made up the main living area of their small home. She swallowed and asked,
“Father, which one will win?”
“The one we feed,” he answered, and rising slowly, he ruffled her hair fondly, and strode to the rocking chair he occupied near the fire, the better to enjoy his wife’s nearness during the long Southern Ohio evenings.
It was just after the freeing of the hummingbird that a change in Lena’s eyes became apparent. Standing at the table in the kitchen area of the small home, Lena watched her mother preparing fry bread. Mary playfully flicked some flour at Lena. Looking up at her mother and laughing, Lena caused her mother to gasp in surprise.
The iris of Lena’s right eye, heretofore the deep, unfathomable brown of her left, was clearly divided in two. The inside part of the iris was the same deep brown, while the outside was a golden amber.
The condition, known as sectoral heterochromia iridis, could cause a difference in coloring in one eye from the other, or sometimes within the color scheme of one eye. Often genetic, and at times due to injury or disease, this striking anomaly would sometimes occur. In the case of Lena Cedar Woman Catcher, the belief was that, like her mother, she was chosen, and her right eye reflected the eye of Wambli, the sacred golden eagle of the Lakota.
On Lena’s eighth birthday, her mother decided to begin her instruction in the preparation of the family meals. Most of their food was provided by The Mother, either in the crops they grew, or the various game her father hunted, and the vegetables and chickens with which the Countrymans often gifted the small family. Lena felt a reverence for the preparation of the food. Living plants and animals gave up their lives so others may live. There was nobility inherent within the concept, which filled her with respect for the living beings that filled the earth. Consequently, she learned quickly, and she learned well, becoming an accomplished cook. It was here that Lena began to realize her passion for food and its preparation. Through the making of a simple dish, she could say, “I love you” to anyone who partook of her offerings, no matter their color, creed or ethnic origin. In addition, to Lena Cedar Woman, the ruining of a dish was the negation of the death of the beings, whether plant or animal, that provided the ingredients. This she could not abide.
“Lena, here, let me show you,” Mary said as she gently lifted her daughter’s hands from the gooey bread dough.
“That is not how you knead bread. Look, you sprinkle some flour, like this,” Mary sprinkled some white flour over the top of the sticky mound Lena was ineptly pushing around on the porcelain-top kitchen
table.
“And you take the heel of your hand, and push the dough away from you. Then, turn it like this, and do it again. Now, you try.” Lena did as her mother instructed, and after a few turns, gazed up in wonder.
“Ina! It feels so soft and smooth!”
“Ohan, it does. This is what is so much fun about making bread,” Mary laughed tapping her daughter’s diminutive nose in play.
“Now, we will let it rise. Here, spin it with your hands until it is round and then we will put a damp dishtowel over it. In about an hour,
we will punch it down again, knead it a little more, and then put it on a
baking sheet. When it rises one more time, we will bake it.” Lena carefully spun the dough between her tiny hands, her pink tongue sticking out of the left corner of her mouth in concentration.
“Ina,” she sighed, “I love the smell!”
“Ohan, that is the yeast,” her mother instructed, smiling at her very willing pupil.
Lena loved these times with her mother. She enjoyed cooking, and enjoyed learning how to make the foods she and her family enjoyed. It
made her feel important to be part of this aspect of the family’s day-to- day life.
“Ina,” Lena queried, again glancing up at her mother, “When can I
learn how to roast a chicken? I love roasted chicken the way you do it. When will you teach me?”
“Cha!” Mary chided fondly, “You want to learn it all now. Child, you are but eight-years-old. There is time for all of this.
Lena didn’t know how to express her urgency in learning all she could. She just knew she wanted to learn as much as she could as
quickly as possible.
“I’ll tell you what,” Mary decided, “I am going to help Nellie in the garden tomorrow. She likes to see you, so you can go with me, and we will ask her for a nice hen. Would it please you, Little Bird?” her mother asked, smiling down upon her endearing daughter.
“Ohan! But I don’t have to kill it, do I?” Lena queried. She loved to cook, and she respected the animals and plants who gave up their lives
for her nourishment, but she was not prepared yet to do the deed.
“No, of course not! I will take care of it while you help Nellie with her vegetables. You know how she loves a visit from you. While you string beans or shuck corn together, I’ll take care of what needs to be done.”
Evalena and Joseph Countryman retired to a house on Fifth Avenue in the nearby town of Peebles shortly after Lena’s birth. Their youngest child, Dean Countryman, and his wife Nellie, took over the farm. Mary was referring to Nellie Countryman. Sweet of nature, lovely of face, Mary often wondered why Nellie chose to become a farmer’s wife. In any event, she was glad of it, as Dean and Nellie were as kind and
appreciative as Joseph and Evalena had been, and they and the Catchers ultimately formed a strong and loving, family-like relationship.
Dusting off her hands, Mary bent a kiss upon her daughter’s smooth forehead and walked to the stove. Picking up the metal coffee pot, she walked over to where her husband Peter sat reading the newspaper, while
also observing the activity at the kitchen table.
Bending and pouring him his favorite, “Reservation Coffee,” as he called it, she returned the pot to the stove. Turning to her husband, she questioned:
“How can you drink this stuff? It’s so strong!” Peter laughed, threw back a long, satisfying gulp, and smiled up at his wife.
“It’s like mother’s milk to me, ennit? This is how my mother made coffee,” he laughed, referring to the very strong, almost thickened brew.
“She always said, if you throw a horseshoe in it, with the horse still attached, and they float, that’s Rez15 Coffee!” Peter guffawed.
“Well,” returned Mary, “it may be Mother’s Milk to you, but it reminds me of what you shovel out of the outhouse!” she quipped, laughing, turning once again to the stove.
Roaring with laughter, and slamming down his favorite, jadeite coffee mug, Peter leapt from the rocker he usually occupied when home. Grabbing his wife around the waist, he began to nuzzle her neck, spinning her around as she laughed, half-heartedly struggling to get away.
“It makes me want to eat you up!” he chortled.
“Oh, you hot mama, come to me now!” Peter laughed, again spinning Mary around and into his arms.
Standing beside the kitchen table, slowly wiping the flour from her hands, Lena smiled. She loved these moments. She could tell her parents were deeply in love. Somehow, this made her feel safe and loved
as well.
“Cha!” her mother giggled, “I’ll burn the jelly!” she exclaimed. Peter chuckled, giving her a smack on her still shapely bottom. Turning his head to gaze at Lena, he gave her a wink, threw a kiss, and with a great sigh of satisfaction, returned to his newspaper.
15 Short for Reservation
Chapter Four
What is life?
It is the flash of a firefly in the night.
It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.
It is the little shadow which runs across the grass, and loses itself in the sunset.
Crowfoot, Blackfoot warrior and orator 1830 – 1890
Lena loved the mornings, and she treasured the evenings. The time in between was a waiting time, a holding of the breath, a longing for her parents to re-unite.
She waited for their meeting. If her
father went to the Countryman farm alone, Mary joyously greeted him upon his return to their small house in May Hill. If they went to the farm together, they left and returned holding hands. Indeed, they were almost legendary in the community for their devotion.
For several years, a neighbor watched Lena from the time her parents left to go to the farm, until her school bus arrived at 7:30 a.m., and would watch her from the time the bus dropped her off, until her parents’ return at dusk. Now twelve, Lena would knock on the neighbor’s door to let her know she had arrived, and walk the few steps to her own house where she would begin the preparations for the evening meal. Lena would wait in anticipation of the sight of her parents, hand in hand, laughing, sometimes stopping to kiss. Her mother’s hair appearing to float upon the air and both seemingly surrounded in a white, shimmering light. As if in slow motion, they would approach their small home. Lena was sure she heard twin hearts beating in unison.
“Cha, Cuwitku, watch how it is done,” Mary instructed as she took the ball of dough from her daughter’s hands.
“Not like the yeast bread we make. This is fry bread, very good, the best bread. We fry it, not bake it. Look, sometimes we want the fry bread to be fairly big – sometimes we want it to be smaller. It depends on what you are serving it with and what you want to do with it.
“Tonight we want them kind of small for dipping into our stew, so let’s use this size,” Mary demonstrated, using a sharp knife to slice away a piece of dough about the size of a small egg.
“Now, roll it out a little with the rolling-pin and then we flatten it in
our hands. Ohan, that is right. Now we slip it into the skillet with the lard and fry until it is golden on one side. That’s right, now flip it over.
See! It’s fun, ennit?” Mary laughed as she watched Lena turn a piece of fry bread over in the shortening with deliberate care.
“Cha! Good job! Turn it away from you so the oil will not splatter you. You are becoming a good cook, Little Bird!”
Lena smiled into her mother’s eyes, happy to spend these times with her ina, learning how to cook, working together in the preparation of
the family meals, anticipating when they would sit down together as a family and enjoy the foods she and her mother had prepared.
Lena could not wait to see her father’s face when he finally tasted
her creation. Closing her eyes, she saw her father pick up a piece of the golden bread. Dipping it into his stew, his eyes widening with astonishment, he would exclaim,
“Who made this delicious bread? Cha! It is the best I’ve ever tasted!”
“I made it!” she would cry with pride and excitement. Her father would look surprised and say,
“Cha! The child didn’t do this, ennit?” and her mother would laugh and assure Peter that, in fact, their daughter had prepared the scrumptious fry bread.
Lena used a slotted spoon to lift a finished portion from the simmering oil. It looked perfect! She placed it on a towel-covered plate and inspected it critically. It was golden brown all over. She smiled at herself in self-congratulation. I did not burn it! Waste!16 she thought to herself.
Smiling into her mother’s eyes, Lena’s heart filled with pride. At twelve, she was old enough to appreciate her mother on many levels. She found her patient, kind, loving and, Lena thought, still beautiful, although she was old. Cha! She was 48!
Mary gave her daughter a swift hug.
“Now, Lena, we must clean up our mess. If you clean as you go, you will have more time to rest in the evening,” Mary admonished with a smile. She turned to wipe down the kitchen table, when Nellie Countryman literally burst through the door.
“Mary! Peter has been in an accident!”
What did he say? What did the doctor say? Lena’s brain could not seem to latch on to the information issuing from the mouth of the scrub- clad man standing before her stricken mother. Ina was nodding dumbly, signing some papers, her eyes blank with shock.
16 Wash-tday – Good
Lena swayed, her mind in chaos, as seemingly foreign words poured over her…words she couldn’t grasp…words which changed her world forever:
Traumatic brain injury, coma, condition critical, Glasgow Coma
Scale, prognosis uncertain, CT scan, craniotomy.
Lena looked at her mother with astonishment. She seemed diminished, smaller than Lena remembered ever seeing her. She looks like the baby bird I found that fell out of its nest, Lena thought, thinking
of the small, frightened being that had peeped futilely, hurt, frightened
and abandoned. Her thought just completed, Lena turned to see Nellie Countryman rushing to her silent mother, giving a small cry and pulling her into a protective embrace.
“Mary, it’s going to be okay,” Nellie affirmed. Dean has given the hospital all the insurance information. You know they got insurance together? No? Well, it doesn’t matter, because it’s okay. I’m going to stay here with you, and Dean is going to take Lena to our house for the night.”
“No!” Lena cried, causing Nellie to spin toward her in astonishment. Simultaneously, a small flicker of light appeared in Mary’s eyes.
“I won’t leave Ate!17
Kneeling to reach Lena’s level, and embracing the trembling girl, Nellie drew the child to her ample bosom. Rocking her slowly for a few
seconds, Nellie crooned, “It’s all right, Sweetheart. You can stay. Dean will stay too, and if you become too tired, he’ll take you to the farm.”
Reassured, Lena leaned into Nellie’s hug. Gently breaking the
embrace, and walking to a plastic molded chair, she sat, placing her hands beneath her thighs.
Was it hours or days that passed? Footsteps clicked through the waiting room. Jerking her now nodding head upright and turning it toward the sound, she observed the doctor taking her mother by the arm
and escorting her to one of the hard, plastic chairs.
“Mrs. Catcher,” he began, “Hi, I’m Doctor Gaffin,” reaching for Mary’s hand, and gently lowering her into the chair, the doctor continued.
“Your husband is resting from the surgery and remains in critical condition.” Dr. Gaffin paused for a moment, carefully watching Mary’s reaction. It was clear she was in deep distress, understandable, but he wanted her as calm as possible.
“We’re certain your husband’s head struck some object several times, possibly the seat of the tractor since, according to the paramedics,
17 Ah-tay – Father
no large stones were present at the site, and because of the multiple contusions on his head.
I ordered a CT scan, which revealed swelling and hematoma, or bleeding, and took him straight into surgery where we performed a craniotomy to relieve the pressure on his brain. That is, we have opened
up a small portion of his skull to remove any accumulated blood. We’ve
put him on anti-seizure medication, just in case, as there is a risk of seizure after brain surgery.” Mary gave a small cry. Gently placing his hand on her arm, Dr. Gaffin continued.
“Your husband is in a coma. He shows no reaction to stimulus around him. It means, his eyes don’t open, he doesn’t move, he doesn’t seem to respond to anything.” The doctor sighed, moving his hand to Mary’s sagging shoulder, and squeezing it gently.
We can’t tell right now how extensive the damage will be. We will keep a close eye on him. He is on a ventilator, and is lightly sedated. This is to slow the operations of his brain. It keeps the pressure down,
and hopefully helps the brain to begin healing. Right now, we have him
on an IV, and a nasogastric tube inserted through his nose and down to his stomach. It’s a safety measure to keep him from vomiting. Later, we will use it for supplemental feeding. As soon as he is stable, Mrs. Catcher, I want to move your husband to the medical center at Ohio State University in Columbus. They are better equipped to help your husband recover as much of his former brain function as possible, so you will want to make any ar
rangements necessary if you plan to be with him.
I am sorry, but that’s all I can tell you now. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?” Mary nodded, eyes wide with disbelief and sorrow. Dr. Gaffin hesitated for a moment. He was a young doctor, and new at giving bad news. It was at times like this that he was at a loss as to how to give comfort. No one involved could predict how well Mr. Catcher would inevitably recover from his devastating injuries. Dr. Gaffin began to rise, resumed his seat, and again took Mary’s small hand in his.
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