Growing Up Native American by Bill Adler Read Free Book Online Page A

said.
    Other photos in the album showed our Pawnee relatives. Dad was from another tribe. Momma’s momma was in the album, a tiny gray-haired woman who no longer lived. And Momma’s momma’s Dad was in the album; he wore old Pawnee leggings and the long feathers of a dark bird sat upon his head. I closed the album when Momma, Dad, and Sister came home.
    Momma went into the kitchen to cook. She called me and Sister to help. As she put on a bibbed apron, she said, “We just came from town, and we saw someone from home there.” She meant someone from her tribal community.
    â€œThis man told me that Ralphie’s been drinking hard,” she said sadly. “He used to do that quite a bit a long time ago but we thought that it had stopped. He seemed to be alright for a few years.” We cooked and then ate in silence.
    Washing the dishes, I asked Momma, “How come Uncle Ralph never did marry?”
    Momma looked up at me but was not surprised by my question. She answered, “I don’t know, Sister. It would have been better if he had. There was one woman who I thought he really loved. I think he still does. I think it had something to do with Mom. She wanted him to wait.”
    â€œWait for what?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” Momma said and sank into a chair.
    After that we heard unsettling rumors of Uncle Ralph drinking here and there.
    He finally came to the house once when only I happened to be home. He was haggard and tired. His appearance was much like that of the whiteman that Sister and I met on the railroad tracks years before.
    I opened the door when he tapped on it. Uncle Ralph looked years older than his age. He brought food in his arms. “ Nowa , Sister,” he said in greeting. “Where’s the other one?” He meant Sister.
    â€œShe’s gone now, Uncle Ralph. School in Kansas,” I answered. “Where you been, Uncle Ralph? We been worrying about you.”
    He ignored my question and said, “I bring food. The warrior brings home food. To his family, to his people.” His face was lined and had not been cleaned for days. He smelled of cheap wine.
    I asked again, “Where you been, Uncle Ralph?”
    He forced himself to smile. “Pumpkin Flower,” he said, using the Pawnee name, “I’ve been out with my warriors all this time.”
    He put one arm around me as we went to the kitchen table with the food. “That’s what your Pawnee name is. Now don’t forget it.”
    â€œDid somebody bring you here, Uncle Ralph, or are you on foot?” I asked him.
    â€œI’m on foot,” he answered. “Where’s your Momma?”
    I told him that she and Dad would be back soon, I started to prepare the food he brought.
    Then I heard Uncle Ralph say, “Life is sure hard sometimes. Sometimes it seems I just can’t go on.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Uncle Ralph?” I asked.
    Uncle Ralph let out a bitter little laugh. “What’s wrong?” he repeated. “What’s wrong? All my life, I’ve tried to live what I’ve been taught but, Pumpkin Flower, some things are all wrong!”
    He took a folded pack of Camel cigarettes from his coat pocket. His hand shook as he pulled one from the pack and lit the end. “Too much drink,” he said sadly. “That stuff is bad for us.”
    â€œWhat are you trying to do, Uncle Ralph?” I then asked.
    â€œLive,” he said.
    He puffed on the shaking cigarette awhile and said, “The old people said to live beautifully with prayers and song. Some died for beauty too.”
    â€œHow do we do that, Uncle Ralph, live for beauty?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s simple, Pumpkin Flower,” he said. “Believe!”
    â€œBelieve what?” I asked.
    He looked at me hard. “ Aw-kuh !” he said, “that’s one of the things that is wrong. Everyone questions. Everyone doubts. No one believes