Independence Day~1970 It is July, and it is hot. The hay has been cut and is now ready to be baled. The sweltering midday sun has dried the morning dew from the fescue and clover and Grandfather is in the field on the old Ford with the Massey Ferguson square baler spewing out neatly tied bales in neat little rows, like dominoes toppled over in line on the 80 acres, the same 80 acres that lie within the fencerows of his Grandmother's original allotment as a result of the Dawes Act of the late 1800's. The land lies along Sallisaw Creek, and part of the land was taken back by the railroad which came through shortly after the land was doled out of what had been tribal land. Grandfather's great uncles had tried to stop the railroad from the confiscation of the land. They had even staged what was likely the first 'sit-in' in Oklahoma in their effort to block the passage of the railroad through what had been told to them was 'their land'. Guns were drawn, the territorial sheriff called in, and the Uncles whisked away to court, fined and jailed, and then too late to stop the railroad's expansion. Grandfather spins the tractor around and starts another row of raked and spun hay. Across the creek he can see the Mayes place, and the old chimney of the Fairfield Mission, one of the first missions in what is now Oklahoma. The missionaries had followed the Cherokee and the other Five Civilized Tribes from their eastern homes to their new life in Indian Territory and established their presence again even after their own so-called Christian leaders had seen fit to destroy their protege's homes and government and in the interest of manifest destiny removed them supposedly beyond the fringes of white encroachment. He spins the tractor around again and spies me climbing up the bank of the creek I have just crossed. I am carrying his lunch to him. Fried chicken and a black-bottomed biscuit and a freshly filled canteen from the creek. He shoves the tractor down into neutral and I climb aboard. And much to my delight leaps off the black smoke belching Massey Ferguson with the metal seat and sends me away while he finds an old oak along the fencerow to eat. The same fencerow his great uncles had fought against and hated. The same fences they tore down again and again on what had been a free range. The fence runs across what had been first an Osage trace, and then a trading route for the French fur magnates, the Chouteaus, and then a wagon trail for the Civil War armies, and then a cattle trail to Texas, and then the damned railroad and now the fenceline comes to a cornerpost along the right of way with a matching cornerpost on the other side of the Kansas City Southern's rails. He sits and enjoys Elisi's cooking and watches me from the shade. He allows me to complete the field. 400 plus bales all completed before the mid-afternoon. I push the metal bar forward accelerating the tractor towards my mentor and bring it to a stop beside him. My reward is five stellate pointed arrowheads he has found while I have been focused on not disappointing him with my first run with the baler. The same arrowheads left by Caddo who had come through here on a winter hunt. The telltale stellate pointed flint tells of their intent. What were they hunting? Deer? Elk? Man?! I shove them in my pocket as he runs his hand through my bristled hair, the perspiration flies from my head in an arc of spray and we share a quiet laugh. We hop aboard the tractor and cross the creek with me sitting on the wheel cover and the wind cools us as we make our way home. The older boys will come tonite and haul the hay in while the sun is setting and on into the night. Elisi will meet us with a long cool glass of tea and I will brag to the other boy cousins of driving the tractor. Someone is shooting a gun off in the next hollow, and the little ones are running in the yard carrying 'sparklers', laughing and shouting and the light from the sparklers reflect the hollows in their faces and the light in their eyes. The same hollowed faces of their ancestors who came to this land so many years ago. Tonite I sit and listen to the revelry outside and the sound of the exploding fireworks and I can see the light of the rocket's red glare and I am ambivalent, a little angry and mostly confused. I stare out the window and look across the fences towards town where they are having a fireworks show at the football field and the light of the explosions lights the hollow under my eyes. I reach up to the desk and find the five arrowheads and twirl them in my hands. Brown hands, with the marks of baling twine still in the creases, and I remember. |
"Independence Day~1970" © Michael Walkingstick
as posted in alt.native on Fri, Jul 4 2003 10:03 pm 21:03:59 -0700
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Thoughts on Independence Day
bead bar courtesy of Greasy Grass