Saturday Musings

Everybody is a genius, but if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree,

it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.

Albert Einstein

It’s Saturday again, and for many of us, that means cleaning day. The work week is over, Sunday looms near with its promise of reading the newspaper in bed, a big, Sunday dinner, church, perhaps a family outing. But on Saturday, we clean.

I find myself reflecting on my life, past and present, as I work my way through my home, and as I mop and sweep, dust and scrub, my mind goes to other things besides the purely physical effort of making a home – a home.

I’ve chosen a quote from Einstein because its philosophy has been the fulcrum of my life. First, growing up, being told that I couldn’t do this, couldn’t do that, was not so smart, pretty, and later as I raised my son and told him that he is intelligent, handsome, kind, sweet and everything a young man should be. I’m actually thankful for my childhood. It taught me how not to treat my son.

Being told that you are unworthy, stupid, unqualified will cause you to inadvertently fulfill the expectations of those who tell you so, whether they be parents, friends, teachers, bosses or whomever. Self-fulfilling prophecy can be devastating, as it seemingly reinforces that which has been told to you – unless it’s positive. Then the sky is the limit.

Mirroring, a kissing cousin to self-fulfilling prophesy, works the same way. As an example: you’re walking down the street and you see someone you know. You call out their name, they turn around and they recognize you. What does that first look on their face tell you? Are you sorry that you called out their name, or are you pleased with their look of pleasure as recognition sets in? That is mirroring.

So I thought I’d just put this out there today as I take a short break from cleaning bathrooms and mopping floors. It’s something to ponder, to turn over in our minds as concerns our relationships with those we know and love.


I am your mirror. When you look into my eyes,
you see how beautiful you are.
When you enter a room, my heart lifts up to meet you;
a smile of greeting lights me up from within.
I am your mirror. When you look into my eyes,
you see love, as my soul embraces yours,
revealing to you just how wonderful you are:
my friend, my heart, my son.

©2014 Debra Shiveley Welch

Valentine’s Day approaches, and once again, you are in a quandary…what do I do? Flowers and a candle-lit dinner are nice, but there are other, equally romantic ways to set your Ladylove’s heart a-flutter.

Your sweetheart probably keeps the fridge stocked with all of your favorite items: beer, wine, your favorite ice cream. Place a few of her favorite foods on a prominent shelf the night before, with a bow to embellish the thought. P.S. …make sure you’ve tucked some wine away for the big day.

Giving flowers? Instead of making the grand entrance upon returning home, send them to her during the afternoon, perhaps with a note that says, “I can’t wait to be with you.” This way, when you arrive home for the evening, your arms are free to embrace her in a loving, warm hug.

Thinking of dining out? Make sure you understand what she wants to do with the day. She may have her own agenda. This is, after all, her time to show you how much she loves you.

Plan the day ahead of time. Clear your calendar from 5:00 p.m. on. The most important thing you can do to make your sweetheart feel loved, is to give her…you. At times we all feel like we are not heard or appreciated. Show her that you care about her opinions, her thoughts, her feelings. Give her your undivided attention on this special night.

Spoil her, intrigue her, listen to her and just…love her.

Chapter One

Hear Me

Hear me, four quarters of the world – a relative I am! Give me the strength to walk the soft earth. Give me the eyes to see, and the strength to understand that I may be like you. With your power only can I face the winds. Great Spirit, all over the earth the faces of living things are all alike. With tenderness have these come up out of the ground. Look upon these faces of children without number, and with children in their arms, that they may face the winds, and walk the good road to the day of quiet. This is my prayer. Hear me!

Black Elk


Slowly, slowly, Grandfather Sun began his ascent. Gliding, floating, he moved above the horizon as blue and lavender and mauve filled the sky.

Birdsong married with fragrant air, as Wakan Tanka stretched His fingers across the sky, pushing back the night, heralding the dawning of a new day. (Wah-kah Than-kah – Mysterious Creator)


July 18, 2010

6:00 a.m.


Sonny Glass walked briskly along the slowly awakening street. He enjoyed the sound of the heels of his cowboy boots against the hard concrete of Uptown Westerville’s sidewalks. Soon the area would be busy, as the small but vibrant Central-Ohio city came to life.

     Home to just over 35,000 citizens and the birthplace of the Anti- Saloon League, Westerville was a charming family oriented town with several parks, the Inniswood Botanical Gardens and Nature Preserve, and Otterbein, the private liberal arts college founded in 1847.

     Continuing his walk along State Street, Sonny admired the warm, historical feel of the main thoroughfare of Uptown Westerville. The storefronts were comprised mostly of the original structures built since the incorporation of the city in 1858. The pride of her citizens was apparent in the spanking clean look of the 19th Century, picturesque suburb of Columbus.

     Sonny reached the corner of Main and State, and gazed across the street at the new restaurant, the grand opening of which would be celebrated this evening. Three stories tall, the large, stately building stood solid and imposing as new-morning sun kissed her ancient, red bricks.

     A red canopy shaded the entrance with its centered blue stripe and eight-sided star, each point formed by a tipi and representing the flag of the Lakota Sioux. From its frame, hanging pots of Impatiens danced in a slight breeze. Soon pedestrians, busy with their early morning errands, would walk briskly by, some going to Schneider’s bakery, others to Talbot’s Florists, some intent on visiting Heavenly Espresso, the coffee shop across the street.

     Sonny leaned against the corner lamppost and gazed in admiration at Lena Young Bear’s labor of love, Cedar Woman, the first upscale American Indian restaurant in Central, Ohio.


Studying the restaurant from across the street, Sonny tried to imagine how it would look to someone who had never seen it before. Pretending to be a new patron, Sonny contemplated the impressive building. As guests approached the large, cedar double doors leading into the small entrance foyer of the establishment, they would first notice the top of the door frame. Hanging above the striking entrance were four corncobs: one of white, one of red, one of yellow and one of blue, an ancient symbol proclaiming that all who entered the dwelling would be fed. Now where on earth did she manage to find blue corn? Sonny mused as he straightened and prepared to cross the street. I’ll bet she had Grandmother Nancy send it to her from Colorado. She would do that, seeing how sacred corn is. And of course there would be four, he continued to ponder. Lena Young Bear would use the sacred number representing the four winds, four seasons, and four directions of the earth.

     Beneath the corncobs was a simple carving. Engraved upon a cedar plank, and painted in the same deep blue of the awning stripe and star, were the words Mitakuye Oyasin, (Me-tdah-coo-yey oh-yah-seen) which translated from the Lakota Sioux language simply meant, “We Are All Related.” I cannot believe what she has accomplished, he reflected, stepping down from the curb and crossing the still silent street.

     Sonny recalled that Lena chose the building, which was later to bear her American Indian name, partly because of the location of the doors. The main entrance faced west where lived the Thunder Beings. From here came rain and nourishment so all may live.

     The second door faced the north where the Great White Giant lives. From here came the cleansing white snows and the power of healing.

     Sonny took a deep breath. He could still smell sage. The night before the grand opening, Lena performed a smudging ceremony to cleanse herself and the new restaurant.

     Carrying a smoldering bowl filled with sacred grasses, Lena walked to the center of the first floor of the building.

     The white ceramic bowl, which she had thrown herself, its rim painted with red ochre to symbolize the blood of The People, contained cedar needles, to cleanse the area, its sweet smell attracting the good spirits. In addition, there was wild sage, for purifying the soul and the air, enhancing balance within one’s self and the spirit world. Wild sweet grass, to cleanse the mind and body and to attract good spirits and energies with its fragrance, along with tobacco, to carry her prayers to Creator was also included.

     Lena “bathed” herself with the fragrant fumes. Cupping her hand, and capturing the floating ribbons of smoke, she passed them over her head, shoulders, torso, and under each foot.

Facing the west, she extended the smoking bowl and intoned:

     “Grandfather of the West, this is Cedar Woman, I ask that you keep my feet true and on the Good Red Road. (To walk in balance, to walk with the earth and not just on it. To follow the rules of Creator.)

      I ask that you guide me on this day, and all days, so that I may continue on this path. I ask that you help in my daily life. Mitakuye oyasin, we are all related. She next turned to the north and offered the same prayer to Grandfather of the North, Grandfather of the East and then of the South. Lifting the bowl to the heavens, she repeated her prayer to Father Sky.

     Kneeling, the bowl in front of her, her hands on the floor on each side of her body, she sent her prayer to Mother Earth.

     Finally, she again raised the still smoking bowl to the sky and added a personal plea,“Creator, this is Cedar Woman. I ask that you keep my feet true and on the Good Red Road. I ask that you guide me on this day and all days so that I may continue on this path. I ask that you help in my daily life. I ask you that I may feed all people and that my venture here will be successful.” Lena placed the still smoldering bowl on a table and sat, slowly relaxing, her mind, body, and spirit in harmony.


Sonny pressed upon the heavy doors and entered the foyer. Fairly small in size, it served as a buffer between the changeable Ohio weather and the dining room within.  Five paces across the vestibule stood a single door, also made of cedar. Entering the restaurant, he let his eyes move slowly around the first floor dining room. It was on this level of the three-story building where casual Contemporary American Indian foods would be served.

     Built in 1881 in the Italianate style by M.S. Wyant, the structure had known many incarnations. From bookstore to telephone company, from grocery store to clothing emporium, from gathering place to thriving gift shop, the uptown site had been a popular landmark for Westerville’s citizens.

     In 1886, during a performance of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, the opera house, located on the third floor of the building, experienced a tragic fire. An actor, swinging an umbrella, accidentally hit one of the gas foot lights. Panicking, fleeing patrons ran, and the exit was blocked. Trying to find a window to throw the gas light out onto the street, the actor accidentally ran into a small hallway, discovering a woman and two children seeking refuge. None of them died immediately, but lingered through an agonizing death.

     Remembering the heartbreaking story, Sonny took a deep breath, glancing toward the stairs which led to the spacious third floor, now allocated to teachers and students for the study of pottery, dance and music. There was no sign of the little girl and boy rumored to haunt the third floor, their laughter and running feet echoing throughout the three-story building, but Sonny was nervous nonetheless. Lena assured him that she had sent the children “home” the day she smudged the restaurant, but Sonny remained skeptical.

     Sonny glanced away from the staircase. Relieved that no sounds echoed down the flight of stairs from the region above, he relaxed and allowed his mind’s eye to take a mental tour of the beautiful restaurant. Tonight would be a special night, the middle floor, the fine dining area, filled to capacity with friends and relatives eager to celebrate this special day, to celebrate the happiness of Lena Cedar Woman Young Bear.


Lena appeared in Sonny’s mind’s eye. He constantly experienced a queer shock when he first saw her, even after seventeen years. In his mind, when picturing her, she always seemed larger than life, towering above all with whom she came into contact. In reality, she was quite diminutive in stature, barely reaching 4’11” and maxing out, he would guess, at 90 pounds. It was as if Wakan Tanka, in His infinite wisdom, created her body as an afterthought, concentrating on the immenseness of her soul instead.

     But, it was her eyes that startled the most. Almond in shape and slightly tip-tilted, they sparkled as if lit from within. Her left eye was a luminous, deep brown, so dark that the pupil at times appeared to be the same color. Her right eye was the same unfathomable brown, but only on the inside half of the iris. The outside half was vivid amber.

     Wakan Tanka must have drawn the line Himself, Sonny mused. How else could her iris be so divided precisely in two, the outside half the exact same color of the eye of Wambli (Wahn-blee) the sacred golden eagle of the Lakota?


Copyright 2010 Debra Shiveley Welch; Library of Congress Copyright 2014


julessmallHello, Julie. Thank you for visiting us.

You are preparing for a powwow this June. Could you tell us about it?

Julie: Where do I start…. first, I invest in a LOT of valium and a nice comfy straight jacket, breathe deep, and say “let the insanity begin!”    KIDDING!

There is a LOT that goes in to running a powwow, and most people have no idea as to what goes on behind the scenes. We are very fortunate with the Farmington Iowa powwows, in that we have a static location available for us to use, and we have a wonderful team of volunteers to help lighten the load.

About 6 months before a powwow, I try to make sure that I have grant applications out, that my Host Drum and Head Staff are in place, and I have volunteers available. I also start listing the event on online powwow sites. We are starting to get serious about fundraising, and soliciting donations for the event, and finding places to store everything.

A couple of months before the date, there are a lot of emails and phone calls from dancers, the Drums, vendors, and my head staff, to make sure that everything is on track, and answering inquiries from the public, dancers, and vendors. We are also constantly fundraising like mad, trying to make sure that we have enough money to cover the expenses involved.

This close to the powwow, (we are just about 3 weeks out) I have to make sure that we have everything we will need in place for a successful powwow, such as money, volunteers, food, water, the sound system, the arena markers, event t-shirts, tobacco, donations for the Give Away, etc.

We are having weekly meetings to get updates on everything that is happening, and things are going to get crazier in the next couple of weeks. I will be going down to the powwow grounds the day before the event to set up our tipis, and to map out vendor spaces, as well as being on hand for any early birds, and to help with whatever needs to be done. We will also be setting up the arena, and getting the grounds ready in general. And I promise that my phone will be ringing non-stop the entire event!

On Friday we will be having a pot-luck/carry in, and I have to make sure that that is set up and ready to go, and then on Saturday I have to make sure that my volunteers are on hand to sell frybread as a fundraiser, and to cook the evening meal that the powwow committee will be sponsoring, and making sure that things run smoothly.

Hope this answers your question!

DSW: For those of my readers who are not NdN (preferred spelling of Indian by American Indians), could you please explain who the Host Drum is?

Julie: The Host Drum is usually the first Drum group that is invited to a powwow, and fees vary from Drum to Drum. Our host has been The Night Eagle Singers from Kenosha Wisconsin. This Drum knows a LOT of the older songs that fell out of favor for a while, and have been gaining in popularity again.

DSW: Julie, why is fundraising important for the event? And where can people donate?

Julie: Most powwows are non-profit events, and with the economy tightening up, grants and other forms of endowments are harder to come by. Also, there is a LOT of competition for these types of events as there just are not a lot of grants available.

Our powwows operate under a parent organization that has their 501(c)(3) status, so any and all donations are eligible for a tax break on behalf of the donors, in addition to my co-chair and myself sinking a LOT of our own money into the events to help cover expenses. Our parent organization does not have a lot of funding available for the powwow, so it is important that we pay our own way to have an event.

A traditional (non-contest) powwow can cost up to $20,000, so fundraising and donations are very important! Our bi-annual events generally run a little less than $5,000 for each event (June and October), and we generally pay for them through charitable donations and non-stop fundraising, as well as contributing cash from our own pockets.

The community where the powwow grounds are located is a very rural area in South Eastern Iowa that depends heavily on tourism as well as being a farming community, and the area has been hard hit by the economic crash. So, donations from outside the area are more important than ever!

We will be accepting free will donations for the duration of the event, as well as having ongoing fundraisers such as a food stand, cold drinks, event t-shirts, 50/50 drawings, etc. and your readers can contact me via email at spottdeaglehorse@aol.com for more information on making a tax exempt donation. Any amount, no matter how small, is welcome, as we do have two events a year.

DSW: Why is tobacco important to the powwow?

Julie: Tobacco is generally given to someone as a gesture of respect, and also to show that you are serious about something when making a request of someone.

Tobacco is considered to be a sacred thing to Native peoples. An old proverb is that tobacco smoke is the breath made visible and that it is the visible representation of one’s prayers going to Creator.

I don’t know how else to explain it…. Tobacco is given to someone as a gesture of respect, such as an elder or a Holy Man/Medicine Man, Drum Keeper or Head Staff. It is given to someone when asking for a favor, or when asking for something important like a ceremony.

It is also given when issuing an apology to someone, or when showing a serious intent, such as asking for a mediator in a dispute.

Tobacco is offered to dancers to take in to the Arena with them, and at Ceremony for the participants to offer prayers.

In our case, in addition to a blanket and a cash honorarium, we give tobacco to the Host Drum, our head staff, Jr. head staff, certain elders, and key persons such as the arena director and emcee. This shows our appreciation for the services that they provide for the duration of the event, and as a gesture of respect.

DSW: There is certainly a lot of preparation ahead of time. What would you compare a powwow to?

Julie: Hmmm…. good question…. I would have to say the closest I could get would probably be a combination of a Broadway show, rock concert, family reunion and dance recital, all rolled into one. The public comes to see a show, and to experience a little bit of our culture, and of course to shop. The dancers are there to show off, and to celebrate our culture. In certain cases, there are dancers out there who follow certain “name” drums all over the country, much as a groupie would follow a rock band from concert to concert.

DSW: Are there many family reunions during these events?

Julie: Yes and no. We joke that a powwow is a Native family reunion, and joke about something called “skinship.” Skinship is when you put two Natives together at an event, and they will figure out how they are related, usually within 10 minutes or so, regardless of whether or not they are actually related, LOL! It gives us a chance to visit with old friends, and family that we may or may not have seen for a time.

DSW:  What if some of my readers wish to attend this or any powwow…what are the basic forms of etiquette – the dos and don’ts when attending a powwow.

Julie: There are a LOT of great websites that actually do cover proper etiquette…. But the basics are as follows:

1) Dress and act appropriately. Hot pants, halter tops, swimwear, profanity and ‘making out’ have no place at powwows. If you are going to dance anything other than open inter-tribals, wear your regalia. Remember to respect yourself, and the dancers.

2) Pointing with the fingers is considered poor manners by some nations. If you must point, use your head and nod in the direction you wish to indicate.

3) The seating around the Arena is reserved for dancers in regalia. Seats with blankets, shawls or regalia items on them are taken and should not be bothered. Do NOT sit on someone else’s blanket unless invited. Uncovered seats are considered available.

4) Pets should be left at home. The Arena is a sacred place from the time it is blessed until the powwow is over. At no time should pets be allowed in the Arena.

5) Listen to the Master of Ceremonies. He will announce who is to dance and when. Most powwows conduct inter-tibals in which the public may participate. Check with the Arena Director for more information, or listen to the emcee.

6) Pictures should NOT be taken during Veterans Songs, Flag Songs, Prayers or any other time announced by the Master of Ceremonies. If you wish to photograph a dancer in regalia, ask first. If the picture is for publication or commercial use, that should be explained before the picture is taken.

7) Respect the Head Man and Head Woman dancers. Their role entitles them to start each song or set of songs. Please wait until they have started to dance before you join in. In some traditions, it is considered improper to pass the Head Man or Woman Dancer within the Arena.

8) Show respect to the Flag, Honor and Veterans songs by standing until the song is completed.

9) Some songs require that you be familiar with the routine or have special eligibility rules in order to participate. Trot dances, snake, buffalo, etc. require particular steps or routines. Veterans’ dances may be restricted to veterans, combat veterans, or in some cases the relations of veterans. If you are not familiar with a particular dance, observe and learn. Watch the Head Dancers to learn the procedures.

10) The Flag Song, or Indian National Anthem, is sung when the American Flag is raised or lowered. Please stand and remove hats during the singing of this song. It is not a song for dancing. Pictures are not allowed during these songs.

11) Most powwows are non-profit and depend upon donations, raffles, blanket dances, etc. for support. Donations are encouraged as a way to honor someone. Any participant can drop money onto the blanket to aid in the powwow expenses.

13) Certain items of religious significance should be worn only by those qualified to do so. Respect the traditions. NEVER intentionally touch another dancer’s regalia, person, feathers, or property without permission.

14) Giveaways, attributes of Indian generosity, are held at many dances. They are acknowledgments of appreciation to recipients for honor or service given to the people. When receiving a gift, the recipient thanks everyone involved in the giving.

15) If you wish to ask for a special song from a drum, talk to the Arena Director first and make sure the master of ceremonies is informed. It is traditional to make a gift (monetary or otherwise) to the Drum for special requests.

16) Before sitting at a drum, ask permission from the Head Singer. Do not touch a drum without permission. This especially applies to women! Most Drumming is traditionally a male only occupation, and a woman sitting at the drum can cause grave offense.

17) If at any time you are uncertain of procedure, etc., please check with the emcee, arena Director, or head singer. They will be glad to help you with your questions.

18) Unless you are sure spectator seating will be provided, bring a chair. Remember that the seating immediately around the Arena is for dancers only.

19) Alcohol, recreational drugs and firearms are prohibited at most powwows.

20) If you see a lost feather, or you yourself drop a feather, do NOT pick it up. Notify the nearest Veteran, the Head Veteran, Head Man Dancer or Arena Director immediately.

21) Before dancing barefoot, speak with the Arena Director. At some events this may only be done by Sun dancers, who are usually known to the organizers.

22) In some places it is okay for adults to dance while carrying infants or small children. In other places this is considered contrary to local etiquette. Ask before doing so.

23) If you have a question, ask. Most dancers, singers, elders and staff are happy to help. Offer a cold drink or other small, symbolic gift to those who help you.

DSW: Julie, I remember at one powwow a church rang its bells through a lot of the powwow and some people picketed stating that this was a “heathen” event. What would you like to say to those people?

I forgive you.

DSW: Thank you, Julie. As usual, you are informative, kind and patient.

Interviewer’s Note: I would like to say one thing. Before anyone decides to picket or berate another group’s traditions, they should find out about the event first. A powwow is no different from an Irish, Italian or Greek Festival, for instance. The powwow is a gathering of a people who are trying to preserve their traditions, songs and dances, reunite with friends and family who they possibly haven’t seen since the last powwow, to buy from and admire the various artisans who are offering their wares and to enjoy the delicious food offered at the food stands.

The Muddy River Powwow is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/events/583394728404225/

Julie, again, wopila – thank you.

October 15, 2012, I was rushed to the emergency room.  I’d known that something was wrong for quite a while, but like our canine brothers and sisters, I managed to hide it quite well.  I was sick.  I was desperately sick.

I hadn’t told my family that I had been speaking with my mother, my father and Merribuck – all deceased.  Merribuck, my beloved late Border/Sheltie mix, was the first to visit me.

It was the beginning of October and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to hide how ill I was for much longer.  Understand that I come from a long line of people who just don’t like to go to the doctor.  We’re a hardy group as a rule, but sometimes something sneaks up and knocks one of us for a loop. I was soon to be thrown.

I was sitting on the couch, gathering strength to vacuum, when I saw my Merri.  I could feel the joy rise up within my heart.  I’d missed her so much these past 19 years, and here she was, once again, my beautiful baby dog.  Merri trotted over to me and sat at my feet, feathered, curved tail wagging, mouth open in that glorious smile she always wore in life.

To this day Merribuck is the sweetest soul I’ve ever met.  Truly, God was in a good mood the day He made my sweet girl.  She was always there to comfort me, there to share my joys and triumphs and I know deep within my soul that she knew what I was feeling and thinking.  We shared a bond that I have shared with only a few beings in my lifetime, my son being one, and so I was not that surprised to see her now…now that I was in trouble.

“My Buckaroo!” I cried with joy.  “I’ve missed you so much, Little Love.  I’ve always missed you.  Do you know that I come to visit with you when I’m upset?” I asked her.  (I always go to her grave when troubled.)  “Have you come to “fetch” me?”

Buck gazed up at me with her beautiful smile and my heart clenched.  My fingers itched to stroke her long, silky hair and my soul longed to smell her sweet fragrance that I remembered so well.  I could feel her laugh and say “Mama, you always were so funny,” and with that, she jumped up beside me.  I buried my nose in her neck, stroking her wonderful fur.  “Sweetheart,” I murmured, “if it weren’t for our baby, I would love to go with you.  I miss you so much. But my journey with him isn’t over.  I have to stay for him.”

Our baby was my son Chris, born 20 years before.  When Chris came home, I sat on the couch and allowed Merribuck to sniff him.  “This is your baby, Buck.  Your baby.”  From that day forward, she never left his side.

Again, I felt the telepathic connection, “I know, Mama.  I miss you too, and I know when you have come to visit me.  Haven’t you felt me with you? But right now you have to stay here with our baby.”

Merri continued to comfort me for a precious ten minutes or so and then left. As she jumped down from the couch I felt her ‘say,’ “You won’t die, Mama.  I came to tell you that you won’t die.”  I once again endured the anguish of our parting, but felt better knowing that, indeed, we would be reunited some day…perhaps someday soon…but that for now I would be allowed to stay with my beloved son.

I was knocked to my knees in mid-October.  Chris was taking me to the doctor as I was now too weak to drive.  He was begging me to go to the hospital, but I kept insisting that I was all right, just tired.  One look at me and the nurse demanded that I go to the ER.  Finally waking up to reality, or maybe it was the fear in my son’s eyes, I agreed and Chris took me straight away.  I was admitted within an hour.

So, I lay in my bed, not really afraid.  Somehow I knew that I would live, but a statement my father made kept going through my head:  All Shiveley’s die in October.  Had I imagined Merri out of loneliness for her?  Was I once again hiding the truth from myself?  My mind flew back 16 years.

In 1997 we brought my father home to live with us.  He had developed lung cancer and was dying.  Chemo seemed to be slowing the progression of the cancer, and Dad kept saying, “If I live through October, I’ll live another year.”  We were watching Emeril Lagasse, Dad’s favorite cooking show the evening of October 28, and when he said it to me again. I asked, “Dad, why do you keep saying that?”  “Because,” he replied, “all Shiveley’s die in October.”  I put the thought aside, figuring he was clinging to a very fragile thread. The next morning, Chris and I found him gone, his coffee still hot and his color just beginning to change. Two weeks later, as I cleaned out his room, I found a shoebox full of obituaries.  All were for Shiveley’s…all died in October.  So here I was – October 15, gravely ill, in the hospital, and a Shiveley.  But Buck had said I wasn’t going to die. Or had she?

That night, my mother came.  I was lying with my eyes closed (who can sleep in a hospital?) when I heard her distinctive laugh.  Slowly turning my head, I saw her, sitting in a chair and smiling.  “So, you think you’re going to die because you’re a Shiveley?  Well, you’re also from my people.  You’ll be okay, and by the way, how’s my grandson?”

I filled her in: Mom never met Chris.  Mom died in 1989 of kidney cancer and Chris was born and adopted in 1992.  So I told her all about him.  I kept thinking of how her brother Bussy visited her when she was six months pregnant for me.  She was raking leaves and caught fire sustaining fourth degree burns.  Her right kidney was literally fried. She lay in a bed at White Cross Hospital, in premature labor for me, and frightened to the core.  She said the room brightened and a moonbeam shot into her room.  There stood her brother, hand extended. “Don’t worry, Re, she’ll be all right. I’ll take care of her.”  He then faded back into the beam and was gone. My mother said that her labor ceased immediately and I’m here to testify that I survived.  But would I survive this test?

The next night my father arrived.  “Da!” I exclaimed when I saw him.  He gazed at me with that serious Irish way of his and stated, “I just came to tell you that you won’t be dyin’ this October.  You’re journey is not finished yet.”  Dad and I spoke for awhile.  Like Mom, he wanted to know about Chris.  He and Chris had adored each other and Dad was so proud to be Chris’ “Numpa” as Chris called him.  Dad’s visit wasn’t long, but he was always one to say his piece and get it over with.

I took all of this with a grain of salt.  It seemed that, after Merribuck left, my emotions flat lined.  I felt no fear, no regret, no apprehension.  My only emotion was of determination:  If I’m going to die, in spite of what I’ve been told, I must make sure that Chris is all right.  I planned my funeral, my wake and the epitaph on my tombstone and set about the business of putting my affairs in order.  I didn’t want my son or my husband to have to deal with any more than they had to.  Also, I wanted to be able to take care of my boy even after death.  However, true to my visitors’ assurances, I survived and was sent home in eight days with chronic liver failure, possibly due to a biologic I was taking for Psoriatic Arthritis.

Halloween, Thanksgiving, my 60th birthday, Christmas, New Years, all passed with me half there.  I was very weak and was not recovering as everyone had hoped.  On January second, I was again taken to the emergency room.  This time, my doctors told me that, according to my blood tests, I should be in the morgue.  You should have seen their faces when I gave them the cryptic reply, “But, it isn’t October!”

Tender loving care from a group of incredible nurses, massive infusions of potassium and sundry minerals and enzymes and the final return of my appetite (I hadn’t eaten more than four ounces a day since Thanksgiving 2011), I was well enough to return home seven days later.  Now, I began to get better.  Still, I felt no emotions.  I would sit for hours just staring ahead.  Merribuck’s, my mother’s and my father’s visits had left me rather numb. Intellectually I knew that I missed them more than ever now, but somehow that message never slipped down to my heart.  Perhaps it wasn’t supposed to.  Maybe I was supposed to concentrate on survival and not grief.

It was March.  I was alone at home.  My husband is a docent at a museum in Columbus and was there conducting a tour and my son was at school.  I sat, TV off, wishing to God that I could see Merribuck again, and looking outside at the tree my husband and I planted the previous summer – a tree that I thought I would never get to see grow.  I gazed upon her (I always name my trees, and this one, a Royal Empress, was of course, Eleanor) and without warning my emotions came flooding back!  I was filled with the most incredible joy and I knew, I just knew that I would see the spring – and perhaps live through another October.  I wept.  I wept as I hadn’t done since my very early years.  I wept for the promise of life, mourned anew for Merri, Mom and Dad, and rejoiced with the knowledge that I would remain with my son. Sobs wracked me to the point of making my muscles ache when I was finished, but it was a cleansing, a release, a baptism as it were.

It is now June.  I can walk on my own, climb stairs, take showers, cook and eat.  My weight is getting to the point where I look thin, but normal, and not like a concentration camp victim.  My son is now 21, thriving and happy.  He is studying filmology and is a sushi chef. My husband is convinced that I’m going to be okay and has relaxed and begun to enjoy his life once more.  I’ve started cooking again, something I loved to do but hadn’t the strength, and began watching Paula Deen, Ina Garten, Giada and other Food Network stars to get my ‘cooking chops’ refreshed. My son and I have just returned from the Muddy River powwow where my sister was Head Woman.  Chris has taken me out to dinner and rejoiced in my returned appetite.  We take walks and my husband and I have started to accept party invitations.  God is good.  God is very, very good.



I’ve been gone for a while.  Late in 2008 I began work on Cedar Woman, a book about a woman of the Lakota Souix who opens the first high end American Indian restaurant in Central Ohio.  I enjoyed the writing.  In fact, literarily speaking, it’s the best time I’ve ever had.  Written with the cooperation of my adopted sister, Spotted Eagle Horse, it indeed became an adventure.

So here we are in 2012.  Cedar Woman has just been named Best Native American Fiction of 2011 by Books and Authors, I’ve become a partner in the publishing house that has been publishing my works since 2005 – I just turned 59 – and life is good!

I intend to be back and posting here frequently.  I will write about my works, about life with my husband and adopted son, Christopher, the joy of my life, and whatever you want to hear about.  Just let me know.

It’s the year of the dragon – my year! So let’s rock n’ roll!

Governor Strickland,

With your proposal of Sub. H.B. 1, you have lost my vote.  I was waiting to see if you were listening to your fellow citizens, but you held that rally Friday and I realized that you are deaf to what we want, what we need.

Parents of children in charter schools throughout Ohio are uniting and we are coming to the same conclusion and the same decision.

So, 88,000 plus students:  each has grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and some even have siblings and friends of voting age, not to mention friends of their family. Many of the children affected will be voting by the time you run for office again.  Think about it.

What you have proposed is, in my opinion, and in the opinion of these hundreds of thousands of voters who support charter schools, a miscarriage of power.

Charter Schools were set up to offer an alternative to the public school system – which many parents, like me, see as FAILING our children. Some of these children will not be accepted into any private school, so home schooling is the only option left – and isolation.  The majority of the students affected by Sub. H.B.1 come from low-economic families. They cannot home school, as they need to work full-time to support their families.

My son has nowhere else to go.  In public school and the private school we later sent him to, he was bullied, sometimes by some ignorant teacher.  No one would work with him and help him overcome his learning differences.  He was stuck in a corner, given no help and would cry when he had to go to school to face the bullies – to be made to feel inadequate by the teacher.   Thankfully, Chris’ neuropsychologist suggested, “Send him to The Graham School.  He’ll blossom there.”  He was right.  My son is happy, loves school and is learning.  Not only is he learning, he is achieving his dreams.  He is getting good grades, he is part of a school-sponsored guitar club, is a member of a band, and he has become a twice traditionally published author.  He currently works with Meals on Wheels, has helped to build a community garden and is looking forward to attending a culinary institute.

You want to take this away from him.  I want to know why!  I want to know why you think it is appropriate to penalize children, our future leaders, by taking away the schools where they are finally thriving.  I want to know why the special needs kids are the ones to be targeted, for many of these students are special needs. I want to know what alternatives you have planned.  Are you going to help me find a school that will, not only accept my son, but respect him as Graham does?  I want to know how you are going to help my son succeed as he enters his adult years without an education, because you took it away.  I want to know if you will find my son a job where he can make a living wage, marry, and raise and provide for a family.  And I want to know how in Heaven’s name you could even begin to think that this is appropriate.

My son is a citizen.  By the time you are ready to run for office again, he and his friends and thousands of these kids will be voters.  He is just as valuable and important as you are, and he, just by himself, is worth every dime that you are trying to cut.  What are YOU going to do for my son when his last option for a high school education is taken away?

What are you going to do for the family who has more than one child in charter schools?  Special needs children who, like my son, have no options.  Are you going to allow them to be swallowed up and forgotten?  You are supposed to be our leader, not our enemy.

I have seen many of my friends cut their household budgets, but I guarantee you, they did not take from their children!  They have cut out necessities.  I know of one couple that sold their house to provide an education for their children, one father took a third job; none of them have taken from our future citizens.  We work, we plan, and we sweat for our kids, only to be stymied by our governor, a man that we are supposed to be able to trust and look to for leadership.

One of the many things I have learned in life, is that when you propose a change, you outline options for problems that will arise from that change.  You have done nothing.

Let’s say that these 88,000 plus children lose their schools.  Where are they supposed to go?  Back into the public school system?  That would be a very interesting phenomenon to witness.  I can picture a veritable “flood” of humanity into schools that already claim that they cannot service the children they already have: schools that have failed the very children, which would now be bereft of schools where they were successful.  What are you going to do about this?  Yet another hole in your proposal.

Like most parents, I don’t want anyone to hurt my child.  What you are doing will hurt him.  Shame on you.

To the reader:  if you live in Ohio, please write to your senator and demand that Sub H.B. 1 be defeated in the senate.