She was searching for just the right tree topper and came up with this. It's a traditional Seneca head dress. What a conversation piece, huh? Thought you'd like it. I did.
I know it's been awhile since I've posted. With the holidays upon us, it's been crazy. Speaking of the holidays, I swiped this photo from my sister's Facebook page.
She was searching for just the right tree topper and came up with this. It's a traditional Seneca head dress. What a conversation piece, huh? Thought you'd like it. I did.
She was searching for just the right tree topper and came up with this. It's a traditional Seneca head dress. What a conversation piece, huh? Thought you'd like it. I did.
Listening for Grandma
My clan grandmother lived behind our house until she passed away. She helped to raise my mother as a child, and in return my mother promised to take care of Grandma in her later years. So, when my mother married, my dad agreed to build her a little place she could call home.
Her visits were usually few. She either came to use the phone, or ask my mother to take her to town. Occasionally, she would come to watch television for a few minutes, then leave without a word.
Grandma Ida spoke very little English. "Lie die, dog," was about the only phrase she knew. It always made us chuckle.
One summer afternoon, my mother had just taken the clothes off the line and brought them inside to fold. She, my two younger nieces, and myself were in the living room helping her, while watching television. We could hear the squeak of the back screen door, followed by slow footsteps.
"Dud-zoh" Mom called to her. "Come on in." One by one, the three of us joined suit.
"Hi, Grandma! We're in here. C'mon in, Grandma."
Her visits were usually few. She either came to use the phone, or ask my mother to take her to town. Occasionally, she would come to watch television for a few minutes, then leave without a word.
Grandma Ida spoke very little English. "Lie die, dog," was about the only phrase she knew. It always made us chuckle.
One summer afternoon, my mother had just taken the clothes off the line and brought them inside to fold. She, my two younger nieces, and myself were in the living room helping her, while watching television. We could hear the squeak of the back screen door, followed by slow footsteps.
"Dud-zoh" Mom called to her. "Come on in." One by one, the three of us joined suit.
"Hi, Grandma! We're in here. C'mon in, Grandma."
Eyes in the Back of Her Head
My adoptive mother was born in the early 1900s. The time and the fact she had many siblings made for some pretty interesting stories. This is one of many.
One afternoon, Mom and I were busy doing something, I don't exactly remember. The little ones were playing, Vi was sitting cross-legged on the chair. You know where the front windows are? That's where she sat with her back to the window. She didn't walk until she was about 5.
"Why's that?" I asked.
Oh, I don't know. Maybe she just liked for us to carry her around. Anyway, all of a sudden, she blurted out, "Oh, Dad fell off the bike." Mom and I just looked at her. Mom said, "What are you talking about?" "Oh, he came around Spring's corner too fast and fell off. He's okay. He didn't get hurt."
Dad finally came home. He started to tell us how he took the corner too fast, went off the road, and fell off the bike. We looked at each other.
She's always been that way. Vi, I mean. Odd.
Follow the Bouncing Ball
One summer night, a group of us teenaged girls were walking past the pond near the Hooty Sapperticker. (You know, the culvert near ArrowHawk Smoke Shop.) We were fooling around, the usual talking and laughing, when someone noticed a light beyond the pond. It looked as though someone was walking towards us from across the field.
Our first thought was one of the guys had been hunting and was swinging a lantern. A couple of the girls called out, but no one answered. We stood, whispering among ourselves, and watched. Suddenly, another light appeared. At first, they seemed to travel parallel to each other, then they began to cross paths. No one ever came.
Our first thought was one of the guys had been hunting and was swinging a lantern. A couple of the girls called out, but no one answered. We stood, whispering among ourselves, and watched. Suddenly, another light appeared. At first, they seemed to travel parallel to each other, then they began to cross paths. No one ever came.
Another time, my folks were visiting friends on the Cattaragus reserve during the summer. One night, a friend and I were sitting on the top of her grandfather's truck next to the path leading to the outhouse. As we were talking, a small light came from that direction. It was shining on the ground as though someone was pointing a flashlight straight down. We thought it odd because we didn't see anyone come from the house and pass us. She called, thinking it might be her grandfather. I called out to my dad. No one answered.
We watched as the light began to grow and bounce. First, it bounced to one side of the path. It even went up into the tree above. We sat speechless as we watched it grow and head towards us. When it reached the truck, it bounced up towards our feet and legs. Then, it simply vanished. We ran in to tell what we had seen.
Fear was never a concern, in either case. Instead, we simply accepted these to be jisge:h, or ghosts. These were the only two times I personally experienced anything like this.
Like this, that is.
Valley of the Dolls
Back in the 60s, there was this old woman who had an amazing collection of dolls. On any given day (other than the winter or inclement weather), they would be lined up on the knoll between the road and her house.
Whether they were pulling a wagon, riding a bike, or just strolling, their friendly waves demanded our attention. None ever wore a same outfit twice in a row. Before the sun went down, they were back inside: safe and sound.
Once inside, she put each of them in their respective places. Rumor had it (her grand-daughter even told me), the dolls got up and played, once the woman went to bed. (Wonder if that's where Chuckie got his start?)
In fact, her dolls got so much attention, someone came out to interview her for a feature article. As I recall, I think it was for The Reader's Digest, or something. Anyhow, because the movie "The Valley of the Dolls" had just come out, it became commonly known as that.
The woman and her dolls are long gone, but "The Valley of the Dolls" remains a reservation classic.
Whether they were pulling a wagon, riding a bike, or just strolling, their friendly waves demanded our attention. None ever wore a same outfit twice in a row. Before the sun went down, they were back inside: safe and sound.
Once inside, she put each of them in their respective places. Rumor had it (her grand-daughter even told me), the dolls got up and played, once the woman went to bed. (Wonder if that's where Chuckie got his start?)
In fact, her dolls got so much attention, someone came out to interview her for a feature article. As I recall, I think it was for The Reader's Digest, or something. Anyhow, because the movie "The Valley of the Dolls" had just come out, it became commonly known as that.
The woman and her dolls are long gone, but "The Valley of the Dolls" remains a reservation classic.
What's in a Name?
We all went to school with someone who had a nickname. I remember a boy named "Doozy". I suppose that came from his mother telling him he was such a "doozy".
In our family, my DH (darling husband) and I refer to our grandsons as "Bud or Buddy" and our grand-daughters as "Little Girl". Technically, they're not really nicknames because none of the other family members refer to them this way. To us, they'e just names of endearment.
Indians sure have some "doozy" names, too.
Here are some of them: Bug-Bug (M) Bugger (M) Be-Bop (M) Jooks (F) Duner (M) Potsy (F) Nooj (M) Daygie (M) Bealy (M) Cold Beans (M) Fa (M) Bubba (F) Pummy (M) Bear (M) Tootsa (F) Duckie (F) Etsy (F) Weenie (F) Hanny (F) Bayda (F) Ish (F)
See what I mean? I could go on and on. Of course, some of these are people who've passed on. Since I haven't lived at home for some time and I'm not familiar with the younger generation, there's no telling what kind of names are circulating, now.
I'm not sure why nicknames are so prevalent within native communities. It would be an interesting study, I'm sure.
In our family, my DH (darling husband) and I refer to our grandsons as "Bud or Buddy" and our grand-daughters as "Little Girl". Technically, they're not really nicknames because none of the other family members refer to them this way. To us, they'e just names of endearment.
Indians sure have some "doozy" names, too.
Here are some of them: Bug-Bug (M) Bugger (M) Be-Bop (M) Jooks (F) Duner (M) Potsy (F) Nooj (M) Daygie (M) Bealy (M) Cold Beans (M) Fa (M) Bubba (F) Pummy (M) Bear (M) Tootsa (F) Duckie (F) Etsy (F) Weenie (F) Hanny (F) Bayda (F) Ish (F)
See what I mean? I could go on and on. Of course, some of these are people who've passed on. Since I haven't lived at home for some time and I'm not familiar with the younger generation, there's no telling what kind of names are circulating, now.
I'm not sure why nicknames are so prevalent within native communities. It would be an interesting study, I'm sure.
Sassafras Tea
With the onset of fall, Sassafras tea comes to mind. I remember my dad going to the woods to dig up the roots. He would set them aside to dry and then chip off the bark to store for cold winter days.
My mother would let the bark soak in a pan of cold water, overnight. Then, she would boil the water and let it steep, much as you would tea. The sweet aroma would permeate the house.
Of course, Sassafras tea isn't a native food, per se, but it's a nice finish to milkweed and corn soup.
My mother would let the bark soak in a pan of cold water, overnight. Then, she would boil the water and let it steep, much as you would tea. The sweet aroma would permeate the house.
Of course, Sassafras tea isn't a native food, per se, but it's a nice finish to milkweed and corn soup.
Eli S. Parker
While deciding which antique piece I would take to a women's group for a free appraisal, I happened on another little gem. It was one of those things we tuck away for safe keeping until we get around to putting it in its proper place. There in hiding was a somewhat brittle, folded piece of newspaper.
Well, well, well! Look what I have, here!
Eli Parker was a distant relative of my adopted mother, Esther Blueye. If I remember correctly, Eli was a great uncle. I couldn't find a copy of the family tree she documented for me.
From my understanding, I believe he married, though he never had children.
We've always been proud that one of our relatives has left such a legacy for the Parker family, Senecas, and Native Americans everywhere.
This video documentary is quite informative. I've used it several times over the years in the classroom as a supplement to lessons on Native Americans.
Well, well, well! Look what I have, here!
Eli Parker was a distant relative of my adopted mother, Esther Blueye. If I remember correctly, Eli was a great uncle. I couldn't find a copy of the family tree she documented for me.
We've always been proud that one of our relatives has left such a legacy for the Parker family, Senecas, and Native Americans everywhere.
This video documentary is quite informative. I've used it several times over the years in the classroom as a supplement to lessons on Native Americans.
Ono:sga'- A Seneca Side Dish
The small, tender leaves near the top are chosen. Leaves that are too big are tough. It's also important to pick the right gender. In fact, I can't remember which one it is. Is it the female, or the male? All I remember is if you pick the wrong one, you can get very ill. I don't know that from experience, but my mother always warned me of it.
I haven't heard of anyone eating this since I was quite young. I suppose with the convenience of eating store greens, it's not worth the effort.
Seneca Corn Soup
Corn soup is one of the cultural foods that's at the top of the list. As far back as I can remember, I helped my mother in some small way during the process. When I was quite young, I stood on a chair near the stove, stirring the corn with the flat wooden paddle. As I got older, I rinsed the corn between each boiling. I loved eating the corn just after the ashes were rinsed off before the final boiling.
I still have my mother's original corn washing basket as seen in the video.
This video is is a good example of the process as well as narration in the Seneca language. (A special note: the Seneca language differs between reservations. Since this is not done by a Tonawanda Seneca, individual words are most likely a bit different.)
I was searching for some information, when I came across a website about Tonawanda. The information is rather brief and a bit outdated, but I enjoyed seeing a picture of the original community building. It also provides geographical information as to the reserve's location.
The information touches on the fact that our reserve was purchased from the Ogden Land Company. Tonawanda is the only one in the confederacy where the land is deeded to the people. On one hand, it's good to know the land is ours and the government can never take it away; but on the other, it means we must find our own way to develop the infrastructure.
The roads are maintained by the state, but everything else must be maintained by the people which is why our reserve is in such a state of poverty. There are still homes without water or electricity.
What people don't understand is getting a bank loan for home construction is impossible because banks can't hold land as collateral. The info provided regarding some of the home businesses have changed since the writing of the post.
Over the years, several of the family owned smoke shops have grown into multi-million dollar businesses: capitalism at its best. Recently, some of the merchants have begun stepping in to help local homeowners with their housing needs.
Love in a Box
I found this old booklet packed away in the closet. My mother often used it when beading the tops of moccasins, loin cloths or arm bands for my brother's Seneca costume.
According to my mother, some Indians were beginning to adopt designs from the southwest Indians and not keeping true to the original floral designs. By her tone, I could tell she wasn't really pleased with it.
After looking through the book, I thought the designs would make some nice walls stencils.
I still have vials of my mother's beads. It's doubtful I'll ever take the time to learn. Having them is simply a reminder of who she was and what made her so special to me.
Tonawanda Indian Community Building
I wonder how many little children learned to boost themselves up via the small faucet on the side, independent of being lifted by someone else.
Countless hours were spent playing basketball. Each of the reservations had their own teams: boys and girls, men and women's. For us, basketball was not confined to a season.
Of course, the court has been upgraded to include the wampum design on the rail.
Here, copies of paintings done by Ernie Smith decorate the main foyer area of the building. My husband reminded me of the time when Ernie Smith asked if he could paint a picture of me. At the time, I had no idea how well-known he was for his paintings.
Dumb me.
In the Dark
Uncle Jeff was a lot like his cabin. All I remember was how gruff he was. He was a lot like Grandpa Parker in that manner.
From what I understand, Jeff was a man that demanded respect. We could use a few more Indian men like that.
Yes. Times, they are a changing. It was nice to see the old homestead being cared for.
The Parker Homestead
It's where friends and extended family came for potato sack races in the back yard under two towering elms, long claimed by disease.
It's where the grandchildren and great grandchildren anxiously awaited the summer so they could drag blankets and pillows to the porch in order to sleep outside. The porch was the place where ghost stories were told.
My aunt Ce and her husband were the last of the original family to occupy the homestead. Oh, the memories they gave us. Playing a game of Flinch could be downright vicious with my aunt playing. It still keeps us laughing. If I'm not mistaken, most of the older nieces have their own set of Flinch cards somewhere in their belongings.
Memories, bigger than life, still flow from this house.
The Tattered Language
Not until I became an adult, did I have an interest to learn my ogwe'owe:kha:", my native language. As kids, we heard our parents and grandparents speak the language to each other; but, most of those from the 60s generation were not engaged in daily conversation. So, we grew up with the bits and pieces of tattered conversations overheard when the elders got together.
When my father passed in the early 70s, my no-yeh, began translating the New Testament into Seneca. I suppose for her own peace of mind to carry her through her grief and loneliness. For almost 20 years, she worked diligently, sometimes throughout the night on her old Smith Corona typewriter. Those were the days of liquid white out and the old typing paper with the carbon copies. I can still see her little lamp on in the middle of the night and hear the click-click-click of those black keys.
What started out as a hobby soon turned into something bigger than she ever could dream. When people learned what she was doing, word began to spread and doors began to open up. She was contacted to teach language classes at the local school, as well as the university. Over the years, this woman of humble beginnings became well recognized by linguists around the country. As she aged, we would often sit and discuss how her work could be improved. Unfortunately, we never got that chance.
And, so I would be remiss if I did not give honor to my mother, Esther Blueye for the 1000s of hours she labored to keep the Seneca language alive for future generations.
no-yeh' (mother)
ogwe'owe"kha:' (Seneca language)
onodowa'ga:' (Seneca)
When my father passed in the early 70s, my no-yeh, began translating the New Testament into Seneca. I suppose for her own peace of mind to carry her through her grief and loneliness. For almost 20 years, she worked diligently, sometimes throughout the night on her old Smith Corona typewriter. Those were the days of liquid white out and the old typing paper with the carbon copies. I can still see her little lamp on in the middle of the night and hear the click-click-click of those black keys.
What started out as a hobby soon turned into something bigger than she ever could dream. When people learned what she was doing, word began to spread and doors began to open up. She was contacted to teach language classes at the local school, as well as the university. Over the years, this woman of humble beginnings became well recognized by linguists around the country. As she aged, we would often sit and discuss how her work could be improved. Unfortunately, we never got that chance.
And, so I would be remiss if I did not give honor to my mother, Esther Blueye for the 1000s of hours she labored to keep the Seneca language alive for future generations.
no-yeh' (mother)
ogwe'owe"kha:' (Seneca language)
onodowa'ga:' (Seneca)
Are You a Little Sa'sa?
When my son first showed me this video, I had to laugh. Not because of the video, but because Sa'sa was what my aunt used to call me when I was a little girl. "You're such a little sa'sa" she would say, teasingly.
The video is basic enough to get the gist of the story, but I wish it had English translation somewhere, as well. Nevertheless, it's fun to watch and listen.
The video is basic enough to get the gist of the story, but I wish it had English translation somewhere, as well. Nevertheless, it's fun to watch and listen.
The Village People
During the afternoon, dancers from different reservations compete against each other as they showoff their costumes and footwork.
 |
| Young Girls' Smoke Dance Competition |
The thrill of the midway still draws the young; but for the rest of us, we are content with taking respite from the heat in the shade of the village grove, watching the dancers and trading gossip like wampum.
 |
| Traditional Indian Cornbread |
Of course, the cook house is one of the first places we visit. For those of us who live far from home, native foods are a real treat, especially Indian Corn Bread.Last, but not least, we can't forget our Indian princess. This year, the young lady was a Seneca from the Allegheny reserve, and is a member of the Hawk Clan. That explains her beauty!
And, such are the people of the village.
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