Good morning!

With health concerns being in the news more and more these days, I thought it might be interesting to have a look at the average person’s state of health in the Native America of the past, as well as medicine, as defined by Native Americans, what it was – and medicine men — who were they?  What did they do?  And who were shamans?

Let’s begin with medicine.  In Native America, medicine meant the great mystery.  If one could cure the sick, that person had great medicine.  If a man could go to war and come home alive, he had great medicine.  Plants had medicine.  Animals had medicine.   And certain parts of  nature had medicine.  The word medicine did not mean a pill or even an herb or remedy.  It meant simply that a man or a woman had a special connection with the great mystery or with the Creator.  When the white man came with his boats and guns and various things that the Native Americans could not easily explain, the old time Indian called these things (not necessarily the person who used them – but the things used), medicine.  The picture to the right is a painting by George Catlin of a medicine man.

The Native Americans of North America  enjoyed great health and a physcial beauty that would rival the most beautiful of the ancient Greeks.  So writes George Catlin in the mid-nineteenth century, as well as Prince Maximillian and Bodner, Maximillian’s friend and artist, who travelled with the Prince to America.  The Native Americans of the past had no processed food, and, depending on the tribe, they ate many things raw or dried.  Many of the North American tribes were tall and firm of limb and body and as history tells us, a very handsome people.

Food, clean water and fresh air was their medicine.  True, there were herbs that the medicine men & women might use to help their people, but a medicine man’s stock and trade was not merely in herbs alone.  Indians of North America (before their diet was changed) were known for their straight teeth, which did not decay, even into old age in many cases.  There was a saying with the settlers — “teeth as strong as an Indian’s.”  There was little tooth decay, illness was not the norm amnong the people, and many of the diseases that plague us today were completely nonexistent.  People lived (if they weren’t killed in wars) to a grand old age.  There were many people who lived well into their hundreds, keeping hold of their facilities until death.

They lived in a land of beauty with fresh air, warm breezes, wholesome food and the love of family.  So what did a medicine man (or shaman) do if presented with illness?  Or physical problems due to injury?  Well, I can’t say exactly, since I have not this lifetime been trained in the Native American way of medicine.  I do, however, know this.  The stock and trade of the medicine man was his ability to drive out the evil spirits which inhabited the sick person’s body.  It was known by these men that illness was often caused by evil spirits that would make their way into a person’s body.  So a medicine man’s cures often had to do with driving these spirits away.  Thus, the rattles and drums of the medicine man.

How successful were these people?  According to legend, they were fairly successful.  While they didn’t keep statistics as we do today, their fame was only as good as they could cure those who were sick.  While using herbs collected and dried, they never forgot that their aim was to rid the person of the evil spirit which had taken over a part of the person’s body.

On a final note, since whole foods were the basis of their “medicine,” let me take a moment to tell you about corn, as prepared by the Native Americans.  The Iroquois built strong, tall and healthy bodies based on the three sisters, corn, beans and squash, with corn being their main staple.  The diet was augmented with meat when it was available, but corn was their main diet. 

However, it was a different kind of corn than what we know of it today.  Our corn has been altered, and cross-bred and genetically modified until it is almost completely a carbohydrate.  Not so Indian corn.  The Indians knew that corn had to be soaked for days in lime water before it could be used as a food.  Of course we know today that corn has many anti-nutrients — phytates — those things that protect the seed or grain, but are irritating and stressing to the human digestive system.  Soaking the corn in lime did two things:  1) it got rid of the phytates or anti-nutrients in the grain, and 2) it changed the nutrition of the corn into a per protein with all the amino acids present.  This tradition of soaking cornmeal or corn in lime before use is still with us in the southern part of the country — masa flour is often soaked in lime.   And on this sort of diet, the Iroquois built a confederation that was so strong, that it influenced a whole generation of our forefathers, who saw in the Five Nations Confederation, an organization of government that permitted every individual in the nation freedom of mind, freedom of spirit and freedom of body.

Well, that’s it for today.  So tell me, what do you think of the medicine’s stock and trade?  What do you think of their main medicine — whole foods?  If you had lived at that time, would you have taken the time to learn about their foods and how they prepared them? 

I’d love to hear from you.    Don’t forget to pick up your copy of SENECA SURRENDER or BLACK EAGLE today!

Good Morning!  or Afternoon!

With the advent of modern technology (I was just reading an article about vaccines and nanotechnology implants and how microchips — or nanochips can be added to vaccines).  I read both viewpoints (good and bad) and looked at all the things that can go wrong (or right), and I thought it might be prudent as well as a little fun to have a look at herbs, American Indian style.

I guess there’s always been “black magic.”  Many years ago I met someone who had at one time been a witch (not a good one), who had seen the error of her ways and had changed her whole life.   It was the first time I had run head on with the fact that there really is “good magic,” and “bad magic.”  Good magic would of course promote health and the feeling of well-being.  It would aid one in survival and help one’s family and friends.  Black magic would of course be the opposite.  It would promote death and destruction of oneself, one’s family and friends.  Perhaps even of the whole human race.  In some ways I view this nano technology when it is married with vaccines as a bit of black magic.

Getting back to Native American, however, fFrom different studies I’ve done, it’s now pretty apparent to me that there were witches and people (men and women) who engaged in the black arts in most of Native America.  Witches were feared and if one were suspected of being a witch, one might be driven out of the tribe.  Medicine men (or women) often countered the “spells” of those whose intentions were hardly helpful.  Often in order to counter these “spells,” they used herbs.  They also used song, and the power of one’s personality and wit to drive out the evil spirits.

I’ve often thought there was something very different and very special about the American Indian medicine man.  (Medicine in Native America meant originally mystery to do certain things, often having to do with healing or helping others.)  After reading much about them and about many of the cures that they delivered, I’ve begun to think of them in a very special way, indeed.  Often they were called upon to counter an evil spell, to heal the sick, to foresee the future for the tribe or war party.  They were generally very able not only in their physical body and mind, but in spirit.

But getting back to the original subject, which is of herbs, did you know that these medicine men or women, when going hunting for herbs, would first prepare their baskets (where they place those plants they had picked).  The baskets would be sprinkled with tobacco and would remain this way overnight.

Early the next morning the medicine man or woman would pray — actually all the American Indian tribes I’ve studied prayed first thing in the morning.    Then in the crisp autumn morning, the medicine man or woman would start on his/her journey to hunt for herbs.  The medicine man or woman would bring bundles of tobacco or wampum, beads, silver ornaments, quilled bands — many different things to offer as a sacrifice to the spirit of the plant.

They collected many different things — apple roots, hickory bark, sassafras, mandrake, prickly ash, wintergreen, elder bark, golden seal, ginseng, male fern, mint, sheep sorel, witch hazel, spruce, boneset.  The way in which the plant was picked was also important.  If one wanted its medicine to work and to cure, then one spoke to the plant first.  It was the Seneca prophet, Handsome Lake who is quoted as saying, “Now let this be your ceremony when you wish to employ the medicine in a plant:  First offer tobacco, then tell the plant in gentle words what you desire of it, and then pluck it from the roots.  It is said in teh upper world that it is not right to take a plant for medicine without first talking to it.”

Often the medicine man or woman would chante a song, singing to the plant to tell it what one intended and to let the plant know that seeds would be planted so that the plant would continue to live.  Then when the plant was at last pulled, its seeds would be planted, as one had promised to the plant.  Only in this way would the plant help to remedy the ills that would often befall those in the tribe.

Did you know that prior to the white man coming to this continent, there were no contagious diseases in America, except maybe one or two.  It was also believed that the air, sun, pure water and exercise were remedies for many common ills, also.  Many thought of sunlight as food, thus, when the white man came, blocking himself off from the sun by wearing so many clothes, the American Indian considered him unintelligent, and was not surprised when he seemed sickly and ill.

Of course now we know that Vitamin D3 comes mainly from the sun — and nutritionalists are finding this vitamin (D3) to help in so many of our modern ills.

The medicine man or woman would bring his precious find back to his home and would dry them, being careful not to let any impure person come near them.  Medicine men and women were often very successful.  But whether it was because of their herbs, their personal power or a certain magic that they developed over time, is hard to discern.

But I thought, after reading about this nano-technology and those who would seek to profit from this technology by subjecting another to his whims, it might be nice to look at those things that help, those remedies that heal and those things that have been with man probably as long as there has been a man alive,  Hope you’ve enjoyed today’s blog and hope you’ll come on in and leave me a message, maybe quoting things (remedies) that help to bring hope and happiness and well being to those in one’s care.

And as usual I’ll be giving away a free copy of one of my books to some lucky blogger today.  So come on in and join in the discusssion.

Good Morning!

It seems as though (typically American Indian) that I find myself traveling a good deal of the time.    Incredibly I’ve been driving all over the southeast and southwest.  And I thought I’d take a little time to tell you some of the things that I love most about traveling.Here is a picture snapped a few years back of myself and a friend on the Blackfeet reservation.  I can’t imagine what it must have been like all those years ago when people traveled by horseback only.  It’s probably one of the few things that I do appreciate about the age we live in — cars.    Of course I could fly across the country, but think of all I’d miss along the way.  There are so many things to see and places to visit and history to learn — all conveniently advertised along the roadside.  On my trips across country (and I’ve probably driven across country now more than a dozen times) I’ve seen canyons that stretch on forever (the Grand Canyon comes to mind); I’ve seen caves — two enormous different ones — and have learned that the rocks in these caves are alive.  Did you know that?  They grow like any life thing and they can die if you touch them — thus, there are many, many signs in these caves not to touch the rocks.

As part of these trips, I’ve been to pow-wows in Montana, climbed mountains in Vermont, swept down raging water streams in Nebraska — have witnessed glaciers in Montana and have visited Pueblo villages — in the southwest, and have visited and have lingered at battlefields — ones that took place between the cavalry and Indians.  When we were in Crow country in Montana, my husband and I visited Little Bighorn of Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull fame.  For one book, War Clouds’ Passion, I visited the battlefield that took place — goodness, I can’t recall the name of that battle off the top of my head – but it took place in Kansas.  Also discovered in Kansas was a former Cavalry outpost, and again, forgive me for the name escapes me.   

On one particular trip, I visited a waterfall, where George Washington carved his initals in a rock — there was also an Indian village there, which I went to visit, also.  There I learned how the Indians made flour and cakes from acorns — a very involved process, I must admit.  Sometimes I get lost.  But sometimes this is very good.   On one trip just last year at this very time of year, I was traveling to Vermont to attend my daughter’s wedding. 

Actually  I didn’t lose my way on this trip until I was well into Vermont, and then I took a wrong turn and ended up at the scene of a very beautiful statue of Ethan Allen.  Although I was very lost, I had driven into a spot where the trees were alive with autumn color and I really do mean live.  They were bright, bright yellow and gold.  So bright that an overcast day looked sunny.  And the trees were overlooking the road as I drove by them.  I’m not certain I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful in Nature.  The only thing that might even come close would be perhaps the Grand Teton area in Wyoming — and of course the Glacier Mountains in Montana.

The picture here was taken in Montana in the Glacier Mountains which set up against the Blackfeet reservation.  Once another author and myself visited a deserted train station — trying to envision the people who had once used it.  Another time we searched out a town in Louisana called Transylvania.  Nancy Richards Akers and I once skirted along the Choctaw trail and another author and I learned of a legend of a young Indian princess who threw herself off a mountain to avoid marrying a man she didn’t love.  (Her true lover followed her over the cliff, by the way).  And another time, fellow author, Heather Cullman, and I visited Sky City — I’m only calling it that because I can’t recall exactly the name of the town.  Here we were taken on a tour, learned the history of the town and learned that the town was used as a safe refuge in a time of uncertainty.

We also visited an old church which was again fascinating.  Indeed, there is much to see and visit here in America.  When I was very, very young, I seem to remember a commerical that went like this “See the USA, in your Cheverolet — American is asking you to call” — Perhaps I took that invitation a little too much to heart.

Another time, when my husband and I were attending yet another pow-wow in Montana, we visited  America’s edition of Stonehedge — the Medicine Wheel atop a 10,000 foot mountain in the Bighorn Mountains in Northern Wyoming.  Lone Arrow’s Pride goes into my experience atop this mountain at this particular spot.

I guess we Americans — or maybe I should just say we humans — love to travel.  And whatever the cause, I do enjoy my trips — even though it might take me longer to go from here to there.  I bet you’ve had some incredible adventures here in the heartland of America.  And I’d love to hear about your own trips.  Please however remember that today I am still on the road and so won’t be able to see your comments until I return home.  But I would love to hear from you.  So please come on in and tell me your thoughts.  And don’t forget to pick up your copy of Black Eagle and Seneca Surrender today.

“Kill and scalp all, little and big…nits make lice.”—Colonel John M. Chivington

Before the Battle of Fort Washita came the Battle of Sand Creek—also known as The Sand Springs Massacre. (Colorado)
 
Chief Black Kettle’s Cheyenne camp, and that of another Cheyenne chief, White Antelope, were attacked and destroyed on a cold November dawn, 1864.  Although the camps flew an American flag alongside a white flag of truce, Colonel John Chivington, determined to further himself in the political arena of the day, ordered the Cheyennes annihilated.  “Take no prisoners,” he ordered, adding his own personal slogan, “…nits make lice.”

The encampment at Sand Creek consisted of about six hundred Indians—most of them, women and children.  As the first shots were fired by Chivington’s men, only about one hundred Cheyenne warriors ran out, up the creek bed from the ravine where they were camped, to defend the women and children.

Still, these warriors were able to hold Chivington’s troops at bay for over eight hours, allowing nearly five hundred Indians to escape—including Black Kettle.

Chivington boasted of killing six hundred; eye-witness testimony estimated the umber at less than two hundred.  Two-thirds of the dead were women and children.  White Antelope was one of the first killed, as he left his lodge, arms extended to show peace.

Black Kettle’s wife was shot.  As troopers neared, they shot her eight more times.  Black Kettle threw her over his shoulder and ran.  He later removed all nine bullets, and his wife lived.

A three-year-old toddler was not so lucky.  As he walked out to the dry creek bed, three troopers some seventy yards away took turns shooting at him.  The third one finally hit him, dropping the child where he stood.

Chivington received a hero’s welcome in Denver.  He and his men exhibited the corpses of the dead Cheyennes they had sexually mutilated and scalped to the cheering citizens of Denver.  It is believed that there has never been another battle in North America where more Indians have been slain.

Three years  later, a Congressional inquest labeled Chivington’s “battle” a massacre.

In 1867, Black Kettle was one of the signers of the Treaty of Medicine Lodge (Kansas) in which the Cheyenne gave up their holdings along the Arkansas River for land on a reservation in what is now Oklahoma.

By the fall of 1868, Black Kettle and two thousand warriors settled near the Washita River in the southeastern part of Indian Territory.  Though the Treaty of Medicine Lodge promised specific supplies, the provisions never came.  Many of the Cheyenne joined a young warrior, Roman Nose, who had been leading a series of raids on farms and homesteads of white settlers.

Under General Philip Sheridan, three columns of troops launched a winter campaign against Cheyenne encampments.  The Seventh Cavalry, commanded by George Armstrong Custer, was selected to take the lead.

For four days, in a foot of fresh snowfall, Custer and his 800 men followed the tracks of a small raiding party through the continuing snowstorm.  The tracks led to the encampment on the Washita River.  Custer ordered the attack at dawn.

On November 27, 1868, nearly four years to the day after the Sand Creek Massacre, Custer’s troops charged.  Chief Black Kettle and his wife, Maiyuna, were shot dead on the banks of the Washita River, (Indian Territory), their bodies riddled with bullets.

“Both the chief and his wife fell at the riverbank, riddled with bullets,” one witness reported.  “The soldiers rode right over Black Kettle and his wife and their horse as they lay dead on the ground, and their bodies were all splashed with mud by the charging soldiers.”

Custer ordered the slaughter of the Indian pony and mule herd—over 800 animals.  The lodges of the encampment were burned along with the winter food supply.  At the threat of reinforcements from other Indian camps only a few miles away, Custer quickly retreated to Camp Supply with his hostages.

In the Battle of the Washita, though Custer claimed 100 Cheyenne fatalities, Indian accounts claim 11 warriors, and 19 women and children were killed.  More than 50 Cheyennes were captured—mainly women and children.

After this battle, most of the Cheyenne were convinced to accept reservation life.  On the Washita River, Chief Black Kettle’s vision of peace was crushed, along with the Cheyenne way of life.

Good Morning, Afternoon or Evening (depending on when you’re joining me today).

Well, I’ve posted often in the past on readiness.  In today’s economy, which is struggling to remain afloat,  I’m beginning to think that it might just be a good idea to be prepared — with food and water and anything else you can think of that you might need in case of an emergency.

Not that I’m predicting one, mind you.  But a very wise man once said “Prepare for the worst and it seldom comes.”  So along with that note, I thought I might talk today about signs in Nature.  As you might or might not know, Nature often gives us signs as to what is to be expected in the future.  This isn’t fortune telling.  This is simply reading the signs that are there and knowing what follows. 

In the past, the American Indian (the word Indian, by the way comes from the Spanish word, Indio, which means one with God — so I’ve decided that I like that word) was very attuned to his environment.  Whether he liked it or not or thought it was beautiful or dangerous, might or might not be.  It was  matter of survival that he be able to foretell what might be in his future.

Now I won’t even pretend to tell you that I’ve discovered these things for myself or from observation.  This is from research.  So here are a few of the things one might look for: 

From the book, INDIAN WHY STORIES by Frank B. Linderman,

“Tomorrow will be a fine day,” said Other-person, “for grandfather says that a red sky is always the sun’s promise of fine weather, and the sun cannot lie.”

     “Yes,” said Bluebird, “and he said that when this moon was new it travelled well south for this time of year and its points were up.  that mean fine, warm weather.”

Here’s another one, that I bet you all know.  A harsh winter can be judged by the heaviness of the animal’s fur.  Nature seems to have made it that way.  Here’s a few more — but these signs were helped along by man:  A bunch of grass tied together will give you the date of when the person left it passed that way — seen by its freshness.  Two or three stones that were deliberately piled on top of each other is giving a warning and the way in which they are placed indicates the direction.

Now one could also leave messages — and they were easy to read for a man or woman who knew how to look.  Depending on what you had to hand, rocks could show the direction in which the tribe went — or grass could be tied to show direction, too, by pointing.  Trees could be marked to show when one should turn and in which direction.  Important notices could be left by the inclusion of different signs.  Cutting the bark all around a tree meant “I am starving.”

  Even a pony could be used to tell a story.  Riding in circles, or backwards or forwards denoted danger or indicated the presence of an enemy or game.  The rapidity of riding in a circle or backwards or forwards indicated that immediate attention was needed.  If an Indian in the lead of a party road back and forth wildly and with great speed, and then hid himself, it meant that the others in his party were to do the same — the enemy was close to hand and too numerous to win the fight.

Here’s a few more signs in nature — these I don’t know how true they are — you’ll have to determine that for yourself.  It was told to me when I was growing up that a circle around the moon meant rain was in the forecast.   Now interestingly, in sign language the phrase of winning a woman’s affection was the same sign that was used for “kill,” meaning (according to the author of the book, THE INDIAN SIGN LANUAGE — W. P. Clark) that one killed all opposition.  Interesting…

Well, that’s all for today’s blog.  I’d love to hear if you know of any of these signs in Nature that foretell of things to come.  Or any other signals, also.  If I remember correctly, one of the badges of an Eagle Scout is to know many of these different trail signs.

So come on in and let’s talk.  And remember, if you haven’t done so already, pick up your copy of SENECA SURRENDER today.

Here’s the Amazon link for the book:

http://www.amazon.com/Seneca-Surrender-Berkley-Sensation-Bailey/dp/0425233847/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1277169262&sr=1-1 or Rhapsody Book Club if you’d like a hard cover copy:

http://www.rhapsodybookclub.com/Historical-Romance-books/Cowboys-&-Indians.html

Ah, it’s June already.  Where I grew up, June was a very hot summer month.  Here in southern California, it can be hot, yes, but it’s August and September that are the hottest months of the year here.  Nevertheless, June reminds me of games and play.  As a child we played all kinds of games: tag, hide-and-seek, softball, red robin, mother-may-I.  And of course we climbed and swung from many a tree.  I should tell you also that I’ll be giving away a free book to one lucky blogger today, so do come on in and leave a message.

Off to the left here is a Geroge Catlin painting of ball play.  So, what sort of games did the American Indians play?  We often hear of their skill in war and in the hunt, but what did they do for fun?

All tribes were different, of course.  But let’s start with the Western tribes.  The Mandans and most all Plains tribes had sham fights.  These were for the young boys and it was a part of their regular exercise.  Catlin also writes that it also constituted a branch of their education.  These were carried on in the mornings of the summer months and were played by boy between the ages of 7 and 15.  They played their games naked, although each one had a belt around his waist where he carried a knife made of wood or something equally harmless.  The game lasted about an hour and those that took “scalps” (not the real thing of course) would step forward and tell of their deeds after the sham battle.  Meanwhile their sweethearts looked on with affection and wonder at these young heros.

Off to the right here is another picture of the American Indian’s Style of ball play.  There were also games of the moccasin, of the platter and of course feats of archery.  The Mandans played a game calle Tchung-kee — which Catlin describes as “a beautiful athletic exercise.”  The game is played on a pavement of claywhich is smooth and hard.  Two champions choose their sides — bets are then made and then the game starts.  As George Catlin describes it:  “Two men start off upon a trot, abreast of each other, and one of them rolls in advance of them, on the pavement, a little ring of two or three inches in diameter, cut out of a stone; and each one follows it up with his ‘tchung-kee’ (a stick of six feet in length), which he throws before him as he runs, sliding it along upon the ground after the ring, endeavouring to place it in such a position when it stops, that the ring may fall upon it, and recive one of the little projections of leather through it, which counts for game, one, or two, or four, according to the position of the leather on which the ring is lodged.”  Sounds a little complex, as well as a game requiring a great amount of skill.

There were also horse races.  And in tribes (particularly the Eastern tribes) that didn’t have horses, the races were almost always foot races.  I found it interesting that almost all of these races were done in the nude.  As a matter of fact, I’ve written twice (maybe three times) about these races that were carried on in the nude.  How intriguing.  Interestingly George Catlin found himself in a position where he had to race.  It required him to strip down completely, which was quite embarrassing for him.  One can almost feel his blush on the pages of his work.  Another interesting fact was that after the race was over, a crowd of girls waited at the finish line where he was to dismount.  Apparently they were curious as to what a white man looked like in the nude.  Another fact that he found quite embarrassing.  I guess it’s why I’ve written about it on two or perhaps three different occasions.

To the left here is a painting done by Karl Bodner.  This is of an Assiniboine warrior.  It’s one of my favorites of his paintings.  The Assiniboine tribe had an interesting game of chance — gambling — called Cos-soo.  In one of my books, THE SPIRIT OF THE WOLF, I describe this game in detail, since the hero of the book “wins” the heroine in this game of chance.  In this game when it was played for real, many a man lost all that he owned, including the very clothes on his back, along with his wife.  Another interesting fact is this:  Did you know that Sacagewia was won by her husband — a French trader in a game of chance?  At the time, the man who lost her got himself into a lot of trouble with his wives.

Women also played many games — I was trying to find a picture on the internet of one of these games — I believe that Catlin painted a picture of this.  But alas, I couldn’lt find it.  I don’t believe that the games played by the women carried bets — they were played for fun and exercise.  And of course everybody learned early how to swim and how to ride a horse.  In fact, another “game” of sorts was a kind of rodeo, where the men would show off many different feats of horsemanship.

To the left is a Catlin painting of an Archery contest.  And of course there were also the buffalo hunts, that, while these were serious in nature, were also feats of bravery and skill.  I guess when all is said and done, we might be able to say that we all share many different traits, regardless of who we are or where we’re from.  And perhaps in times of conflict this is something to remember and take note of.  What are some of these traits:  Well, for one we all love our families.  We all desire to protect that which is ours and we all want to shelter those we love.  Plus, we all love to play.

So tell me, do you have a favorite sport?  A favorite game?  Don’t foget that I will be giving away a free copy of the book, BLACK EAGLE, today.  So come on in and leave a post. 

And please if you haven’t done so already, pick up a  copy of SENECA SURRENDER today!  Here’s hoping you’ll give my new book a try.

Good Morning!

Forgive me if you will for not posting about something Western or something American Indian.  Bear with me as I digress.

This is my mother-in-law, Joyce as I have known her for the 14 years that my husband and I have been married.  I can’t remember when I didn’t have an independent spirit — it seems to be a part of me — and so I was leary of mother-in-laws, I must admit.  But over time, I came to love an admire my mother in law as though she were my own mother.  This picture was taken in 2005 at her home in Montana.

Since many of you who come to this blog are also on my email list, you probably know that I had to make an emergency cancellation of my book signing in Houston.  I was happily on my way to Houston when I received word that my mother in law, who had been sick, had taken a turn for the worst.  Needless to say I turned around (18 hours on the road that day) and drove home to be with my husband, who in turn, finished his work cycles in record time so we could get on the road to Montana the next day.  This picture to the right I think shows the amount of affinity and love between us.

Off to the right here is a picture of my husband (on the left), Joyce and my brother in law, Bob, who passed away almost 2 years ago to the day (Bob is on the right in this pictuer).  Anyway, my husband and I arrived in Montana with just enough time to see her before she passed away.  She was unconscious the entire time we were there, but I still believe that she knew we were there.  And my husband was with her the moment she passed away from this world in this body.  She was surrounded by friends and family, and I can’t think of a better way to leave this life than to have those you love most around you toward the end of this life.

She had been fighting cancer.  As an 84 year old woman, she had yet been given chemo and radiation therapy at the same time.  It proved too much for her and she ended the treatments simply because they made her so sick.  But damage had been done and her immune system was shot from all the chemo  What she died from was an infection that her body couldn’t fight off because of her suppressed immune system.  How I wish sometimes that I had a time machine so I could go back and change all that.

I will miss her.  I can’t even begin to name the ways in which she helped both my husband and myself.  I can’t even begin to describe what it was like to have  a person there who truly cared so much about me — even though I was only the daughter-in-law.  Over the years, I came to love this woman very much — just as though she were a mother.  (This picture to the right by the way is Bob on the far left, Joyce and me — I don’t think I can still get into those jeans,  but that’s another subject.)

I remember when my husband and I were first married and on our honeymoon, his mother and father called us.  I remember thinking at the time that this was strange (my own mother passed away long ago and I had been on my own and independent for quite a while).  I remember thinking, “Oh, dear, what is this all about?”  But over time I came to understand that she was showing her love for my husband and that eventually this included me, as well.  It was Joyce who showed me really what a mother in law can be — what is expected — what I should do — how loving I should be.  I will always remember this — always remember the love she showered on me and others and I am so glad that I had the chance to get to know this incredible individual.  The picture to the right is a beautiful kiss between my hsuband and my mother-in-law.

My life is better now because of her loving care.  And I know that I’ll be a better mother-in-law, myself, because of the example she set.  Anyway, I hope you will forgive me from straying away from my usual sort of blogs on Native America.  In a way, this blog is along the line of a Western, if only because Joyce was raised in North Dakota and lived most of her life there and in Montana.  It was from my visits to her home, where I had the leisure to go to the Blackfeet reservation and the Crow and Northern Cheyenne reservation.

We’re back home now in southern California — and our animals were happy to see us again — after our 22-24 hour trip — do I look as tired as I felt in this picture?  And of course life goes on as it was intended to do.  But there are some people who touch you greatly and this is the kind of  person that Joyce was.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this blog and that I have managed to do tribute to her properly.  I know she’s okay and I know in some other time and place, she will be the source of joy to many, many people.  Our elders in Native America and in our past, have always been around helping, teaching, showing the way.  What would we do without them and their gentle wisdom?

I’d love to hear from you today and hear about people who have touched you greatly.  So come on in and let me hear your stories, also.

I’ll be on the road almost all day today as I slowly make my way to Florida.  Now I’ll be stopping off in Houston on Friday and will be doing a signing at Katy Books there in Houston.  So if you’re in the area, come on by.

Well, today, I thought I’d talk once again about lanugage.  We’ll mostly all readers and writers and it’s occurred to me that we are probably each one of us in love with language.  We read, we write, we struggle with that sentence, that paragraph, that scene.  We listen to the words of others, we imitate their speech sounds and imitate dialects, we write them, we say them, we put poetry together so that it moves the spirit of us and our fellow man.  The art of language.  Candidates hope we’ll listen to their smooth talk and not bother to study their voting records too carefully.  Propagandists bank on the fact that we’ll listen and not look — and many of us fall prey to this kind of deceit.  Why?  I think it’s call the art of language.

One of my favorite pictures, here.  Okay, now in the mid-1800’s, Indian agents began the start of separating Indian children from their parents and taking them far away to the white man’s school.  This was considered by the “do-gooders” (as they are sometimes affectionately referred to in the land of Native America) as beneficial.

But was it?

Let’s have a closer look.  Many of those children had never known the inside of 4 walls.  They were used to the outdoors life, and they were isolated from their families as well (and to many of them, their families were who they were); they were forbidden to speak their language.  They were taught skills that would not equip them to perform well back on the “rez” where they would eventually wind up.  It was thought that they could be made over into the image of the white man — and that this would be beneficial for all concerned.

Many of those children committed suicide.  Some simply faded away or became sick with the startling difference in food, culture, clothing and way of life.   Some  learned as well as they could, only to return to their reservations ill-equipped to meet the challenges that would face them there.  None ever — not ever — forgot their true heritage.  Never.  And when times became more tolerant, these people quickly reverted to their roots, as best they could remember them.

One might think that simply forbidding a child to speak his native tongue, and forcing him to learn another language could hardly qualify as abuse.  But stay with me here.  Let’s look at this more closely.

In Native America, and perhaps in most other cultures, one’s morals and indeed ones idea of what is considered expected of him in the society in which he lives, is conveyed through one’s language.  Let me give some examples here to make this a little more real.  In Native America, there were no such things as curse words.  The name of the Creator, and all concerning that aspect of life was considered so sacred that the very idea of taking the name in vein was entirely foreign.  The way in which one addressed his brothers, sisters, his relatives, his uncles and aunts was all part of the language and gave these kinds of stable datums to children from the very beginning of their life.  The making of clothes, the industry of the women, the differences between the sexes, the way in which one treated one’s mother-in-law or father-in-law, was all part of the language.  If one were to strip one of his right to speak his own tongue, one would also, at the same time, strip one of the moral fiber of the community.

In many ways, taking away the language of the people was as harmful to the First Americans as was the fire-water (and other drugs) brought in by the traders.  It pulled the rug out from underneath the child, replacing it with a different set of values that had little to stabilize them, since most of these children would be returning to their reservation and would not be staying in the white man’s world where the new morals would apply.  Thus, a man would come back to the reservation unable to hunt and fish and make a living for his family.  His family would starve.  A woman would come back not able to cook over a fire or to make the kinds of clothes she was taught to sew in the white man’s school.  Often she was taught to sew on a sewing machine, and there would be none of those on the reservation.

It was a hard time for those children — not only leaving their families, but also in returning to a world that seemed now foreign to them.  Some couldn’t make the change.  But what I find interesting is how the language was used to destroy a culture.  Language.  More examples:  We can often “know” a person by the way they speak (or so we think).  We listen to the slow drawl of a Texan and some of us sigh.  We listen to the fast-paced jargon of a New Englander and our heads might spin just trying to keep up with all they’re saying.  Or how about the Saturday Night Live version of a Samurai in the roll of a food server?  Just the imitation of the speech patterns of the Samurai, combined with the outrageousness of a restaurant setting was enough to set me to laughing.

Language.  It can make us laugh, it can make us cry, it can bring us to our knees.  It can soothe, it can enlighten, it can raise our spirits with the beauty of its prose.  It can also unfortunately be used by those of devious dispostions to hypotnize.  And it can also convey and keep alive simply by its use and its structure, an entire culture.

So tell me what are your thoughts about all this?  I do know that I have been told by more than one Native American elder of the importance of language — and how it alone might keep alive a culture.  What do you think?  Can language do all this?  Can language take us to places we’ve never seen, soothe our spirits, become our friend?  I may not be able to respond right away to your posts, but others of the fillies will be here to respond to you. 

Don’t forget, SENECA SURRENDER is one sale at bookstores everywhere.  Pick up your copy today!

I have a habit of picking up books on a trip and then, on reaching home, promptly tucking them somewhere for future reading. I’ll forget about them, or where I placed them (I buy entirely too many reference books), and then one day, I’ll stumble over it. It’s like Christmas.

So it happened with a tiny book I found several days ago. It’s only about two inches by three inches, which is probably why I’ve neglected it for something like four years. But yes, my own personal Christmas came when I found it, and I delighted in it.

The book is entitled “Native American Wisdom.” Its contents were enough to make me run to the internet for more, Look up Native Indian Wisdom on the internet and you’ll find some truly fascinating sites along with very good music.

I usually like to blog about historical figures, particularly the unsung heroines of the west, but these sayings give such a unique understanding for the native Indians as well as universal truths that I just have to pass some of them on.

I might add that I love quotes. There’s one Indian quote that I’ve been using for years to conclude speeches on writing, so I’ll start with that one. I’ve always thought it described the writing life perfectly. “I go about pitying myself and all the while I am being carried on great winds across the sky.” The author is thought to be Chippawa.

But here are some more that struck a chord with me. They give  a poignant picture of the Indian in the west.

“The American Indian is of the soil whether it be the region of forests, plains, pueblos or mesas. He fits into the landscape, for the hand that fashioned the continent also fashioned man for his surroundings. He once grew as naturally as the wild sunflowers; he belongs just as the buffalo belonged.”  Luther Standing Bear, Sioux Chief

 ”We had no churches, no religious organizations, no Sabbath day, no holidays, and yet we worshipped. Sometimes the whole tribe would assemble and pray; sometimes a smaller number, perhaps only two or three. The songs had a few words, but were not formal. The singer would occasionally put in such words as he wished instead of the usual tone sound. Sometimes we prayed in silence. Sometimes each prayed aloud; sometimes an aged person prayed for all of us.”  Geronimo

“In the beginning or all things, wisdom and knowledge were with the animals, for Tirawa, the One Above, did not speak directly to man. He sent certain animals to tell men that he showed himself through the beasts, and that from them, and from the stars, and the sun and the moon should man learn . . . all things tell of Tirawa.” A Pawnee Chief

“. . . everything on the earth has a purpose, every disease an herb to cure it, and every person a mission, This is the Indian theory of existence.”  Mourning Dove

” . . . I am poor and naked, but I am chief of the nation. We do not want riches but we do want to train our children right. Riches would do us no good. We could not take them with us to the other world. We do not want riches. We want peace and love.”   Red Cloud, Sioux chief.

“Out of the Indian approach to life there came a great freedom – an intense and absorbing love for nature; a respect for life, enriching faith in a Supreme Power and principles of truth, honesty, generosity, equity, and brotherhood . . .”   Luther Standing Bear, Oglala Sioux Chief

” . . . The voice of the Great Spirit is heard in the twittering of birds, the rippling of mighty waters, and the sweet breathing of flowers. If this is Paganism, then at present, at least I am a Pagan.”   Dakota Sioux

‘I was born upon the prairie, where the wind blew free, and there was nothing to break the light of the sun. I was born where there were no enclosures, and where everything drew a free breath . . . I know every stream and every wood between the Rio Grande and the Arkansas. I have hunted and lived over that country. I lived like my fathers before me, and like them I lived happily.”   Ten Bears, Comanche Chief

And here are some short and pithy quotes:

“It is better to have less thunder in the mouth and more lightning in the hand.”   Apache

“If we wonder often, the gift of knowledge will come.”   Arapaho

“What is life? It’s the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.”   Blackfoot

“Do not judge your neighbor until you walk two moons in his moccasins.” Cheyenne

“Our first teacher is our heart.”  Cheyenne

“Remember that your children are not your own, but are lent to you by the creator.”  Mohawk

“He who would do great things should not attempt them all alone.”   Seneca

“Walk lightly in the spring; Mother Earth is pregnant.”   Kiowa

Have you heard of a quote or piece of Indian wisdom that remained with you? Or do you have a favorite of those above?

I’ll send one of my westerns to one of you who comment on this post. The winner will be selected by random, and I’ll announce it on Thursday.

Only two Native Americans on either side of the States’ War rose to the rank of brigadier general.  Standhope Watie (Uwatie), fighting for the Confederacy, was one of those two.  Yet, what makes this accomplishment so incredible is the fact that while he was fighting for the Confederate States of America, he was also fighting other Cherokee tribal leaders who held opposing political views and very different visions for the Cherokee nation.

Stand Watie commanded the Confederate Indian Cavalry of the Army of the Trans-Mississippi.  While the cavalry unit was comprised mainly of Cherokee, some Muscogee (Creek) and Seminole tribal members also served.

Born in Oothcaloga in the Cherokee Nation, State of Georgia, Uwatie (or Oowatie) was also known as Isaac.  He was educated in a Moravian mission school.  In his early adulthood, he occasionally wrote articles for the Cherokee Phoenix newspaper.  The State of Georgia confiscated Cherokee lands in 1832 when gold was discovered, including the thriving plantation owned by Stand’s father and mother.  Stand and his brothers, part of the powerful Ridge-Watie-Boudinot faction of the Cherokee council, stood in favor of the Cherokee Removal. Their signing of the Treaty of New Echota facilitated the removal of the Cherokee people to Indian Territory—what is now Oklahoma.

Another faction of Cherokees following John Ross refused to ratify the treaty signing.  This segment was known as The Anti-Removal National Party.  Members of this group targeted Stand Watie and his brother, Elias Boudinot, along with their uncle, Major Ridge, and cousin, John Ridge for assassination.  Stand was the only one who survived the assassination attempt.  Although Watie’s family had left Georgia before the forcible removal of all Cherokees in 1838, another brother, Thomas, was murdered by Ross’s men in 1845.

In October, 1861, Watie was commissioned as colonel in the First Mounted Cherokee Rifles. Besides fighting Federal troops in the States’ War, his men also fought opposing factions of Cherokee, as well as Seminole and Creek (Muscogee) warriors who supported the Union.

In 1862, Stand Watie was elected principal chief of the Cherokee Nation, through dissension continued among John Ross’s supporters.

On June 15, 1864, Watie’s troops captured the Federal steamboat J. R. Williams on the Arkansas River off the banks of Pleasant Bluff near Tamaha, Indian Territory.  The next morning, Colonel John Ritchie’s men, who were stationed at the mouth of the Illinois River near where the two rivers met, engaged Watie’s men as they attempted to confiscate the cargo.  The river was rising, and they fought to a standoff.  When Watie learned of the advance of Union troops from Fort Smith, Arkansas, (within about 40 miles), he burned the ship and much of the remaining cargo, then sank it.

Watie surrendered a year later in June of 1865, the last Confederate general to lay down his arms.

In my debut novel, Fire Eyes, I weave this bit of history into my plot.  The villain, Andrew Fallon, and his gang have come upon the site where the J.R. Williams was sunk four years earlier.  Fallon speculates there could have been gold aboard, and sets his men to dive for it.  As mercurial as his temper is, none of them dare question his order.  Here’s what happens:

FROM FIRE EYES:

“Damn! I know where we are.” Dobie Perrin said.

Andrew Fallon turned in the saddle, glaring at Perrin, the afternoon sun dappling them through the leaves of the thick canopy of trees. “So do I, you idiot! So do we all, now.”

The secluded cemetery sat on a bluff, overlooking the Arkansas River. They had been wandering for two days, ever since retracing their steps to the first small creek they’d come to. The one Fallon felt sure would give them their bearings. Now, at last, he recognized where they were. He’d figured it out ten miles back.

“Tamaha,” Denver Rutledge muttered. “I was raised up over yonder.” He inclined his head toward the riverbank. “Over in Vian.”

“Then why didn’t you know where we were?” Fallon’s anger surged. “I am surrounded by idiots!”

“I shore ’nuff shoulda known, General,” Rutledge said apologetically. “Right yonder’s where we sunk the J.R. Williams. Rebs, I mean. Stand Watie’s bunch.”

Fallon jerked his head toward the other man. “Right where, soldier?”

Rutledge kneed his horse, coming abreast of Fallon. “Why, right yonder, General. It was in June of ’64. She was a Union ship, the Williams was.”

“What was she carrying?”

Rutledge shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. Supplies, maybe.”

“Payroll? Gold?” Fallon fingered his curling moustache. “Could be anything, eh, Rutledge? But the Yankees were known to cache their gold profits in casks. Maybe that’s what the J.R. Williams was carrying. Casks that weren’t really supplies, but were filled with gold.”

“Could be, I ‘spect.” Rutledge’s voice was hesitant.

Fallon nodded toward the river. “I think maybe we’ll try to find out.”

****

AND LATER, WILL THE HOSTAGES BE ABLE TO ESCAPE WHILE FALLON’S MEN ARE OCCUPIED WITH THE SHIP?

“What’s he doing, Tori?” Lily whispered. She moved closer to her sister. The night had turned colder, and the girls’ clothing was becoming threadbare and ragged.

Tori shook her head. “Fallon’s plumb crazy, Lily. Making his men dive for that ship! What’s he think he’s going to do if he finds it? Pull it up with his bare hands?”

“Or a rope, maybe,” Lily said innocently.

Tori didn’t say anything. She reminded herself that Lily was, after all, only eight years old. And she, at eighteen, knew how the world worked much better than little Lily did. At least Lily had stopped crying all the time. Now, Tori wasn’t sure if that was an improvement.

Lily sometimes scared her, the way her eyes looked hollow. Like there was no feeling left in her. Tori had no mirror, but her little sister looked like she herself felt. Older than she should be. And sad. But Lily didn’t seem to be afraid any longer, and Tori supposed that was a good thing.

Tori knew what Fallon intended to do with her and Lily. But the initial shock and fear of Fallon’s intent was overshadowed by other things that had actually happened. The violent deaths of their parents and younger brother, the endless days of riding with scant food and water, the bone-deep weariness that never let up, not even when she slept on the hard ground at night next to Lily.

She was responsible for Lily, now that her parents were gone. She squared her thin shoulders, her gentle eyes turning hard for a moment. She would protect her sister, no matter what.

Tori watched as Fallon ordered three of his men back into the water yet another time. Even if they could see what they were diving for, it would be too deep to reach. But the scene helped Tori realize just how unstable Andrew Fallon was. Once or twice, she’d caught herself thinking he was almost a nice man. He’d brought her and Lily a blanket one cold night. And he’d given them extra rations another time. But she knew he was not nice, not even sane.

Evil, was what Andrew Fallon was. Evil, and most insane.

She watched him, posturing and screaming at his men, who were so terrified of him that they were making fools of themselves trying to dive for an unreachable goal, a ship that may contain treasure, but just as well may not. A vessel that was impossible to get to, all the same. Especially in the pitch-black night. Lily leaned against her, her weight heavy with sleep. They sat beside a tree, their backs propped against the rough bark. The night was cool, and Tori had drawn the blanket close around them. She sagged against the tree trunk, her arm around her little sister, as Lily’s eyelids drooped.