Nancy Jane's Blog - Posts Tagged "flying-kites"
Christmas - 1970
When they knocked on the shack’s door, Logan Joseph opened it. The old man was squat and round with long white hair in two long neat braids on either side of his face. The ends of the braids, bound with deerskin and coloured beads, hung at his belt. He had dark piercing eyes and a face that exploded into a thousand sparkling wrinkles when he smiled or laughed, and Logan laughed often. He welcomed them inside where strips of gut, rawhide and wood hung from the ceiling. A large iron pot hung from a tripod over a fire burning in a huge brick fireplace and hickory sticks were boiling in the pot.
Sheena’s fear of this place and her sense of witnessing poverty and oppression vanished on meeting Logan Joseph. She was suddenly aware of the immense sense of tradition, happiness and unique spirit that he, and this place, embodied. The sense that he was wise beyond anyone she had ever met but egoless and aware of those who were full of it.
Logan showed off his shack full of treasures with reverence and educated them on the value of the items he had stored in every nook and cranny and the works of pure art that they would become. He took them to a freezer where he had the body of an eagle that a friend had sent to him from the west coast. He pulled it out with gratitude and love and, when he put it back, he closed the lid as if saying goodnight to a cherished one. He showed them weasel and deer hides he was in the process of turning into ceremonial medicine pouches; deer, bison and elk skins he was preparing to make ceremonial drums from; ironwood, and cedar that he had cut to prep for drums, lacrosse sticks, flutes and ceremonial pipes. Lastly, he pulled out Kit’s new lacrosse stick, describing in minute detail how it came into being and how he had blessed it.
He was a master storyteller and not even the Dr., transfixed by his voice, wanted to interrupt him. There was no need to, entranced as they were by the stories he shared with them. He laughed often and they laughed with him. It was contagious. An hour passed, however, and the Dr. started to look anxious. Intuitive to his angst, Logan smiled and stopped his story telling, making the excuse that he had to go in and take a nap or his granddaughter would be mad at him. They left the shack then and as he turned to go in the direction of the house he winked at them and told Kit to run strong and hit hard.
“In the future, blue eyes, you will need to protect him from himself,” he said, pointing his knotty old stained finger at Sheena, “and those he mistakenly trusts.” She could see that he was deadly serious as he glanced toward the Dr., but then the second passed and he smiled a big warm smile, shattering his face into a thousand laugh lines as he added, “But I’m just an old Indian, what do I know?” He waved goodbye then and headed toward the house.
Sheena’s fear of this place and her sense of witnessing poverty and oppression vanished on meeting Logan Joseph. She was suddenly aware of the immense sense of tradition, happiness and unique spirit that he, and this place, embodied. The sense that he was wise beyond anyone she had ever met but egoless and aware of those who were full of it.
Logan showed off his shack full of treasures with reverence and educated them on the value of the items he had stored in every nook and cranny and the works of pure art that they would become. He took them to a freezer where he had the body of an eagle that a friend had sent to him from the west coast. He pulled it out with gratitude and love and, when he put it back, he closed the lid as if saying goodnight to a cherished one. He showed them weasel and deer hides he was in the process of turning into ceremonial medicine pouches; deer, bison and elk skins he was preparing to make ceremonial drums from; ironwood, and cedar that he had cut to prep for drums, lacrosse sticks, flutes and ceremonial pipes. Lastly, he pulled out Kit’s new lacrosse stick, describing in minute detail how it came into being and how he had blessed it.
He was a master storyteller and not even the Dr., transfixed by his voice, wanted to interrupt him. There was no need to, entranced as they were by the stories he shared with them. He laughed often and they laughed with him. It was contagious. An hour passed, however, and the Dr. started to look anxious. Intuitive to his angst, Logan smiled and stopped his story telling, making the excuse that he had to go in and take a nap or his granddaughter would be mad at him. They left the shack then and as he turned to go in the direction of the house he winked at them and told Kit to run strong and hit hard.
“In the future, blue eyes, you will need to protect him from himself,” he said, pointing his knotty old stained finger at Sheena, “and those he mistakenly trusts.” She could see that he was deadly serious as he glanced toward the Dr., but then the second passed and he smiled a big warm smile, shattering his face into a thousand laugh lines as he added, “But I’m just an old Indian, what do I know?” He waved goodbye then and headed toward the house.
Congratulations!
Congratulations to all the recent winners of the book 'Flying Kites'! Twenty five copies are winging there way across Canada, the US, GB and Australia. If you missed out on the contest the book is available on Amazon and the Grey Goose Press website.
All the best and thanks for the support!
All the best and thanks for the support!
