According to Cousin Harlin, it was a rainy summer morning when this big bus came barreling down the road.
“It squealed to a stop, splattering mud everywhere, right in front of the Grand Ronde Community Center. Then the Indian agent jumped off and said, ‘Any man who comes on this bus will be guaranteed three meals a day, clothes on his back, a place to sleep, and a paycheck. All he has to do is get on this bus!’”
“And you got on the bus?” asked Peewee.
“Well, yeah,” Cousin Harlin said. “Lots of young guys from the rez took advantage of that deal. John and I were no exception. Hey, we pounced on that bus like a rabbit jumping into a snare.”
“After everyone came aboard,” Daddy said, “the bus blew off the rez, zipped down Highway 22, and didn’t stop until it was in front of an army recruiting station in Salem! But I told Harlin that I didn’t want to join the army — you get shot at there. So I convinced him to sign up for the navy. They promised anyone who joined them would see the world.”
“Yeah, but they forgot to tell us that the world was made up of three-fourths water,” Cousin Harlin said. Then they both howled, holding their coffee mugs in the air.
After the war, Daddy and Cousin Harlin still did everything together. They both got married and worked for the Long Bell Lumber Company and its mill up in Longview, Washington, on the Columbia River. Daddy sometimes stayed away from home for weeks on end, but he didn’t mind. It was a job that paid money. He had a family to support. That was what he cared about.
When Daddy’s big frame stomped home on those rare weeks off, he’d brush out wood chips stuck in his buzz-cut black hair. Mama usually had a steaming pot of seasoned deer meat, potatoes, carrots, and onions in salted gravy stirred up on the old woodstove. She’d greet him in the kitchen.
“Dinner will be ready soon,” she would say as she checked the biscuits in the oven.
Daddy would take a whiff of the stew and then grab Mama around the waist. “You’re the prettiest girl on the rez, and I’m the handsomest guy. How about a smooch?”
She’d shove him off and threaten him with a wooden spoon and a smile.
“Johnny Petit, the girls are watching.” Mama didn’t care for showing affection in public.
“No, we’re not,” Peewee would say, giggling from the kitchen table and drawing pictures to decorate the walls.
Mama wasn’t an Indian, by the way. She was Portuguese from the Azores. But with dark brown eyes and hair, she didn’t stand out. Everyone on the rez called her “the Portuguese Woman,” not by her nickname, Cate, and definitely not by her real name, Catarina. If that bothered her, she didn’t say so. And for a Portuguese woman, that was pretty hard to do.
Best thing of all was that Chich lived with us. Most Grand Ronde homes had three generations in one house. Each night, Chich combed my long dark hair, saying, “Never cut it. It’s a powerful part of your Umpqua identity. When we cut our hair, it shows everyone that we are mourning the death of someone close to us.”
That always made me think of Chup. He had lived with us too until his big heart attack. Since the rez doctor only visited the clinic two times a week, Chup died on a day when the doctor wasn’t in. He died before our tribe was terminated, so he was still Indian when he was buried.
Chup’s funeral was over at St. Michael’s Church, with a big giveaway afterward just up the road at the community center. Giveaways help family and others in the community remember a person or an event.
For Chup’s giveaway, smoked salmon, homemade breads, and every kind of berry pie covered long tables. Another table held homemade doilies, tablecloths, and extra pies as giveaways. Some elders and those close to Chup received gifts. Everyone in the community gathered at the center and shared a meal. The grown-ups visited while us kids ran around the hall.
From the wake to the burial, there was a lot of singing. Our voices helped Chup get to the next place, making sure he felt comfortable and stayed there.
There in the hall, as daylight faded, an elder pounded the table with his hand flat. Then he’d pound again. And again. A rhythm sprang from the pounding. A drumbeat. Three poundings, then a pause. Three poundings, then a pause. Soon the other men in their dress slacks, shirts, and ties sat down at the long table and joined in. We kids stopped running around.
Then the elder wailed. “Aaaahhh . . . aiye . . . oooh . . .” The other men joined in, repeating this and singing a song I’d never heard.
I leaned over to Chich, my curiosity piqued. “What are they singing?” I whispered.
“It’s an honor song, sweetie, for your chup,” Chich said.
“How do they all know the song?”
“They heard it many times before. It’s been passed down from family to family.”
Daddy leaned over too. “We used to sing this during the day. But now we do it at night.”
“Why?” I asked.
“The Indian agent told us to stop.
Frightened the next-door neighbors.” He leaned even closer. “Thought we might be on the warpath.” Then he winked. Daddy seemed to find everything funny.
Later that night, we had a ceremony to burn Chup’s clothes and other items not given away. It was a special time.
Our family visited Chup every Sunday after Mass. His old, beat-up logging cap sat atop the cedar board above his grave. Most of the graves had cedar boards covering the plots so family and friends could place items on them that the dead had enjoyed when alive. Chich had placed some cattail dolls on Bertha’s board.
Strolling around the
