Kwong Kuen Shan grew up in Hong Kong. She has studied classical Chinese, Chinese calligraphy and Chinese brush paintings.  She now paints, exhibits and teaches art.  In the prologue of this book, the author relates her former phobia of cats and tells of the cat who  "quietly and patiently" changed all that. She describes being inspired by her cat, Healey, while he was relaxing in the garden.  This was the beginning of her cat paintings.

           I often feel inspired by the simple beauty and wonder that I see in my cat, but not being an artist, I grab my camera.  And, not being a photographer, I never seem to be able to capture the moment as perfectly as it appears.  

          In her studies of classical Chinese literature, Kwong Kuen Shan found sayings and texts that she felt cried out to be linked with a painting, something she has achieved successfully in the book.  The Taoist and Confucian texts she has included are selected from ancient Chinese proverbs, poems and sayings of great teachers: Confucius, Lao Tse, Chong Tse and Sun Tzu.  What better way to illustrate these sayings than with cats?  They are elegant, agile, resilient and independent.  Within the paintings you will also find Chinese characters and seals that have different meanings, including the artist's signature. 

          As a child, we always had cats, and as an adult I have had 5 different cats.  The first, Spike, was a loyal companion for 15 years.  "A friend who truly knows you is always with you." (Chinese Proverb)  During the "Spike years", we also had Dinah. Dinah was the independent soul, who took off to live in the ceiling of the neighbor's shed with the wild cats. "To be self-sufficient is to be happy, to have no demands is to have no worry." (Anon)  We also had Tia, a long haired gray beauty who disappeared around the time that my daughter graduated from high school.  We never found out what became of her.  "The roughest roads are not found across rivers and mountains, but in people's hearts." (Bai Juyi) While all of my cats have been special, the one most dear to my heart was Freddy.  I rescued him from a junk pile in the late fall of 1994. He was a faithful friend with a great personality.  He disappeared in January of this year while my son was away at Marine boot camp.  Funny how our "cat events" correspond so intimately with the major events in our lives.

            I've learned a lot from loving my cats.  While they are independent, they are also very eager to show appreciation and love to their owners.  When they want to.  Mysterious in their actions, they seem to abandon us just when we think they are enjoying our attention. "Do not exhaust a friend's kindness and loyalty - this way friendship is sustained." (Chinese Proverb)

          I read "The Cat and the Tao" for the first time on a Friday afternoon.  The next morning I was lying on the couch watching my new cat, Benny, as he stood on a table, gazing out the window listening to the birds.  His lean body stood next to an antique pitcher, which he never disturbed.  He was silent and still.  With the curious tilt of his head,

I thought of the words of Confucius, "To know is to recognize what you understand and what you do not understand."  Thus is the curiosity of the cat.  I would have loved to capture that moment with water color and ink, the way that Kwong Kuen Shan does so vividly.  Instead, I will keep the image in my mind and look to "The Cat and the Tao" for more tangible evidence of their amazing traits.

           I will continue to watch cats, and learn from them the lessons that Kwong Kuen Shan is trying to impart in her book. "The Cat and the Tao" was extremely uplifting.  Anyone who loves cats will enjoy it and those  who don't, need only look at one of Kwong Kuen Shan's paintings to find some appreciation of the many qualities they possess.

Home and Garden article - TCH

Painting a Happier Home (2006 Home and Garden section)

Painting a happier home

I've always wanted a Dogwood tree, so this weekend I painted my living room! 

Okay, now you're wondering what this has to do with the coveted tree, aren't you?

The color I chose for my walls is called "dogwood". 

First let me tell you that my home is a 1982 Sequoia – in this case, a mobile home, not a tree.  Throughout the house the manufacturer used slick photo finish paper – made to look like wood paneling.  Through the years I have wall papered and painted a few times, usually with little success.  The first time I papered, it all fell off – so I painted.  The paint peeled off like a big vinyl sticker!  I thought I was just destined to live with the ugly walls, but thankfully, my boyfriend Darrell is an excellent painter!

A couple years ago he painted my kitchen and dining room a cheery light yellow and my cabinets a lovely white enamel.  We've procrastinated on painting the living room for a long time and I should tell you that I really never thought we would.

Last weekend we decided to "start on it".  The first thing we did was spackle all the holes, and after 24 years there were more than a few. Also, we had to pull out the big guns (as in 'Fix all') for some larger holes.  I can't tell you what these walls are made of, but when damaged they emit really messy powdery stuff.  The next step was sanding and taping, lots of it!  As I finished the sanding, Darrell began the "cutting in" of the primer. This means painting all of the edges and around all of the trim with a brush.  Next he rolled a coat of primer over the entire thing.

At this point I was starting to get almost giddy with expectation.  Darrell anticipated this reaction from me and had smartly used quick drying oil based primer.  Thirty minutes after applying it we were ready for the "dogwood".  Of course, there is no instant gratification, as you have to "cut in" the color the same way you do the primer.  FINALLY – we are ready to roll!  (Roll on the color, that is.)

This is the part where I get a little emotional!  It's beautiful!  One coat of primer, two coats of finish paint, 20 hours of hard work and my living room is something I can be proud of.  Not only that, but we didn't just "start on it", we actually finished it!  This is quite an amazing feat for one weekend, especially when you consider that we also had to move an antique, upright player piano.

You can probably guess that the wheels in my head have been turning all through this process. Darrell had been hiding the fact that he is good at a lot of things besides painting, such as patching holes and a little bit of carpentry, carpet laying, and putting down hard wood flooring for the "dogwood" living room! 

I think it's going to be a busy spring!

Aubertin family reunion

Family Reunions

Family reunions are more than an opportunity to enjoy relatives. They are often a chance to embrace memories of loved ones who have passed on and of childhoods left behind.  This was the case for me this summer when I attended mine, the first on my Dad's side of the family in 14 years. It was held at the Aubertin Ranch on the Colville Indian Reservation.

When I was a child my parents would load me and my four siblings into the car every Sunday morning to go visit my grandparents at the ranch. Getting to the ranch requires a trip down the Keller grade, an eight-mile stretch that consists of a series of hairpin turns including one called the Devil's Elbow. I realized as I drove the grade at a leisurely 45 mph, that the reason I always got car sick as a child was because my dad drove it at 60.

Heading down the grade, I recalled an old Indian legend about "rolling rock" that my dad used to tell me. My recollection was that there were signs on the grade saying "Watch for Rolling Rock," and Dad told me if I found a rolling rock there would be a watch inside. My mom said Dad was probably laughing at me from heaven for being so dense. What he actually had told me was that if you found a rolling rock and turned it in, you would get a watch. Hence the saying, "watch for rolling rock." 

Once at the bottom of the grade you drive onto the Martha S, one of the last free ferries in Washington. When I was a kid, my mom told me the ferry was named after her. I don't think I ever really believed the ferry was named after Mom, but I still like to tell the story.  The ferry ride is a 10 minute trip across the mile-wide section of Lake Roosevelt. The Aubertin Ranch is another 30 miles north on Highway 21 amid some of the most beautiful forest scenery I have ever seen.

Arriving at the ranch, the smell of moss on the trees sparked a memory of sticking moss on my face to make mustaches and beards. Somewhere there are photos of Dad, Mom and us kids with our "moss-staches."

The old outbuildings are gone now, but I can still remember the adventures I had there, like climbing onto the saddles as they hung in the tack shed, swinging back and forth while pretending to race horses. A few times I even sat on the saddles when they were actually on a horse, and the ranch hand, Jim, would lead me around the driveway.

As I walked down to the hay shed and stood on the fence rail at the corral, I could vividly recall branding day and feeling sorry for the cows as they were herded through to have their backsides seared with the Aubertin brand. It's a brand I think a cow would be proud to have.

My sister jokes that it is in the Aubertin genetic code that they have to blow things up!

The last time I was at the ranch was July 4, 1980. That day the men decided they needed to blow up some old dynamite because it was "dangerous." The dynamite was placed in a 50-gallon drum, and the men took turns shooting at it. When it finally blew up, it was more than the blast that got our attention. All the screaming women ran to the field to inform the men that the bay windows had been sucked out of the house by the blast. The dynamite story has been told many times since, and the goal for this reunion was to do it justice.

So this year, my brother arrived at the reunion from Montana with his Volvo loaded down with enough guns and ammo to shoot for several days. My cousin, an active duty police officer and uncle, a retired federal Bureau of Indian Affairs agent, were not to be outdone – they supplied the explosives. Needless to say, the Aubertins made a lot of noise on the reservation!

Heavy artillery aside, the gathering was everything family reunions are made of — lots of food, photos and reminiscing. For me it was like finding a lost part of myself — the part that is connected to the mountains and the lake — the part of me that is a descendent of the Colville Indians. Often our histories are lost because stories are not told. Like the rolling rock story of Dad's, I hope the story of my family reunion will not be lost. 

While the sun was setting and the goodbyes were being said, I could feel my dad's presence. He would have loved it.

TCH Book reviewWhite Grizzly Bear’s Legacy, Learning to be Indian

White Grizzly Bear’s Legacy, Learning to be Indian

          "White Grizzly Bear's Legacy, Learning to be Indian" is an autobiography of Lawney Reyes' life and an important account of the Sin Aikst Indians, now known as the Lakes and part of the Colville Confederated Tribes. Lawney Reyes is the grandson of Pic Ah Kelowna or White Grizzly Bear, a leader in the Sin Aikst tribe. In his book, Mr. Reyes describes  Native American life in easternWashington before the 1942 completion of Grand Coulee Dam and after. The book recalls the early salmon fishing at Kettle Falls, and its importance to the People.  It speaks of sacred beliefs, legends and respect for plants and wildlife.  It details the rich history of the Sin Aikst tribe, and the hardships they had to endure as they lost their homeland and their traditional way of life to the white man. The author vividly describes the thunder of the Swah-net-ka, (Columbia River) as it roared over Kettle Falls, the land below peppered with teepees.  Lawney shares memories of his young life, the divorce of his parents and the court-ordered time spent at the Chemawa Indian boarding school in Oregon.  Indian children were sent to the Chemawa school to learn more about the white ways, but ironically it was at Chemawa that Lawney learned the most about the Indian traditions of the Sin Aikst and other tribes.

          I received a copy of "White Grizzly Bear's Legacy" as a gift from my mother.  I was filled with pride as I studied the photo of the author, Lawney L. Reyes, as a child, with his arm around my dad's shoulder.  I have seen few photos of my dad as a child and remember him  as a hard working logger who spent his spare time restoring antique vehicles.  Dad didn't speak much with me about his childhood, but my mom recalls him talking about the Salmon Festival and what an exciting time it was.  Dad's parents divorced when he was five, and I imagine he felt the same kind of pain that Lawney felt as a child when his own parents divorced, although Dad never shared it with me.  As I read Lawney's words of first meeting my then nine year old father, I was given a glimpse into the childhood that shaped dad's life and perhaps my own.  "He was thin, with disheveled hair, light skin, and freckles across his nose. He was about two inches taller than I was.  I judged him to be a half-breed."  Through Lawney I saw my dad as a friendly, outgoing child, proud of his Indian heritage and mature beyond his years. While Dad was teaching Lawney to drive his flatbed International Truck through the woods around Manila Creek near Keller, Wa., they spoke of how the Grand Coulee Dam had hurt the fishing and hunting and changed their way of life.  Even though Dad was only 9 years old, he felt the responsibility of providing for his family. Both boys felt deeply the loss of fishing, as they lived mostly on what they could catch or shoot.  If they couldn't find deer, they were really hurting.  They talked about  how there used to be a lot of salmon in the San Poil River, but since the dam there were  only perch, crappie and carp.  Dad said catching a carp was like reeling in a dead log.  I smiled, this sounds like something my dad would say.

          Through Lawney's journey I felt as if I was given a gift of learning more about my own Indian heritage.  I had heard my dad talk about how his old home in Keller was flooded by the waters of the Columbia River, but I had never understood the tragedy experienced by so many when their lives were forever changed by a huge concrete structure called Grand Coulee Dam.  The entire town of Old Incheleum had to be relocated.  Most of the homes were so dilapidated that they could not be moved, which left many families living in tents or abandoned shacks.  I knew my dad was a member of the Colville Confederated Tribes, but I didn't know his people were once known as the Swhy-ayl-puh.  I have often felt a loss in my own life as I wondered why no Indian traditions had survived to my generation.  Most of the traditions that I remember came from my mom's Norwegian background.  I'm fortunate to have an extensive family history on my mom's side.  Broken families, poverty and loss of homeland made it difficult to retain family ties in the Indian community.  It is hard to believe that only 60 years ago Indians were living off the land in teepees and speaking their own languages.  They were content and wealthy in their traditions and way of life.  The book brings to light why the forcing of reservations and "white ways"  made it "necessary" for my father and his father to learn to be white.   Lawney's memories and insight in  "White Grizzly Bear's Legacy" made me realize how much was lost and why the challenge has now become "Learning to be Indian".

          Lawney Reyes wrote his book hoping it would be a legacy for his grandchildren.  I wonder if he had any idea of what he was giving to so many others.  I lost my dad, the man, in 1986, but this book gives me back precious memories of the past I was missing and a new appreciation for my father as a child. It also gives back a missing piece of the history of Native Americans in Eastern Washington.  Thank you, Mr. Reyes.

 Lawney Reyes is former art director for the Seafirst Corporation and a member of the Seattle Arts Commission.  He is a recipient of the Peace and Friendship Award for Contributions to American Indian Art and the Governor's Art Award in sculpture. His sculpture has won numerous awards and is held in collections in Europe,Asia, and

throughout the United States. He lives in Seattle.

Norma memory

What I would have said about Norma if I had been there: I mentioned that she taught me to hug. That is not a small thing, but even more than that, she taught me to say the words, “I love you.” I had a happy family, and I knew I was loved. In fact, I never questioned it. But when I met the Arvan’s, with Norma at the helm, I learned how it felt to hear those words. It is very powerful. I was shy and the hugs and words were not easy to reciprocate, but I did learn. I like to think that I took my newfound skill and shared it with my own family, because now we say it all the time. There are a lot of other things that come to mind when I think of Norma. She was a good cook, especially breakfast. She loved books and educational magazines like National Geographic. She liked that show on Sunday morning, the one where there was always a beautiful scene at the end, with birds. She loved God and her church.  Oh, and she loved birds, rocks, flowers and pets ~ all things I love as well. She loved her family. She had a great sense of humor! It is hard to put everything into a little note, because when I think of her my heart is full. It can’t be properly expressed, which is why it took me so long to try.

Just wanted to share my thoughts on this weekend when you all celebrated her life. Love you guys!

Hagen Family Reunion

Going back to the farm for a family reunion over the 4th of July weekend brought back memories of other picnics long ago, taking turns on the old swing and getting drinks of water from the spigot in the center of the lawn.  The swing is still there, although refurbished and the spigot remains.  The farm house where my mother was born is still standing, but its days are numbered.  As nearly 70 Hagen kin gathered there was a lot of reminiscing and of course – food.

Saying “The Farm” is like the when someone refers to “home” – it is and always has been known to all of us as “the farm”.  Never any question of which farm, it is just THE farm – the old homestead where our grandparents settled and farmed and raised their children.  The original house can only be imagined in its glory by focusing on the faded scraps of wallpaper clinging to what is left of the walls – and by door knobs, light fixtures, the claw foot tub and pieces of the past strewn around like forgotten memories. Its purpose has changed throughout time.  My own earliest memories of it are conjured up by the smell of sawdust as I remember my Uncle Nordahl using it as a shop for his wood work.  I remember sweeping up sawdust for him when the broom was taller than I, and the pride I felt as he praised my work.

For the reunion there was a “do not enter” sign on the old house, an unfortunate result of the dilapidation it has suffered from no longer being needed.  A brave few, with no regard for rules, still entered, and absorbed the sights and smells that helped them recall their own memories of the farm.

Although the memories vary from cousin to cousin the sentimentality is strong for all of us.  We know the old house may not be there for future picnics but the memories will always remain.

I did mention the food, and when a bunch of Norwegians get together there is always an abundance of food. It’s very much like a church potluck where you are constantly reminded to “keep your fork.” My Aunts came up with a great way to help defray the cost of the food.  We had a raffle.  The raffle items ranged from a Kayaking trip in Canada guided by my cousin Kris to the handmade hardanger needlework piece crafted by my Aunt Elene.  There were quilts, beadwork, table runners, baskets, framed photographs and a much coveted “penny ball” made by my cousin Kay.  The penny ball is an old bowling ball covered with pennies.  I’m not sure which prize garnered the most tickets but I do know the penny ball was the subject of quite a competition.  In the end it was won by my daughter Anna who had bought only one ticket and then promptly gifted to my son Noah who had not only bought several of his own chances but conned his Great Aunts and Grandmother into buying some for him as well.

I am told that the raffle more than covered the expense of the food. As is tradition at a Hagen Family reunion, Eric, Paul, Rob and Mark brought out their guitars and songs were sung as the sun went down.

 The picnic was just one part of the reunion.  There was also a catered meal where, upon arrival, you were greeted in Norwegian by Aunt Elene and Aunt Marie regaled in authentic Norwegian costume. After lunch the 4 Aunts, Elene, Marie, Roseann (Mom) and Sonja answered questions and told stories of their life on the farm. Dessert consisted of traditional Norwegian Kransekake (wedding cake) and Fyrstekake (prince’s cake).  There was a table of Hagen family memorabilia that included wood burned pieces made by Herman Hagen to document hunting trips, photo albums and the Hagen family history book.  There was also a “laffle” (laugh therapy) led by my cousin Kevin.

Later in the evening several family members met at The Alibi tavern where hidden talents were discovered through lively karaoke participation. While the spirits were good, it was the Hagen spirit in each of us that made the evening memorable.   

The Aunts have made it known that they will not be planning another reunion, so like most traditions the duty is handed to the next generation. Much gets lost over the years and miles but there will always be something much stronger holding us together.  As we grow older I hope we will grow closer and allow the bond of the farm to pull us back to our roots. The farm is so much more than its physical existence.  It is a way of life. My cousin Kris aptly described it as “a wise Buddha nourished by the truth of its existence and the simple quality of being.”     

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I decided to pull up this old blog today and realized I've only posted a handful of times in the past several years. I have a few theories, one being that I only write when I'm sad or when it is an assignment. I noticed that I recently posted an old journal entry from when I was in college - too many years ago. I guess I felt that contributing anything at all would be progress.
I'm home today, keeping the fire on too long while I hold ice to my cheek which is so much like that of a chipmunk from the  gum grafting I had done yesterday.
There are several new inches of snow on the ground, which means my co-workers have a second partial day of work due to adverse weather. The roads are slick and dangerous and I feel lucky that I get to stay home.
I wonder if my lack of writing means that nothing of any consequence has occurred, but I know that isn't the case. I've lost more friends and family members, as well as gained more friends and family members. The fact that I didn't write about each one of them doesn't lessen their importance to me or their impact on my life.
The sun is shining now and ice is dripping off the roof, pooling on the sidewalk below. ready to freeze later, creating something dangerous. The cat is sleeping beside me on the couch as my eyes try to focus on the screen, willing myself to complete a thought, a sentence.
Some days I just feel pulled into writing, even when there is nothing important or pressing to write. I feel a need to leave things behind. Someday, someone will possibly read these things - and I'll be gone. I have no idea when that will be and I hope it is many years away. I have no reason to think otherwise, but I know it is out of my hands.
I'd like to feel prepared for that, but I don't. I realize that I am not the one who matters - it is the people I leave behind who I should be preparing. But people don't do that, not when they're healthy anyway.
I wish I had more to leave, more money, more wisdom, more memories.
I'll have to work on that.