I heard the Indian Agent say, " Has no pride, no get up and go."
Well... He came out here and walked around my place,.. that
agent.
Steps all thru the milk weed and curing
wormwood...Tells me my place is overgrown and should be made some use of.
The old split ceder fence stands at many angles, and much of it lays on the ground, looks like a curving sentence of stick writing. An old language, too, black with age, with different shades of green of moss and lichen.
He always says he understands us Indians,.. and asks why don't I fix the fence at least? So I took some fine hawk feathers and fixed them to a miniature woven shield and hung this from an upright post near the house.
He came by last week and looked all around again,... he eyed the feathers a long time.
He didn't say anything, and he didn't even smile ...or look within himself ...or the hawk.
Maybe sometime.... I'll tell him that the fence isn't mine to begin with,... But was put up by the white guy who used to live next door.
It was years ago that he built a cabin and then put up that fence... He only looked at me one time, after his fence was up... then he nodded at me.... as if to show that He knew I was there... I guess.
It was a pretty fence, enclosing that guy, and I felt lucky to be on the outside of it.
Well....that guy dug holes all over his place, looking for gold..... but I guess he never found any.
I watched him grow old for over 20 years, and bitter, and I could feel his anger all over the place.
Now that's when I took to leaving My place to do a lot of visiting.
Then one time I came home and I knew he was gone for good.
My children would always ask me.. Why I don't move to town and be closer to them?
Now... They tell me that I'm lucky to be living way out here!
And they bring their children and come out and visit me. I can feel that they want to live out here, but can't for some reason, do it.
Each day a different story is told to me by that fence.... the rain and the wind and snow... the sun and moon shadows....this wonderful earth, this Creaton.
I tell my grandchildren many of these stories,... perhaps this too is one of them.
By: CreekLady
