[Critique Group 1] My October piece

[Deanna Noriega]

1,018 words

Dust in the Wind

By DeAnna Quietwater Noriega

 

When my uncle, Larry Fisher died as the result of a car accident, he was 60
years-old. I was 55. Throughout our lives, he acted as my big brother. His
older brother John and he taught me how to walk when I was a toddler. Over
the years, Larry taught me many other things, sharing his favorite books
with me, painting my image often as he studied to become an artist. He was
my magic mirror, always reflecting back a positive image. 

When he was a child, Larry's Ojibwa name was Storyteller. He was a natural
raconteur. He was also given the name Young Thunder, which is the name he
used for his art. He was the seventh child of Elijah and Louella Fisher. His
eldest sister Naomi was my mother. She was the first child to survive of my
grandmother's ten children. Mother's oldest brother and the brother born
after her had died as infants. Her youngest brother had drowned in a Lake
Michigan fishing accident. Mother felt that since both Elijah and Louella
were deceased that she was the head of the family. She dropped everything to
fly to Michigan to take charge and see that all the details of closing up
his apartment, the distribution of his possessions--making sure that
everyone had some small token of remembrance.  and organizing the funeral
were properly handled.

Elijah Fisher was the eldest of ten children. Larry had never married, but
his siblings had. Each of them had produced one to five offspring.  This
made the people who felt some connection to the flamboyant Larry numerous. 

 

The logistics of preparing food and hosting a four-day wake for everyone who
wished to pay respects was an exhausting proposition. I accompanied my
mother along with my guide dog Griffin to see that all was handled in a
manner that would acknowledge who my uncle was.

 

Larry considered himself to be an assimilated traditionalist. The Ojibwa
traditionally believed that the spirit of the deceased found it difficult to
begin the journey onward. After a sudden unexpected death, this was
especially likely. The spirit might feel there were things left undone. A
sacred fire was built and kept burning for four days. My mother knew someone
who had done this task for his own father. He agreed to provide this service
for Larry. Family and friends came to sit around the fire and quietly share
memories. 

None of the churches in the area were comfortable with the idea of holding
what they considered a Pagan series of rituals on their premises.

The location where the final ceremonies were held needed to have both an
eastern and western door. Sometimes, a pavilion in a park can work, since
entry and egress were easily managed. However, Mother was able to secure a
community center for the final day of ceremonies. Her cousin and his son had
trained to perform the necessary rituals of purification and proper
presentation of the body. He was brought into the large meeting area through
the eastern door and placed in the center of the room. I assisted my mother
in braiding his long hair and placing his moccasins on his feet for the
journey. Many female relatives gathered in the adjacent kitchen to prepare
and serve food. One of the items I did was to hull and slice strawberries in
half. The Ojibwa call the wild strawberry heart-berry. Because of its
sweetness, they believe it grows along the trail the spirit walks when
leaving this life. It is often served plain so that those who gather to let
a loved one know that they can leave on that journey can eat a berry as part
of saying goodbye.

  

People took turns coming to lay small offerings in the casket. My mother and
I used our belt knives to cut-off a portion of our braids to place with him
as a sign of our deep sorrow. I then told him how much he had given me and
that his tasks were completed. he could go, I would be alright. Finally, the
body was sent to be cremated, carried out the western door. By the time my
mother was ready to return to Colorado, she was exhausted. She accepted the
urn provided by the funeral home and wondered what she should do with it.

Back in her comfortable home, she opened the urn. She went through her craft
room and found a length of colorful fabric. She carefully measured a couple
of tablespoons worth of the ashes and tied them into squares of the cloth.
As each of the people who had not been able to attend the funeral came by to
pay a condolence call, she handed them a bundle instructing them to take
them to a place they thought was of special importance to Larry to scatter
the ashes.

 

Robert, my oldest brother, scattered the ashes in his bundle in the casino
where our uncle loved to lose money. Whenever he could coax his big sister
to take him there, mom won jackpots playing the slot machines and he
borrowed what she got and promptly lost it. Rob was sure Uncle Larry would
appreciate the joke.

I scattered my share beneath the limbs of a black ash tree, knowing how my
uncle made extra cash splitting ash logs and weaving traditional strawberry
baskets from the splits.

Ruben, our younger brother scattered his on a hill which is crowned by a
large cross, overlooking Palm Desert. In spring, if there had been
sufficient rain, the desert was spread with wild flowers. Ruben remembered
the paintings his uncle had painted with their abstract vivid colors.

The bundles of Larry's ashes scattered across the land mingling with desert
sands, drifted onto mountain slopes in the Rockies and drifted down on the
sweet grass of marshy wooded places in Michigan. When I hear the roll of
distant thunder, I smile, because it brings to mind the low register of his
voice, making sardonic comments on what is going on across this wide land he
loved.  

 

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