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Scalping Columbus and Other Damn Indian Stories
Truths, Half-Truths, and Outright Lies
By Adam Fortunate Eagle UNIVERSITY OF OKLAHOMA PRESS
Copyright © 2014 University of Oklahoma Press
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8061-4539-6
CHAPTER 1
Moose on the Loose
It was always a special treat for me to go back and visit my reservation at Red Lake, Minnesota.
As a five-year-old, me, my four older brothers, and my older sister were shipped off to Pipestone Indian Training School for the next ten years.
I felt robbed of some of the traditional and cultural activities which took place on the reservation, such as tapping maple sap in the early spring, netting walleye pike in our great lake, harvesting wild rice in late summer, and hunting snowshoe rabbits in winter.
Our tribe was famous for its wild rice and its variations—river rice, paddy rice, lake rice, long grain, and short grain—all were tribal delicacies.
I was determined to participate in those tribal events in spite of my inexperience.
Late one summer I arrived at the reservation just in time for the wild rice harvest. Uncle Charlie had a cabin near the river, where the shallows were filled with large stands of wild rice. He loaned me his beautiful aluminum-hulled boat equipped with oars, canvas, beater sticks, and rope. I shoved off downstream at dawn. Ho wah! I felt just like those old-time Indians.
However, gathering wild rice is not as glamorous as it may seem. In the rice paddies, I bent the rice stalks with one stick and then beat them with the other stick. The rice then fell onto the canvas. The chaff of the rice flew high in the air; it clogged my sinuses and made my skin itch. Being uncomfortable and itchy was the price one paid for tradition.
Rounding a bend in the river, I came upon a bull moose with his head underwater, feeding on the succulent stalks of water lilies.
Ho wah! Not only was I gathering wild rice, I now had a chance to catch a moose. I quietly formed a lasso out of the rope, and deftly looped it over his horns as he raised his head.
That was when I discovered moose do not stand still when they are roped. In fact, they run like hell! And, I found out something else—moose are huge! Mine was seven feet high at the shoulders and must have weighed twelve hundred pounds. That enraged moose charged up the riverbank and headed straight for Uncle Charlie's cabin. I desperately hung on to the oarlocks as I experienced the most terrifying ride of my life. That aluminum boat was rattling and banging like a load of tin cans tied to a dog's tail. At times like these, some people find that their lives flash before their eyes—I saw my obituary, "Indian boy killed in a dryland accident in a rowboat being towed by a bull moose."
In spite of the bumpy ride and the fact that we were rapidly approaching Uncle Charlie's cabin, I had the presence of mind to holler, "Fresh meat! Uncle Charlie! Get the gun, I'm bringing fresh meat!"
Hearing the commotion, Uncle Charlie grabbed the .30-30 Winchester rifle next to the door and rushed out of his cabin, only to be confronted by a charging bull moose.
"Shoot the moose!" I hollered to Uncle Charlie, "Shoot the moose!"
Uncle Charlie dropped the rifle and took refuge behind a pine tree as me and the moose came flying by, knocking over the outhouse with Aunt Jane still inside.
The boat hit a large bump in the ground, and flipped sideways. It was caught between two trees, causing the rope to break. The liberated moose trotted off into the deep woods—its dignity was still intact.
Uncle Charlie surveyed the damage: his rifle broke when the moose stepped on it; his prized aluminum-hulled boat laid crumpled like a tin can; wild rice was scattered all over the landscape; and above it all we could hear Auntie Jane, cussing and screaming over the indignity she had just endured. Uncle Charlie tried to maintain his composure. He looked me straight in the eye and said, "Nephew, next time you come back to the reservation, don't you ever try playing Indian again!
CHAPTER 2
Three Hole Outhouse
In these modern times one rarely concerns themselves, or even thinks about, how humans dispose of bodily wastes. I'll bet you haven't given this subject even a passing thought in the past week, unless, of course, you happened to be in a crowded shopping mall when nature called. Your only concern then was not the "how of it" but the "where of it." In a growing panic, you finally locate that haven for elimination of human byproducts. Truly a "pause that refreshes."
If you come from a rural background, you can still remember the indispensable outhouse. Old-timers like to tell the modern youngsters about how difficult those "good old days" were—tales of walking five miles, through knee-deep snow in subzero weather to go to school, of going down the bush-lined path to a pure water stream to fetch water, of shoveling snow to clear the path to the outhouse. When real bad weather prevented trips to the outhouse, the reliable "thunder mug" was used. This was often a large stoneware pot with a lid. The lid was very important, as it served to hold down the awful odor inside.
But, even the outhouse was considered a modern advancement in technology at one time. Only four generations ago, on the reservation, when nature called, it really meant that we simply went behind a bush, tree, or rock and relieved ourselves. My Great-grandpa Amabese was a more forward-thinking man. He dug a deep hole in the ground and put two planks over the top. He spaced the planks so a person could squat over them and everything would simply drop between the space into the hole below. How clever, eh?
His son, Amabese the younger, was a more worldly person, and after he was grown up and had a family of his own, he built a real outhouse. Actually, it was quite pitiful—a small one-holer. Grandpa Amabese cut the hole with a keyhole saw and didn't think to round off the edges with a file. Everyone who used that little one-holer ended up with a red ring around their butt caused by the sharp edge of the seat. The longer a person sat, the deeper the red ring became and, of course, the longer it took for it to go away.
Our family was readily apparent at the nearby waterhole, where everyone liked to swim or to bathe. That red ring around our butts was a sure giveaway. People referred to us as their ringed-ass neighbors for as long as that little one-holer survived.
Halloween is a white man's celebration that the young Indians were quick to pick up on. None of that door-to-door trick or treating. No sir, it was all trick. Like stealing pantaloons off the clothesline, then hanging them high in a tree next to the road for all passersby to see—to the great embarrassment of Gramma. Or, the boys liked soaping up the windows of houses. But the all-time favorite was tipping over outhouses. That little one-holer was a real target, for all it took was two boys running down that short slope, jumping, and pushing at the same time. That little one-holer flopped flat on its back, and the boys hardly broke stride as they dashed off into the woods before Grandpa could come out and shoo them away. The dastardly deed had already been done.
The next year was the final straw. The two boys showed up again at the site of their favorite target. They let out a war whoop and charged down the slope, jumping and flopping the little outhouse flat on its back with a loud bang. A loud roar of profanity erupted from within as Grandpa had been sitting inside, heeding the call of nature. The two boys quickly vanished into the night. Everyone inside the main house heard the commotion and knew right away what had happened. It was difficult to keep from laughing as Grandpa came stomping into the house, still livid with rage. His pants had come off during the flip-flop of the outhouse, and he had a red ring around his ass. He looked nothing like a respected elder should look.
That was the end of the little single-hole outhouse, for the next day Grandpa went out and chopped it into kindling with his big double-bladed axe. He threw quicklime into the pit and then filled it in. A few yards away, Grandpa dug a huge deep pit and built the largest, most sturdy outhouse any of us had ever seen. Five full-grown men couldn't tip this one over. This was truly a deluxe model—a sporty three-holer. He even filed down the edges of the holes, making it almost a delight to sit on. Best of all, the ringed-ass look was gone!
The little boy's section had no seat—just an opening. This way we could pee without splattering all over the seat. The girls and the women hated to sit down on a splattered wet seat. Grandpa sternly instructed the boys never to use the other side. The two holes were reserved for the men, the women, and the girls.
The next year at Halloween, nobody bothered that formidable three-hole outhouse and Grandpa was very proud at having outwitted the pranksters.
American Indians found a way around the government's ban on certain ceremonies and feast days by adopting the white man's days of celebration. The kids loved Halloween, but the adults were more favorable to celebrating Thanksgiving, for it was, in fact, a feast day. The entire clan—aunts, uncles, and a whole passel of children—had our annual Thanksgiving dinner at Gramma and Grandpa's house. Early in the morning the womenfolk started preparing the foods to be served at the feast. In no time at all the air was filled with the delicious aroma of roasting turkey, moose meat, or goose. Then it was the smells of marvelous home-baked bread and pies, taking their turns teasing the nostrils of the children. Even though they were constantly being shooed out of the house, the children couldn't resist sneaking back in to lick the leftovers of delicious frosting that still clung to the bowls and spoons.
Like Thanksgivings everywhere, everyone enjoyed a sumptuous feast. Full plates of food were quickly consumed by the children, for at times like this they were always anxious— anxious to eat, anxious to play. After dessert and before the boisterous children got out of hand at the table, Gramma shooed them all outdoors to play so that the grownups could leisurely finish their desserts, washed down by steaming cups of coffee.
Well, has anyone ever been able to figure out why little boys like to play around outhouses? Maybe it's some kind of primordial urge, like a dog that smells something awful out in the yard and can't resist rolling in it. Human logic cannot explain it, they just do it. That Thanksgiving, Jimmy and his little four-year-old brother, Charlie, were there at the outhouse, swinging the door shut with a loud bang. They tore up the Sears and Monkey Ward catalogs just to be shredding paper. Jimmy jumped up on the seats of the outhouse, walked around the holes, then started marching around the pee-splattered ledge of the little boy's side. The wetness of the ledge caused Jimmy to slip and fall into the deep pit, almost half-filled with a year's accumulation of human waste! No amount of struggling on Jimmy's part got him free, as a matter of fact, he was slowly sinking deeper into the sludge. Little Charlie realized Jimmy's dilemma and he ran up the slope to get help. The first person he saw was his cousin, my sister, Myra.
"Jimmy fell in the shit house! Come help Jimmy!" he hollered at Myra.
She was twelve years old and had more sense. She told Charlie, "You go on up to the house and tell the folks. I'll try to help Jimmy." She ran down the slope to the outhouse while little Charlie made his way to the main house.
"Help me!" Jimmy hollered when he saw his cousin above him, looking down into the darkness trying to find him. "Help me!"
"Grab my hand," yelled Myra as she bent over the ledge to grab hold of her stricken cousin's outstretched hand. Clutching, grasping hands finally found each other and Myra started to pull.
There is an old saying among the old-timers and that is, "Don't be a shit disturber." There is a truism there, for, once disturbed, all the pent-up gasses are allowed to escape. It is a choking, gagging stench that overwhelms and nauseates you.
Myra found this out the hard way, for the more she pulled on Jimmy's arm, the more noxious gasses were released from his odorous tomb.
It was more than a full belly could stand. Myra threw up all over Jimmy, adding to the absolutely obnoxious and disgusting scene. She still had the presence of mind to hold onto Jimmy's hand. He was crying at this new outrage. His head and shoulders were covered with offal. Myra, courageous and determined, pulled again. The suction of the gooey mass held Jimmy tight as Myra pulled even harder, releasing a whole new volume of that putrefied gas. Her overwhelmed stomach once again discharged another load of its contents over hapless Jimmy's upper body. Then Myra started crying at the outrage of the moment. She pulled and pulled again, releasing more of the gagging, noxious fumes. Her poor stomach emptied its remaining contents over the countenance of her beloved cousin.
It was at that moment that the men arrived at the incredible scene. They quickly pulled little Jimmy to freedom. Once he was safely standing on the ground outside the outhouse, everyone immediately backed away. Jimmy was the worst looking, gosh-awfullest-smelling little boy anyone could ever remember. He was a true slime ball that no one dared approach. Grandpa ordered all the men to fetch buckets of water. Jimmy was stripped naked and bucket after bucket of water was thrown on him to wash away the sticky gooey mess.
Gramma warmed up water on the stove, while the other women got a washtub and put it out on the lawn. Jimmy was washed and lathered down with strong lye soap and every other kind of cleansers the women could lay their hands on. After repeated rinsings, Jimmy still reeked with a putrid odor. It took two weeks of washing and scrubbing before Jimmy could eat at the table with the rest of the family.
He never played around the outhouse again.
CHAPTER 3
TP
My Uncle George had a notorious drinking problem. There was no form of alcohol he wouldn't drink.
He found a bottle of rubbing alcohol in the tribal gym and chug-a-lugged it before anyone caught him. That rubbing alcohol put him in a life-threatening coma.
The stomach pump in the emergency ward helped bring George back to a sense of reality. The doctor said, "Chief." They always like to call old Indians chief. "Chief, you go on one more drunk like that and you're going to be one dead Indian."
George responded, "Well, Doc, I've been drinking all my life. I can't just suddenly up and quit."
The doctor suggested an alternative. "Next time you get an urge to drink, have a cup of tea instead."
Now, Uncle George was in a cultural dilemma. He had not followed the traditional ways enough to believe he would go to the Happy Hunting Grounds after he died, and his Catholic upbringing told him about Heaven, Purgatory, and Hell. He was told by an Indian convert, "Thanks to progress, Indians can go to Hell just like anyone else."
At the next Fourth of July celebration beer, whiskey, and wine flowed in the teepees circling the powwow arena. True to his word, Uncle George stuck to his commitment.
Avoiding all the temptations of alcohol, George drank his tea. In fact, he drank seventy-two cups of tea in one night.
The next morning they found Uncle George drowned in his own tea pee.
CHAPTER 4
Grandpa's Gebic Bag
Amabese was the name of my grandfather, his father, and his grandfather. When I was born on the Red Lake Reservation in Minnesota, I inherited the hereditary name of my ancestors. Old Amabese was very proud of his young weh-eh (namesake), and as I grew older the honor of carrying on the hereditary name became more and more important to me.
Now that he had a weh-eh, his name was changed to Amabe, the elder. So the two of us, Amabe and Amabese, became very good friends.
When Grandma Mahnee died at eighty-seven, it was a very pleasant kind of expiration. She was a woman who enjoyed a fulfilled and contented life. Sure, life was hard on the reservation, sometimes even brutal. But, if your life was full of love and happiness, you could just about cope with anything. They were married Indian-style when she was seventeen, and she bore Amabe's children year after year, until she quit having them at age forty-five. She had a total of twelve children. By that time, their older children were married and having kids of their own. As a result, Grandma Mahnee and Grandpa Amabe had a number of grandchildren who were older than their aunts and uncles.
After Grandma's passing, Amabe went into mourning for an appropriate time, and even though he was getting well along in years he turned out to be surprisingly popular with the ladies of the reservation. One could even say old Amabe was downright in demand by them.
I was very puzzled by this phenomenon of a man in his late nineties continuing to be very active with the ladies. Sometime, with great patience and determination, I would find out Grandpa's delightful secret.
Grandpa turned out to be surprisingly candid and open with his weh-eh. It was interesting to watch him talk. When something appeared really funny to him, he would tilt his head back and laugh a most enjoyable laugh. But when he talked about his prowess with the women, he had a more mischievous laugh. He would simply lower his voice down an octave or two and laugh, "Heh! Heh! Heh!" So it was rather easy to tell the different kinds of moods he was in by his laughter. It was hard to figure out how this old man could exude such joy in life when his environment hardly seemed suitable for such levity.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Scalping Columbus and Other Damn Indian Stories by Adam Fortunate Eagle. Copyright © 2014 University of Oklahoma Press. Excerpted by permission of UNIVERSITY OF OKLAHOMA PRESS.
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