pudgyindian2: April 2008

Showing newest 11 of 32 posts from April 2008. Show older posts

Saturday, April 26, 2008

The Flood of '64

I, as well as Shusli, was born in this hospital. Me in '64, Shusli in 58'. It is here where things begin and return in full circle. Shusli and I were both born here in Coos Bay, Oregon, and have returned here all these years later.

This is where my days journey begins, 44 years ago. "And so it goes." --Kurt Vonnegut

In December of the year I was born, just before Christmas, came the great flood of '64. This is a photo of Reedsport back in that day. A day in which my mother told me all my Christmas presents for my first Christmas were in a closet and destroyed in the flood.
The little tavern sign in the back to the left was one of my family's favorites places to go out and get drunk. If you click on the photo, it should enlarge and you will see the name Rainbow Tavern. This is where, when I was 5 years old, Grandma got in a bar brawl getting an early start on the days drunk. I thought it was so cool, but my mother was dragging me out of there fast. Grandma, never over 5' tall, hovered over a woman she just knocked off a bar stool. "GET UP! YOU WANT SOME MORE! GET UP!"
And in '64 and '65 I made two attempts to escape you all. Sometimes things are just too much, even when you are small. First, I had hydroencephilitis, and it went away on it's own. The doctors said they could do nothing. The next was pneumonia. I spent five days in an oxygen tent. I didn't manage my escapes, and I'm here, dad, grandma, and grandpa, to tell a story of a full circle.

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Grandpa's Last Stand He Made Lying Down

I started my days journey looking for your grave, grandpa. Your name was Louis Johnson, and it was said you were the last chief of the Lower Umpqua.

I hadn't been to visit since 1970. April 16, was it. No one told me about death. I had no idea what was going on. I remember sitting in the funeral home in the family section and Pirscilla Butler wailing like Indians do I would learn later. Dad carried me on his shoulders past your casket. I must have been 6.

"What's grandpa doing?" I asked dad when I looked down at your face that had lost its color in your death.

"He's sleeping," dad told me.

"Well wake him up," I asked. "I want to play."

Dad's tears flowed and that was the only answer he could give me.

When we got into our station wagon, that was when I knew. That which they weren't telling me. I knew you were dead, then, and I sobbed, placing my face in the window, wondering what I would do now.
And I remember, grandpa, your big body and how I was amazed that my arms could barely fit around your belly. I remember your Love, the Love you felt for me and dad. The piggy bank you gave me after I became so demanding for it. You wanted to keep it there, I wanted to take it with me. And I cherished that thing, especially since you got mad and it was the only time you got angry with me. But that anger taught me a lesson I will never forget. To cherish the gifts people give you.
You don't have a headstone, grandpa, so I took a photo of the woman buried next to you. Her name is Dorothy Rowe, and I mean no disrespect to her or her family. This is just a marker to remember where you are. Much Love and Respect to you, Dorothy Rowe.
And here you are, grandpa. I made all sorts of prayers and did all sorts of talking to you on my journey from Coos Bay for a visit. And your grave doesn't even have the little marker that it used to. It seems to be a silent momento to the greed our family felt in the money they received for the end of your life, if there even was any. I remember all those years ago promises made to purchase you a stone, but no one ever stepped forward. No one.

And a mystery has erupted in an earthquake that only I felt. I asked the groundskeeper for your gravesite, and he found an unclaimed site on the other side of you from Dorothy. A site claimed in the name of Johnson.
There you are, in the silence. Roxanna said she and Liz visited you many years ago and found your grave on accident, by chance. The little tin marker that is no longer there was then.

I miss you, gramps.

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"Douglas" Is My Middle Name

Dad, Louis Wilbur Johnson, told me many stories of Uncle Doug, the uncle whose name I carry as my middle name. I looked over the attendants shoulders as he looked over the ancient maps and lists of names. I saw Doug's name there, grandpa. I asked the attendant there to show me his grave as well. Section 2, grave 39, row 14.
I remember the stories dad used to tell me about Doug. The crazy and funny things he did. He was such a cut up. Something about Indians and humor.
And I remember the stories dad told me about Leukemia.
It was the Leukemia that got Uncle Douglas. You had a lotta land just a few years before when the government told you and the rest of our family you were no longer Indians...that the U.S. lead genocide was now complete. So you sold a lot of that land to try to save Uncle Doug. I was told by my sister Roxanna that you even had a doctor from Germany flown in to try to save Uncle Doug. But it didn't work.

The sad story dad told was how Uncle Doug was so strong and healthy. That he grew so much in the three years dad was gone in the army. And then...he would waste away to almost nothing. It really hurt dad to watch Uncle Doug go. No doubt it hurt the whole family.
And who left these flowers. Obviously these silks and plastic were left a long time ago. My Aunt Alice, maybe?

"And so it goes."

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Schofield Creek

It was this creek that you lived on, Grandpa, for sure back in '33 when dad was born. I've been told that dad and a lot of other kids used to jump from this bridge into the creek below. They were swimming all the time.
These are the only house boats left. The last time I was out there was around the year of your death.
There used to be boards down the relics of these walkways.
Now just an echo from the past.
And it was somewhere here that dad told me of a friend who used to live on the creek. It was about to flood, and he had gotten drunk. Afraid of the flood, he piled all his furniture in the middle of the room and sat on top. Somebody, dad maybe, discovered him and couldn't get him to come down. Living on a house boat anchored to a piling gave it cause to rise with the tide and not sink like a house with a foundation. He wouldn't have gotten hurt, but he was too drunk to understand.

And it was here, around July 19, 1933, two days after dad, your second son, was born. Dad was having some serious health problems, grandma told me. An old woman showed up at your door, grandma said. "I had a dream," she told grandma. "Your son was born a blue baby."

"You didn't argue with your elders back then," grandma told me, and let the woman in.

The woman got the stove going and stuffed dad in there. And whaddya know, dad lived.

Was it around here, and I'm sorry to bring the sad memory up, but you are all together in the spirit world somewhere...Was it around here, Grandpa, that Charles and Harry, my uncles, were playing on a log raft? They must have done this a thousand times before, but this time, Uncle Charles slipped between the logs and drowned.

I couldn't find his grave.

And hunger! One of mom's relatives told me a couple of decades ago at a family picnic for that side of the family that they had known hunger. But they would always go to Violet, Grandma, and ask for food. He told me she would tell them to go get something for her to cook. They'd get birds or fish or shell fish and Grandma Violet would cook it up for them. They didn't have a lot of dairy back then, I guess it was during the big war, but Grandma made sure they didn't go hungry.
[After taking the above photos, I ran into an elderly gent walking a Corgy. I asked if he'd been around here for long, and he said only three years. He was Cherokee, a half breed, none the less, and he had family that walked their "Trail of Tears." Some of his family died on that trail. He also knew of the Siletz Trail of Tears as well. Some of his family returned back to Georgia so he had family on both Cherokee land bases.

During our conversation an Indian fellow walked by. He looked back at me and kept walking. He seemed familiar but since I was talking with an elder, I didn't want to be disrespectful and remove my attention from him.]

And you wound up on this lot, but not in this house. The old rotted house you lived in is now gone. It was here that you lived when you died. I remember your last visit. You visited us up in Portland. You had told Grandma you had to see your son one more time before you died.

Dad took me out that day, and brought me home where you hid just on the other side of the forier and jumped out and scared the living shit out of me, and then I jumped for joy for the Love I felt for you. I don't remember too much of that visit, but I remember you sitting on a dining room chair, asleep, snoring. I stared for a long time wondering how you could stay up on the thing without falling off.
Your house is at the end of the street on the right.

I remember when Aunt Alice stepped on her brakes when I was in the back of the car. I slammed my face on the floor and still have two scars on my cheek. This was before seat belt laws.

I remember dad coming home drunk one evening, parking our car on the other side of the street and passing out behind the wheel. He pressed the gas pedal to the floor sending the engine to maximum revs and scaring the shit out of everyone. They all went running out to get dad out of the car. I remember them dragging him into the house in a blanket. In his drunken stupor, passed out, there was a smile on his face.

"And so it goes."

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Class of '51

Ah, yes, Gradpa. I will never forget my dad, either. He graduated from Reedsport High School, and I believe they even had the racist mascot then that they do now.
I'm told that they still have dad and Uncle Harry's pictures in the hallway somewhere. Class of '51. I guess that would mean they have Douglas and Aunt Alice's pictures in there somewhere, too.

"And so it goes."

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True Love

A man and his fish. Now that is "True Love."

After taking these photos, as well as my "Barge" and "Unabridged" posts (just a few posts from here), I ran into that Indian man that walked past me and the Cherokee elder, Frank. I walked up and talked to him. I asked his name. He said Delmer Butler. He told me his mom was full blooded Mescalero Apache. OH MY GOD! I knew his mom and dad when I was a kid. I probably haven't seen them since the '70's.

He asked for some money and told me he was drinkin'. I suggested he get back to the rez and clean up. He said that would be a good idea, but we all know alcohol is a hard habit to kick.

I gave him a ride to the 7-11 and asked if his parents were still kickin' around. He said yes and asked if I wanted to visit them. I said "no" because it was just overwhelming.

"And so it goes."

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For Shusli

I stopped off at the Reedsport Coffeehouse Bistro, on the corner of Longwood and 101. I saw this bronze on the wall and took these photos for Shusli. I Love you Shusli.

Turns out one of the proprietors knows the artist and helped him to get this commission. As payment, he casts her a piece of the bronze before he breaks the mold.

The original is at Good Samaritan Hospital in NW Portland off of 23rd Ave. I remember seeing it.

Things come full circle, folks, and I am where I am supposed to be and I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing and I'm married to a fantastic beautiful sexy nurse. I am the luckiest man in the world.

I asked for a phone book and looked up Delmer Butler, Sr. They live on 19th. I changed my mind and headed toward their home.

On the way there, I ran into Delmer Butler, Jr., and he guided me the last two blocks.

Priscilla and Delmer

And here they are, Pirscilla and Delmer Butler. The last Indians in Reedsport, that is besides a few of their kids and grandkids and great grandkids. They have remained all these years later.
I remember them always hanging out at Grandma's house there on 10th and Winchester. It was good to talk with them. They lived in that town pretty much their whole lives. They've watched the town book, and they watched it fall down. They knew my dad and grandpa very well. I want Shusli to meet them. They want to meet her.

It is amazing the things we Indians have been through. Some manage to stay, others move on to make it in other ways, and here we are.

Shusli and I have come full circle. And we are starting to create more circles.

"And so it goes."

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Barge

I've seen this barge further up the river anchored in the middle around mile post 11 or so. I'd wondered where it went since Shusli and I have been back. And here it is, docked in Reedsport, Oregon on the Umpqua River, the river of my people.

The parking lot where I took the photos from is where I ran into Delmer Butler, Jr.