Morning Song December 1869 As I step off the train the wet, cold air startles me. I see the silhouette of Lookout Mountain and the surrounding mountains and ridges for the first time in thirty-one years. There is a smoky haze hanging from the tops of the mountains, and the sky is gray. Other than the large crowd of people and some buildings I have never seen, and the railroad itself, it is a familiar and comfortable sight. I am carrying two bags. One has several changes of clothing, the other all I have left of my former life. My sister is standing before me. She has short, gray hair and many lines on her face, but there is no mistaking it is her. Her eyes, filled with tears, look exactly the same as the day I last saw her. She was crying that day, too. We embrace. It is an awkward moment. Familiar strangers we have become. Her husband smiles at me and offers to take my bags. We walk to their wagon and begin a long journey north across the river towards my old home. As we move slowly towards the river, my sister chatters about the room she made up for me in their cabin, her quilt projects, and the latest gossip. The wind picks up and I pull the woolen blankets more tightly around me. I look around and notice we are about to cross the river on a large bridge. I ask my brother-in-law when that was made. “They built it about five years ago. Put the ferry out of business on this part of the river.” He said as he scanned the horizon. I look out over the waters of the Tennessee and sigh. My hair is gray, and there are lines on my face. Many say I am still beautiful, but I know they are being kind. Too much life has happened. I wear it on my face. It shows in my eyes and in how I carry myself. My children, those who are still living, have married and live in the place I called home since I was sixteen years old, in Indian Territory not very far from Tahlequah, the capital of the Cherokee people. My son is an important councilman of the Cherokee. Many people listen to him. My daughter married a white man who has a large ranch and many cattle outside the city. My oldest born is buried in the cemetery there, near my mother and father and oldest brother. She was thirteen years old when she was thrown from a horse and broke her neck. My sweet Avani. I remember her smile and unique laugh, and I wipe a tear from my eye. My daughter, Ruchi, said she no longer wanted to live by the traditions of our people. She changed her name to Jane and refuses to teach my grandchildren The Way. She and her husband, Dan the cattle rancher, take my grandchildren to church every Sunday and forbid them to speak any Cherokee they may learn from their friends or other family. It makes my heart heavy. Viho, who is sometimes called Victor, has one son and he has taught him all of our traditions and the language. Viho fights for the Cherokee everyday against the white men who continue to try and invade the land given to the Indians by the whites over thirty years ago. There has been a lot of bloodshed in those thirty years. My sister is asking me a question. I come back to the moment as she repeats herself, “Ellie, how long will you need to stay with us?” I turn to look at her. Her mouth is pinched and I see her worry lines deepen. “I hope not very long. I need to find work, and hopefully sell some of my pieces.” I reply. I used to make jewelry. My customers were mainly those who passed through Indian Territory in Tahlequah, many of them from back East or men mining for gold farther west, sending trinkets home to their wives and daughters and mothers. The German and English women were particularly fond of my work. I sold many pieces to them. I brought my supplies, hoping I could begin to sell some of it here as well. “There are not a lot of people interested in our old ways, Ellie. Unfortunately, our way of life here is much like the white’s. We live as they live.” My sister said, apologetically. I knew this. Unfortunately, it was becoming this way in Indian Territory as well. Our traditions became more and more watered down as the years pressed on. It made me sad, but many of my people did not seem as bothered by it. They adapted and moved on I suppose. We winded our way through the valley in between the two high mountains I often gazed upon as a child. We worked our way up the side of the ridge which once was my home. William spoke up. “I have a friend who is willing to let you sell some of your work out of his store. His name is Jim. He said he does not expect anything from you other than your help to keep his store clean and to help with the customers when he has to be away.” I nodded to him and said thank you. All I knew used to be here. Now, all I knew was back there, out west, in a land which was once so strange to me but now which called me, made me yearn for its familiar rolling prairie and scrub oaks, maples and elms. My first husband is buried near our daughter there. We were only married a couple of years. He was killed when he was passing through the western part of the territory and came across a band of Osage. The Osage were known to be two-faced. One minute they were your best friend, the next they stole from you, sometimes your life. My brother travelled there to retrieve his body for me. Though Harold was often drunk and he chased other women, he was the father of my child. I put them together so their spirits could find one another, so he could watch over her for me. He and his family told everyone how savage I was, to divorce a white man in such a place and time. I did not care. My second husband, Gideon, still lives near our son and daughter near Tahlequah. Though he is white, he has honored my children’s Cherokee heritage. Again, I was branded a tainted woman when I divorced him after only a few years of marriage. He granted the divorce only because he knew how miserable I was, but he did not have to. To this day I believe he did that because he loved me that much. This also makes me sad, because I could not love him in the same way. William, Sara and I arrive at their cabin and I get my things settled in the extra room. We are all exhausted, so we say goodnight to retire and get some rest. The next morning, I wake to the smell of bacon frying and strong coffee. My sister is in her kitchen, preparing a feast. “We have cold buttermilk if you would like some, Ellie.” My sister says. I cringe, and shake my head, saying, “No thank you.” Trying to be gracious and polite, I realize the days of this living arrangement are numbered. I must find my own way. Despite the unknown, and how frightening that is, I am not afraid. I am anxious to have my own life, back in the home I was torn away from by my family and by the white government which stole our land and our lives. I am ready to take care of myself. For so long I took care of others. My mother, father, brother, husbands and children. They all took greedily. I gave until I had nothing left to give and then one day took a train to Kansas City, MO, carrying all I had in two bags, and began my journey back here. I clear my throat and ask William if I could have a ride to the store his friend owns, to talk to him. “Of course, Ellie. I was going to ask if you’d like to go over there this morning. Wasn’t sure if you felt up to it yet, though.” He replies kindly. I smile and nod, “Yes, I would like to go. Thank you.” Then I excuse myself and go to my room for a bit. I gather some of my jewelry pieces so I can show them to the proprietor of the general store. I am nervous. This place which used to be the only home I knew, the home of my clan, was so different. The familiar faces were mostly gone. As I prepare a small leather bag of my wares, I brush my hand across a photo of my children and me. It is black and white, faded and cracked. The glass frame is thick and chipped in some places. I look at the faces of my children and I miss them. They were all I had left. Now, I am all I have. We ride out in the wagon and up the mill road, and come to a clearing where there are four buildings. A post office, a livery stable, the general store and a restaurant. I am amazed. This place used to be nothing but the meeting place for our clan council, with a thatched roof council house. That structure is gone and replaced by the makings of a small town. The general store is situated at the far edge of the clearing. I walk beside William and observe some of the people coming in and out of the other buildings. They are all watching me. Several of the men stare and make me uncomfortable. I have my hair in braids and I am wearing a traditional ribbon shirt and skirt. Everyone else is wearing more contemporary, white man clothing. We enter the store and I am suddenly assaulted by the smells of leather, ammunition, flour, and cinnamon. I see a row of jars filled with a beautifully colored, waxy substance and recognize them as candles. I am mesmerized by them. Suddenly, I sense a presence to my left and I turn to see a man standing there. He is smiling kindly, and he looks at me gently with dark blue eyes. “Can I help you, miss?” I smile in return and shake my head. I turn back to look at the pretty candles, and he says, “I’ve never seen you here before. Are you Sara’s sister?” I turn to him, astonished, and nod yes to his question. He laughs and introduces himself, “I’m Jim. I own this store. William and Sara have told me all about you. Welcome home.” “I’m Ellie, pleased to meet you.” I whisper in return. William is near the door talking to an older man. I decided that I need not wait for any formal introductions. “I have some of my jewelry to show you, if you like.” Jim smiled and made a sweeping motion towards the large counter and I placed my bag upon it and began to dig out my wares for his inspection. Much of my work is traditional. I use a lot of beads, and some bone and deer hide. Jim inspects the pieces I have placed before him: A bear claw necklace, some beaded ear bobs, several necklaces and hair clips. One in particular seems to catch his eye. It is a leather string with a flint arrowhead, a necklace many of my male customers have often appreciated. Jim picks it up and holds it in his hand, caressing the piece of flint, and looks over at me. “Can you make more of these?” he asks. “Of course. I can make many more items.” I answered. Jim smiles at me again. I look at him and then look away, feeling a little shy. He chuckles and then says, “Ellie, you are a beautiful woman and you make beautiful jewelry. Can you start tomorrow morning? Please say yes.” “Yes, I say, breathless.” I am annoyed with myself. I did not expect to come here and meet a man who made my heart beat and my breath leave my body. All I wanted was to come back to my old home place and have some peace and quiet, something I had not had a lot of since the day we were made to leave and go west. Men always complicate things. I did not want my life to be complicated anymore. William comes over and chats a bit with Jim and I excuse myself, gather my work, and walk outside to wait for my brother-in-law to take me home. The next morning I rise early and make breakfast for Sara and William. I make my Fry Bread and fry sausage and potatoes. The coffee percolates as I get a rhythm going in the kitchen. I hum a song which reminds me of my mother. I can see her hanging clothes, tanning hides, and bent over a fire as she would sing the song. The last time I heard her sing it was on the river in Waterloo, the morning before we left on the big boat to take us to Indian Territory. I was sixteen. I remember we were all so sad. My little brother and best friend had died on the trip to Waterloo from home. I found my little brother’s rattle in the dirt next to the campfire and handed it to Mama, and she began to sing the Morning Song. Her singing stopped the minute we boarded the boat and she never sang again, until she died nine years later. Sara comes into the kitchen and observes my progress. She is smiling. She takes a cup and pours some very hot coffee and sits at the table to watch me. I am kneading the dough for the bread. It is a delicate process. You cannot knead it too much or too little or it will not be right. Many have said my Fry Bread cannot be beat. “You look like Papa, you know.” Sara says, with a faint sigh. I look up at her long enough to meet her eye. She looks as though she is lost in time somewhere. Her eyes search the past. She looks over and sees me watching her. We smile knowingly and look away. “I’m going to take some of my jewelry and other items to the store today. Jim said I could sell them there. I think it is a good thing.” I say, as I put the bread in hot oil in the cast iron skillet. “You make beautiful things, Ellie. You will be just fine.” She says encouragingly. William joins us and we all eat a hearty breakfast. I look out the window and see a light frost on the panes of glass and the small branches of the trees. I think how hard it will be to leave this warm kitchen to go out into that cold, but I am determined. I excuse myself and get dressed and gather my things. All three of us travel together. My sister needs to do some shopping and William has to have work done at the livery stable. We pull up in front of Jim’s store. I get down from the wagon and reach for my bag, only to be startled by a large hand which gently takes the bag from me. It is Jim. He is smiling, and offering his other hand to me to walk up the short steps to the store front. Despite my astonishment I take his other hand and go inside, allowing him to open the door and carry my things in. I look back as the door closes just in time to see my sister smiling. Jim leads me to the back room where his office is situated and shows me a table and desk he has arranged for me to use. There is ample lighting. He has several large windows in the store, and the back room is full of morning light and air. He pulls out my chair and motions for me to sit down. I sit and look at him expectantly. “Welcome to my modest home, Ellie.” He says with a flourish of his left hand and arm, as he surveys the store. He chuckles at the perplexed look on my face. “I live upstairs, too. It saves a lot of time and money. Not a bad way to go.” I nod silently and look around. There are shelves of overstock all along the south wall of the back room. On the west wall there are pictures of horses, many horses. Paints, mustangs, walking horses, roans and black thoroughbreds. I also see paintings of horses. Jim watches me as I look at the pictures. “My daughter loves horses. Most of those are horses we owned as she was growing up. She painted the pictures.” He is smiling, still. “How old is your daughter? She is very talented! Does she ever sell her work?” I ask. Jim looks at me and then at the pictures again. “She is nearly thirty. She does sell her work, right here in the store. She is travelling with her husband right now. They took a trip to Atlanta. You will meet her when they return.” Jim then gets up to bring a framed picture of a lovely young woman from his desk. She has blonde hair and blue eyes and is very beautiful. I look at the picture and smile. He says, “That’s my baby girl, there. Her name is Winifred. We all call her Winnie.” “She’s very pretty,” I say. “She must take after your wife.” Jim nods and says, “Yes, she does. But her mother left when Winnie was only two years old. I raised her on my own, right over that mountain there. We moved here when she was nearly twelve. Your brother-in-law helped me get my store built and we been here ever since. I like it. It’s quiet, and nobody bothers anyone.” I look down at my hands. I know why he likes it here. The same reason I have missed this place for thirty years, and why I did not want to leave in the first place. The trees are tall and soft and calm. We have beds and beds of pine needles as our floor. The stream is full of good fish and the woods are full of deer, rabbit, squirrel, bear and turkey. How could anyone not like it here? It is the perfect place. “I missed my home.” I say. I cannot utter anymore words. These take my breath and I am suddenly embarrassed. I get up and begin to arrange things in my area. I take out my wares and begin to organize them according to type and size. I take out my supplies and set them up on the table where I will be working. Jim watches me in silence for a few moments. I hear him clear his throat. “Well, I’ll be in the front of the store if you need anything. If you need any supplies let me know. We have a lot, but if there is something you need we don’t have, we can order them. I’m sure you’re glad to be home, Ellie. I’m glad you’re here, too.” He smiles and leaves the room. Over the next several weeks I work feverishly to make enough pieces to sell, and we sold a lot. Jim was an excellent salesman, and he was well-liked by all of the town folk and customers. He put everyone at ease with his quiet and unassuming manner. I watched him closely every day, noticing that even when his day did not go as well as he liked, he still offered a smile to his customers and to me. I began to relax just a bit and get into my stride. After two months, I had enough money saved I could buy a little piece of property to build a cabin on at the edge of town. I had bought a horse and buggy, some kitchen supplies, and variable household items. Most of my things were stored in the very back room of Jim’s store. He kindly offered to let me keep it there until I moved from my sister’s. ~~~~~~~ 1870 We began to see a break in the cold weather around the middle of March. There was more traffic coming near our little community, too. Jim said it was the logger and miner traffic. Many of the men who worked here during this time of year lived as far away as Georgia and Alabama. On the last weekend of May, my sister, William and Jim helped me move into my little cabin. It was two modest rooms with a small loft overhead. William and Jim and their friends Billy Jenkins and Bo Brown only took two weeks to put my cabin up and get my stove and bed and table inside. Sara helped me to make curtains, sheets, quilts and blankets, as well as some throw rugs. It was a perfect little place for me. I travelled to some nearby larger towns to sell some of my jewelry and art. Jim always insisted on taking me. He said it wasn’t safe for a woman to be alone on the roads, especially in the country. We went to Jasper and Dunlap, and sometimes we travelled to Chattanooga. We stayed in hotels or in our tents. My sister was not happy with our travels. She said it did not look proper, an unmarried man and woman travelling together. I listened politely to her concerns, but knowing myself and knowing Jim, I knew her worries were unfounded. One day Jim and I were coming back from Dunlap when he stopped the wagon at a small stream. “Let’s stretch our legs and let the horses drink, Ellie. We might even pitch our tents here tonight. I’m pretty wore out.” I agreed and we took out our bags and set up our tents. I made a campfire and began supper, some beans and Fry Bread. We had coffee and apple fritters for dessert. We sat and watched the fire as it flickered, snapped and popped. The stars overhead were bright, and the moon was three-quarters full. It was nearly September. I heard Jim clear his throat and then speak. His voice was strong, kind and his words were deliberate. “Ellie, I hope you don’t mind me asking, especially right now, but I was wondering if I could call on you sometime? All these months we have worked together, I have enjoyed your company and getting to know you. I would like to know you better.” I looked across the fire at him. Truth be told, I had been studying Jim for a while. He was a steady, kind and caring man. When Winnie came home with her husband, I watched him in the role of father, and I could think of no one who had been better at this than my own Papa. He was helpful to everyone, but he was firm, too. He didn’t take any disrespect of his family, friends, his store, or of me. If you wanted to make a fool of yourself and be rude, he showed you the door. He occasionally took a drink or two of shine or whisky, smoked a pipe, and told some very good stories. He was also handsome, for a white man. He had no hair on his head, which was fine with me, and his beard was salt and pepper. I liked him a lot. Jim looked dead in my eyes as I pondered his proposal. He waited patiently for me to answer. I finally spoke up and said, “I would like that.” We both smiled and then began to put things away and snuff the fire for the night. We retired to our separate tents. The next day we took our time returning home. We stopped to fish, walk along the trails, and tell stories. We held hands. Jim courted me for about three months. We had dinner several times at my sister’s. Jim and William told lots of stories of their days in the war, of old friends who had been killed, of their adventures as boys and finding work in the mines as men. Sara would often catch me watching Jim as he talked. I would see her smile many times. On Christmas Eve, all of us gathered at William’s and Sara’s for a feast of ham, turkey, pumpkin and pecan pies, and hot chocolate. We exchanged gifts. William and Sara gave me a beautiful china set, ordered from England, they said. It had small blue flowers and gold etching. I gave Sara a new loom and William a new pipe I had carved. Jim was fidgeting a bit as he fished in his pocket. He pulled out a small box, wrapped in cornflower blue paper. He sat forward in his chair, looking down at it in his large hands, and began to speak. “Ellie, I have something to ask you. Now, I know you came back home with plans to be your own woman, and I respect that. But I think we get on real good and I appreciate the fact that you can think for yourself. My question is, would you like to be my wife, too?” As he asked this, he handed the small package to me. I froze. I did not expect this. I stared at the box for what seemed like an eternity, and then I looked up into Jim’s eyes. I could see he was nervous, but he was smiling his kind smile and waiting for me to find my words. It seemed as if the air had been sucked out of the room, along with my voice. My sister was watching me like a hawk. I looked over at her and she was on the edge of her seat. William was beside her, looking at an indiscernible spot on the ceiling, his pipe in his mouth, smoking away. I looked back at Jim and he shifted in his chair, but kept his eyes on me. I slowly reached for the box. “Well, Jim. I am astonished. I suppose I didn’t expect this, but now that you ask, I think it’s a fine idea. Yes, I will marry you.” Before I could even finish my last sentence, Jim had jumped up from his chair and grabbed me, taking me in his arms. He gestured for me to open the package. I ripped the pretty paper off and he took the box, opening it to reveal a beautiful sterling silver ring, with tiny daisies etched into it. He took the ring and put it on my finger, then kissed my hand. My sister began to cry and William shook Jim’s hand. We all celebrated with some corn whisky and coffee. The next day, Jim and I hitched up the wagon and went to the courthouse in Jasper. Sara and William went with us. We stood before the harried judge, who was cajoled into marrying us on Christmas morning with several jugs of William’s shine and $100 worth of merchandise at Jim’s store. His wife was not very happy about it, but he seemed to approve of the deal he made. As we said our vows, I looked into the eyes of this man and thought about how strange life can be. It took so many years, a lot of heartache, and a determination to be my own woman back in my own home to finally find my place. I married Jim Pack that cold, Christmas Day in December. My best friend, protector and encourager, from the first day I returned home he believed in me and respected me. I knew I would love him all my days. We rode home in the wagon. The mid-morning sun was warm despite the cool wind. I sat next to my husband, my soul mate, and held onto his arm. He whistled a tune, a haunting one, and I recognized it as the Morning Song. “Jim, how do you know that song?” I asked, in disbelief. “My dear wife, don’t you know? My late mother was Cherokee. She sang the Morning Song every day. I sure wish she could have sung it for us as we tied the knot. It’s always been a pretty song at weddings.” He answered, with a twinkle in his blue eyes. I stared at him, and then a smile found its way across my face. I scooted closer to him and held his arm even tighter, and I began to sing. “Wen day ya ho, wen day ya ho, wen day ya, wen day ya, oh oh oh oh ay oh ay oh, ya, ya, ya!” My husband and I sang together as we rode home through the valley, up the ridge, between the two tall mountains, all the way home to our little cabin and store. Kim Bailey October 7, 2013
Posted on: Tue, 08 Oct 2013 03:07:07 +0000
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