Geronimo

Once upon a time it was 1970 something and the radio was playing in my mothers kitchen. The song was about Geronimo riding in a Cadillac and I was young enough to not quite get it although I really liked the song. My Dad was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a Budweiser and checking his lottery tickets. I asked him what it was about. I had never heard of Geronimo’s Cadillac and didn’t understand the song. He replied it was one of the ways the government tried to dehumanized Indians by allowing cars to be named after their people or their tribes. He said the car companies would never think to name a car after an English King or any other ethnic group. You could never call a jeep a Grand Jew or a mustang after Mussolini.

Fast forward to 1990 something and I’m watching a late night talk show and an American Indian musician is playing the flute. The music was a beautiful enchantment and I watched not wanting the song to end. He then sat down for a brief interview and the enchantment continued. He was engaging, interesting and just had a way about him that was infinitely cool.

The next morning I remembered the whole scene……….. except for his name. Whenever I found myself in a record store I would ask for help, not able to offer too many details other than he was Indian and he played flute. An obliging employee would walk me over to the World Music section and hand me a CD of R. Carlos Nakai. While I can appreciate Nakai’s music and I have seen him live, for me it doesn’t hold a candle to the man I heard playing the traditional wood flute that late night.

His music remained in my heart and I never stopped looking. One day in the World Music section I saw a CD by Bill Miller. I was convinced he wasn’t the musician I remembered because he primarily played guitar on this CD but the last song was Geronimo’s Cadillac so I decided to buy it anyway. For some reason that early interaction with my Dad regarding the lyrics remained etched in my mind. Four of my Dad’s step brothers were raised on the St. Regis Indian Reservation in Canada so my Dad had insight to the American History that the teachers in school never taught. I learned those stories at home instead.

Anyway, I had found him! The CD was Reservation Road. Part of it was live and all of it was wonderful. I became a repeat offender catching his shows at Music at the Mansion, The Towne Crier, Bergen Community College and Cabin Concerts in Wayne. That was my favorite show because he asked if anyone had a request. Several people called out songs and I was the last to summon up the courage to ask for Geronimo’s Cadillac. He looked up from where he sat and asked, “Who said that?” I was so shy. I tried to blend into the wall and whispered “me” at the same time. One month from today however this wall flower will be ever so pleased to present Mr. Bill Miller at Mexicali Live in Teaneck. It will be a great honor for me. It is his first area show since winning his THIRD GRAMMY. And so the enchantment continues. Can you hear my smile?

Follow the Red Brick Walk

The Freedom Trail begins in Boston Common and is a self-guided tour that meanders for several miles through Boston’s historic neighborhoods. I’m familiar with it having followed the red brick walkway several times since I was in my teens. Last November I walked the trail for the first time with Steven, my youngest. My husband and son Eric were visiting Berklee College of Music. Steven and I were free to explore the city. It was his first time seeing the historically significant places in Boston. We began at the beginning, just like the yellow brick road, except we picked up a map full of “points of interest” at the tourist kiosk in the Common. (I don’t remember Dorothy finding a tourist kiosk in Oz.)…… We walked by historic buildings and churches, entered ancient graveyards (at out own risk) and visited Paul Reveres house in the North End. We learned when Mr. Revere bought the house it was already 100 years old. Two hundred forty years later it is surrounded by Boston’s Italian neighborhood and it is a couple of blocks away from the Old North Church. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow immortalized Paul Revere and the Old North Church with his poem of “Paul Revere’s Ride”. Also, the oldest bells in North America are at the Old North Church. They are rung every Saturday morning. We left the Historic Revere House and continued to follow the red brick walkway toward the church. The approach is through a rear courtyard to the front entrance. It is a brick lined, park like area with an enormous statue of Paul Revere on his horse. We had been on the Freedom Trail for four hours and my expectation was to quickly tour the church with Steven and end the trail there. We walked quickly because the sun was beginning to set and the wind had begun to grow stronger. As we walked a few people looking at something near the garden caught my eye. Curious, I automatically went toward them and that was when I first heard the sound. It was kind if a jangle and I didn’t recognize it. I was also unsure of what I was approaching. The small group there was quiet. After a moment they stepped aside and I read the sign that stated simply it was a Memorial to each of the fallen soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. Every dog tag represented someone who had lost his or her life in these wars. The dog tags chimed and as they did I realized that the same breeze moving the dog tags and caressing my face my have been the same breeze that was in Iraq or Afghanistan on the day when these soldiers spirits moved on. The same sun that touched upon them blessing them with a new day was now setting and softly illuminating their memory with a hazy glow. The same moon now rising shares the secret of the pain of those who loose loved ones.

Standing in front of the memorial was the most profound moment of 2009 for me. Reflecting on the constant chiming of the dog tags in the shadow of the church that held the oldest bells in North America gave me chills. Let freedom ring. “America”, was first sung at another of Boston church, on the steps of the Park Street Church, across from the Common where we had started. I had learned that earlier in the day when I read about it on the map. The Freedom Trail that I had walked several times before this time walked me to a place unknown in my heart. I didn’t notice a destination of the heart on the tourist map or the change in the pattern on the walk way or how it got me there. I did however recognize how heart wrenching and poignant this memorial was and I was aware I wasn’t in Kansas anymore…

Code Talkers

Last week the telephone rang jarring me out of a daydream. I reached for it with reluctance until….my eye caught the area code that had appeared on the caller id. 605. A happy rush flooded me as I was greeted with “Hello”. Cheryl Between Lodges was calling to shoot the breeze from Pine Ridge, South Dakota. Pine Ridge is the heartbeat of the Oglala Indians of the Lakota Nation. The reservation is in Shannon County, the poorest in the United States. Due to some crafty politicking it is not identified as such with the census because Independent Indian Nations are not included in the census statistics. The photo on the left was taken by Hector Emanuel. More of his work can be seen at www.still-standing.com. Recently photographer Aaron Huey visited and the link on the right will bring you to his photo essay. Please visit these sites to learn what teachers never taught you in school. Anyway, I have never met Cheryl however I consider her a highlight in my life and believe we became friends through an unseen code of the universe.

In the early winter of 1997 I was in Barnes and Noble with my kids so they could spend their Christmas gift cards. Through a miscellany of means, actually Russell Means, I bent down to tie my youngest child’s shoe and when I looked up on the shelf was a book entitled “Where White Men Fear to Tread”. I remembered news reports of the author Russell Means. Back in the day, before TV was censored, the Vietnam War raged daily, protests shed light on “everyday” peoples perspective and Wounded Knee unfolded on the TV screen in my mothers kitchen. The book ignited my desire to filter through my childhood memories and to hear his story. The book captivated me and I was unable to put it down. I finished it a week later feeling angry and lost. I needed to hear more stories. I went through the “Mom motions” at home but my thoughts wandered to Pine Ridge wondering constantly what it was like. On the third day after I finished the book, just as the sun was setting, my phone rang. It was before caller id. I picked it up and a woman identified herself as Violet Means. She was calling from the Native American Heritage Association looking for money to help with their fuel drive to heat the homes of elders. I was stunned and said yes to everything she asked. She seemed stunned that I was so agreeable. The next day I sent a check for $25 to NAHA. Several months later South Dakota called again. This time I asked how they got my number and was told they have a list that they call seeking donations. To this day I have no idea how I got on the list. I had asked my Ramsey friends and none of them were ever called. Also, I had paid for the book with the gift card so there was no way to track it….

“Mean” while I began to look on line and found a woman seeking toy donations for the Head Start Program in Pine Ridge. I had many things to send having four children and working in an area preschool. I sent along boxes and from then on did so almost obsessively. Cheryl left Head Start but fosters 3 boys slightly younger than my own so I have sent new and gently used books, toys, clothes and food for about 13 years now. She calls me from time to time and we share stories of family, work and life. I feel so lucky to be able to send things and fortunate to share the code of friendship with her.

To me, area code 605 is synonymous with the Universe sharing its very own code of Love. It’s another story of serendipitous magick that can reach anywhere and tie together heartstrings, not shoe strings. And now I have to go, I hear the phone ringing…It may be area code 605. Can you hear me smile?