Eating With the Dead

My two previous ramblings about the Indian Funeral had a point. And that point is, the tribe of my husband believes that in the hours after the burial the dead will share with the family a last meal, a feast.

We shared a meal with my husband's grandmother, after her family took up shovels and rakes, took off jackets and hats, and buried her themselves. The men dispatched by the county to take care of such things stood in the background in their faded denim, watching the family take up their shovels.

Grapes of Wrath dirt makes a terrible lonely and hollow thud when it hits a casket 6 feet deep. Being Baptist, I'd never heard such a sound. Baptists don't usually bury their dead. We don't eat with them either...

But my husband's tribe does. And during the feast, while I sat behind my husband, spouses can't sit beside the blood-kin, I thought about our little one, gone too soon. The family probably wondered why the white girl was crying on her fry bread.

I didn't just eat with his grandmother. I ate with my baby too.

The Funeral Part Two

After we drove over the Green Bridge, the bridge with the Green Man, we turned left onto a narrow blacktop. On the corner was an old red and brick fire station, barely kept running on what I'm sure was a diminished fire tax revenue.

On the left side of the narrow blacktop, set back against the fall colored trees, was an old looking tent or canopy. Under the canopy sat a huge, what looked like a...it sounds corny but it looked like a big cauldron or a big wok, over a smoldering fire. Men sat around the fire in captain's chairs. I was reminded of old men smoking and drinking beer and sitting on porches. 

I pointed it out to my husband as we drove past. "What's that? What are they doing over there?"

He shrugged, "I remember going down there when I little," he said, "but I don't remember that much about it."

Little did I know that's where the "feast" was cooking.

The funeral itself was beautiful. Sacred songs were sung, heart felt eulogies were given, tears were wept, prayers were said, hugs were passed around to everyone. 

People introduced themselves as sons or daughters of so-and-so and members of the this-and-that tribe. I was continually asked who I was. My husband began telling people I was from the "Scottish Tribe." From my pale skin, freckles, and red hair I guess it was obvious that my ancestors never hunted a buffalo. From my genealogy research I can confidently say that no, we hadn't. For that brief moment of meet and greet after the last song was sung but before the casket was carried away I became "The wife from the O'Malley family of the Scottish Tribe."

The name was made up of course. My husband thought it a hilarious joke. 

It wasn't until we arrived at the grave sight that things took a turn from slightly parallel to my Baptist experience with death minus the diaphragm belching native songs to a distinctly different and, to my white mind, a weird place.

Driving To The Funeral And Green Men

My husband and I went to an Indian funeral. 

He's Native American. If you want to know blood quantum, he's a lot Native. One-half to be exact. His grandmother, who passed away, is of two specific bands who celebrate a warrior existence. 

My husband is Indian, but he is also very white. And I don't mean the color. 

The day before the funeral my husband said, "there's going to be a feast."

"A feast?" I was shocked at the use of the word "feast." Who seriously uses that word in an everyday sentence. 

"Yeah," he said, "I guess we're eating afterward." 

That's what I mean when I say my husband is white. He didn't get the significance of the word "feast." And of course I didn't either. I'm raised Southern Baptist, I've never been to a non-Baptist funeral in my life. In my world, after a funeral, we eat casserole. So I thought, cool, can't wait for some chocolate pie.

The day of the funeral my husband and I drove from our cozy suburban neighborhood into the autumn colored hills of back wood country. 

The town we drove to stopped growing twenty years ago. Maybe even thirty or forty years ago. 

The first road sign I saw was, at first, unrecognizable. It made me disoriented, like the "off" feeling you get when you glance at your living room right after rearranging the furniture.  

The sign was not like the typical stop sign. It said, "Sook So <ee <it." I think the octagon shape made it feel familiar. And maybe the red color.

After the sign we crossed a bridge. It was metal, and painted a hunter green. Later, driving from the cemetery in the back of the car, my husband's Aunt told us she used to be afraid of the bridge. 

"Our people called this the Green Bridge. We had a story for the bridge," she said, "our people would say a little green man lives under the bridge. When my father would take his post at the gate into town I would bring him food, and I when I got to this bridge I would always run because I didn't want to see that little green man." She chuckled, and then in a soft voice, in a tenor and a pitch I think only native peoples have she said to the glass of the car window, "We Indians are a scary people." 

The Heron

My husband and I had to attend a democratic thing. A dinner. No, correction. A "roundup." 

"What's a Democratic Roundup?" My husband asked the girls in the front office. That's what we call them, The Girls. Even though one is old enough to be our grandmother. They giggled at him. They always giggle at him. Even when he's throwing a tantrum - which sometimes happens. 

"It's where you wear your best cowboy boots and hat," the youngest of The Girls said. Only she said it where the word "hat" sounded like "haaaiit." You know, fake country, long and drawn out. "Then you eat BBQ and cornbread." Again, fake country. Long and drawn out. 

Turns out she wasn't far off. There was a "Best Dressed Cowboy," and "Best Dressed Cowgirl" award for the night. And we ate brisket with BBQ sauce. 

Driving to the "roundup" the two lane blacktop curves around, hugging what is like a wet meadow. Standing in the glassy water was a heron. I was driving, and caught just a brief glimpse as we sped past. I would not have seen the bird at all if my husband hadn't stirred in the seat beside me. "Here lately I've seen that bird every time I come through here." 

"I don't remember ever seeing that bird," I said. 
"I do, I've seen it every time lately."
"Maybe it's just you."

He laughed, "I'll call it Cooper." 
"Good ol' Coop," it was my turn to laugh.

Later, after dinner, thinking about the heron I Googled "heron symbolism." 

Apparently Native Americans believe herons represent the ability to move forward, they also represent lessons in patience.

Coincidence? Maybe. 

Then again, my husband is Native American.