Miles to go and stories to catch

A January of yarning with the olds

I’ve been hanging out with old people lately. Over the last two weeks, my sister Joan and I spent 4 days with our parents — 85 and 79 — and then with several elders at Rocky Boy, ages 90, 88, 76, and 74. We started 30 miles north of the border with Mexico and ended about 30 miles south of the border with Canada, basically making a vertical line 1500 miles long. And in that stretch, we found so many stories.

First, a week in southern Arizona with our own elders —er, parents— which involved plenty of stories. My mom told about the time the preacher drank all the iced tea in the house. Then she told about Mr. House who lived in the place up the hill and went every Sunday to fish in the pond. She pulled out jewelry and explained its significance to us. In past visits my stepdad has recounted the story of the cherry bomb in the mailbox. All of these tales we audiorecorded perhaps without their knowledge¹ despite being warned that the US postal service might yet come after him and his cousin, also about 85, for the teenaged mailbox crime.

My mom tells my daughter some embroidery stories.

After Arizona, we beelined straight north for the Rocky Boy’s reservation. We went there, about 4 1/2 hours north of Missoula, as part of this Chickadee project to record elders and create some educational videos for three days. The 90/88/74-year-olds hung out for like six hours on the second day talking in Cree, telling stories, and sharing some lunch with Joan and me. I’m super excited about this project, though I can’t tell you anything about what they said because it’s all protected information (and also a lot of it was in Cree). But they seem to have enjoyed themselves, telling some “remember when” stories and getting good laughs out of each other throughout the day. A 76-year-old appeared between classes he teaches (!) to tell jokes and also drop some truth about the tribe’s history and mistreatment. Joan and I were directly reminded many times throughout those three days of our whiteness, which is not the smallest part of why I want to see this project through and do it well. I’ve been told I must return to share the videos with the interviewees, which I will do as soon as they are edited satisfactorily, later this spring.

Whyte Ladie gin bottle spotted serendipitously upon our return to Missoula.

And us? Joan and I, too, have some tales to tell. About spending time with our aging parents, whom we have called “The Units” since we were 16. About meeting our new elder friends in Rocky Boy. About being white ladies and doing WL stuff. Finding ourselves in middle age, rocking precariously back and forth between the sunny beaches of youth and the rugged precipice of our dotage. At least when we arrive there, we’ll have no shortage of stories to share² with our loved ones. If we can remember them.

Whyte Ladies car dancing to some raunchy beats (see “sunny beaches of youth”). Joan, don’t kill me for posting this.

1. but since they read this newsletter, now they know.

2. repeatedly