Desert Dreams

By Mary Elizabeth Burgess

Willy falls in love with Native life first through an Elderhostel program, teaching Najavos how to read and write. Reluctantly, she returns home to visit her three children, Dusty, Stephanie, and Mike. Her pastor informs her of the need for teachers with a different tribe. There she meets Jim and Alice, pastor and nurse, supportive and jolly, workhorses like herself. Her grandson Kelly arrives to paint several Indians'portraits which eventually sell well enough for him to open his own gallery.

When Navajo men and women leave to help fight forest fires, perhaps it is foreordained that some of them will sacrifice their lives. Though he doesn't die, Billy, son of Miriam Whitehawk who has already lost Blossoming Dove to an epidemic, is helped through painful burn treatments by Tess, a young Teach for America black woman, whom he soon marries.

Willy consoles Jim when Alice is killed in a snowstorm driving tiny Little Moon to a hospital for delivery of her baby.Natives cheering them on, especially Navajo Joe, Willy and Jim marry. They answer a call from their synod to go to the Cherokees in North Carolina, then the Shoshones in Wyoming where Red Thunder aims to call tribal Nations together to heal Mother Earth, as he had previously done in Colorado at a convocation.

Willy's expertise as a writer and public relations speaker helps Red Thunder and his wife, Shelly of the Light, call a convocation of many Nations at Ringing Rock in Pennsylvania. Reluctantly, Red Thunder agrees to hold the convocation on Independence Day in spite of the fact that "We're not independent" because that date will draw larger crowds. Staying with Willy and Jim, Red Thunder and Shelly are drawn to fireworks at the town's football field that evening. After many months of no rain, on the way home, a shower cools them. "Thank you Great Eagle, Jesus, Buddha, and Mary,"Red Thunder exalts. Indeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496905253

Mary Elizabeth Burgess

A retired reading and learning specialist, Mary Elizabeth Burgess has authored a study skills manual, a children’s book, Victoria, and Once Upon a Time...Two, Poems and Tales of her two sons, Scott and Tom. Also numerous articles have been published in The Lutheran and educational journals. She won poetry prizes in 2009 and 2011 for “Grocer’s Picnic, 1959" and “Grand Canyon Sunrise.” Her short story, “The Flowerbed,” won the WITF contest in January, 2013.

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© 2014 Mary Elizabeth Burgess. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   04/23/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0526-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0525-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014907072

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CONTENTS

RESERVATIONS

BOOK 2

SACRIFICE

BOOK 3

AMONG THE CHEROKEES AND SHOSHONES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

RESERVATIONS

1.

When the Elderhostel bulletin arrived, I quickly scanned it to see what service programs they offered this time. I seriously considered the one to Poland a year ago, just after Kell died, to teach English. However, my back and sleep problems kicked up taking care of him and in the months afterward.

Accommodations were described as spartan. I knew what that meant. Some E.H.’s Kell and I did before seniors demanded better housing were, shall we say, less than desirable. So reluctantly I decided not to go. I don’t mind using the bathroom and shower down the hall with fifteen others, but I do need a good bed.

The expense was considerable. You paid your own transportation costs, naturally, but the fee for a service program was about three times the normal E.H. fee. Partly this was due to the program lasting three weeks, and part of the fee went toward charitable causes in the area served.

Several new service programs caught my eye. They all involved Indian reservations. I eliminated two because they involved medical skills. I settled on a Navajo program needing teachers of English.

Here too transportation was formidable. The brochure described needing a car to get to and from the airport in Phoenix, a trip of about 150 miles through desert and mountains. I would hope that could be arranged at the airport.

Spartan was used to describe accommodations again.

Yet something compelled me to make further inquiry.

Maybe it was the story in our reader at school about the Indian girl who saw her first white man at the Bureau of Indian Affairs and had to ask her mother who he was. He’s white man, her mother answered. He drive us from the land.

Kell had watched enough John Wayne movies for me to realize how the Indians were denigrated in old Westerns. I knew the history of buffalo being all but wiped out so the Indians’ livelihood would be destroyed, thus making it easier for the white man to seize ancestral lands.

Indians were, mostly, until Dancing with Wolves, treated in film and other media as war-like and avenging. This, I learned, in pursuing the subject, was not true, except when they were threatened, and except for the Apaches who were the most bellicose of the tribes.

My curiosity was aroused. Perhaps my sympathy factor as well. Could I help atone for the grave injustice done to the Indians? Seemingly it was still being done. I wanted to see for myself.

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The lady at Avis was most helpful. It is a remote area, she agreed. But I’ll reserve a car that can handle the heat of the desert and cold of the mountains. I’ll make sure the radiator is checked out carefully before you get it.

I packed lightly, as usual, a backpack and small roll-on case. I don’t sweat so I can wear clothing longer than the average person. Mostly in the roll-on I packed paper, pens, pencils, crayons, and other writing and drawing tools.

My seat-mate was quiet most of the trip, at least the one from Kansas City to Phoenix, so I caught some shut-eye. We landed at 1:30 p.m., Mountain Time.

The car was not ready. I waited and I waited. Finally the desk clerk said, We can’t guarantee what we have for the desert.

I explained when I made the reservation I was assured the radiator and hoses would be carefully checked before my arrival.

Well, I’m sorry, the clerk said. Our mechanic didn’t get in today. These Indians, she said, you never can trust them.

What do you suggest I do? Will a car be available tomorrow?

She snapped her gum. Who knows? You could try the Hertz desk.

Hertz was more helpful, especially when I told them what Avis had just done.

I have just the car for you, the young man said. Radiator brand new. They burn out pretty fast out here. But you’ll be fine.

Does it have GPS? I asked.

You’d have to have made a special request for that, he said. Days ahead of time. They go pretty fast.

I had a good map and E.H. directions and spread them on the passenger seat. I was on my way after grabbing several bottles of Evian.

The views from the air had been amazing. Now, close-up, they were spectacular. At that time of day, a haze rose ahead, the mirage often described as leading to water. The farther I drove, the more color emerged. Green of the cacti, some in bloom with pink and yellow flowers. Yellow, white, and brown of the desert floor. Cumulus clouds dotting an azure sky.

I’d made about forty miles when I first sensed trouble. The engine seemed to be missing. I heard about sand in the engine, although the nice Hertz clerk made sure I had a bib on the front to discourage that problem. I looked at the temperature gauge. Holy cow! The needle was as far to H as it could go.

But I had a new radiator. How could that be? I stopped and turned the engine off. I know you’re supposed to wait a while for things to cool down, but how can that happen in what must be a 100+ temp?

I looked at my watch. Three p.m., the hottest part of the day. I put the hood up and saw some steam escaping just under the radiator cap. I waited a half-hour before trying to remove it.

It was still burning hot, so I grabbed a shirt from my luggage, folded it into a mitt and slowly turned the cap. It burst itself off with the last turn, as a cloud of steam erupted.

Luckily the mitt had protected my hand, so I didn’t get burned. Foolishly, except for hand cream I carry in my purse, I had brought no first aid supplies. I was an English teacher, not a nurse.

The water in the radiator was definitely low. I sacrificed two bottles of Evian, which by now were warm also, to bring the level up to the line.

Before too long, it would be cooler I knew. I was on my way once again.

2.

The radiator sputtered and steamed two more times before it grew dark. I entertained myself with some reading matter I’d brought along, mostly about Indians.

One article I found most intriguing was about early Algonquins. An artist painted a chief wearing a large copper pendant, signaling that precious metal was to be found in the New World. Scholars believed this may have been Wingina, King of Roanoke. He was beheaded because an English commander saw him as a threat—the chief certainly would have appreciated the English settlers’ demands on his village’s food supplies.

The artist portrayed him sympathetically, pleasant, amused even. The Algonquins there were eventually decimated by invisible bullets, white men’s diseases. The English died off also, but someone found a doll in Elizabethan costume in an Algonquin girl’s arms.

The artist also depicted the Indians’ ceremonies. A puma tail hung from one chief’s apron and a pouch of tobacco and herbs from a medicine man’s. He also showed how women carried their babies and how the men fished.

I wondered if the Navajos would still have similar rites and traditions. What I had studied heretofore revealed not much difference.

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It was time to move on, before night fell completely. I didn’t relish the idea of being out in the desert alone at midnight. I still had at least fifty miles to go.

After awhile, I looked at my watch (the car clock wasn’t working) and noted it was only 8:10. Yet it was quite dark. Then I realized my headlights weren’t working. This was impossible. I couldn’t continue without lights.

I fiddled with the switch, even got out and jiggled the glass lamps. I had no idea how to remove the shield to see if they were loose, but it wasn’t likely that was the problem since both had gone at once.

I climbed back in. The interior lights worked, so it wasn’t the battery. More likely a loose wire somewhere. I continued to read, but my neck got tired, so I locked the doors and climbed in the back seat. I lay on my back, my knees bent, trying to read, but the light wasn’t very bright for the small print of my paperback. Besides, I didn’t want to run the battery down.

I pulled some clothing from my luggage to cover with. Desert nights can be incredibly cold, and it felt like the A\C system was still working although I knew it couldn’t be.

I heard noises, noises of the wild. Owls, hisses of snakes. I even imagined I heard the wings of a bat beating against the car.

I sat up and looked out the back window then the side windows. The sky was blazing with stars, incredibly bright. There was no moon.

My plan was to stay put till dawn, then get on my way. If no other problems developed, I’d make the reservation by ten or so, a day after I was expected.

The gods were with me. The car started fine in the morning, and the radiator held out till just before I pulled onto a single lane dirt road described in the directions beside me.

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I pulled up beside a circular concrete building. It reminded me of a tepee, but I saw no smoke coming from a hole in the top, so I guess it was just an evocation of a past time.

I stretched my legs and arms, reaching up to the sky. Another azure day.

A tiny woman with hair whiter than mine framing her face, came down the steps of the building.

You’re Wilhelmina, aren’t you? she said, extending her hand.

I am, I said, reciprocating the gesture. Wilhelmina Keller. I had some trouble in the desert, I explained.

Nothing unusual about that. Car trouble?

Yes, it’s a long story.

Then you must be tired.

I caught some sleep on the back seat last night.

You slept in your car?

I locked the doors.

Umm, she said. Here, let me help you with your luggage.

She lifted the roll-on from the trunk as I adjusted the backpack over my shoulder.

You’re travelin’ light, she observed.

I don’t sweat, I explained. I don’t need much.

Lucky you, she said, a tinge of a smile in her voice. This can be a tough place, tough enough to make you sweat. Look at me already.

I wondered did she mean tough as in heat, or tough as in people.

3.

Call me Willy, by the way, I said as Clara led the way through a medium-sized room with a fireplace at one end.

And I’m Clara, she said. From Harrisburg.

No kidding, I said. I’m from Columbia.

I saw that on the info Elderhostel sent. Columbia, Maryland.

No, I corrected, Columbia, Pennsylvania.

Another river town! she said. Do you fish?

No, never had much luck. Do you?

In my day I was known as quite the angler.

She looked to me as though she still had a lot of good days left in her. Her step was sprightly, her eyes bright. She had a slight tan. I had to know if she was a widow too, but didn’t want to ask at that point.

What’s your job here?

She gave a chuckle. I’m the medical team, she said, and the cook. And whatever is needed.

Are you staff?

Heavens, no, I’m a volunteer just like you. Only I came with a program at Polyclinic and I stayed.

I wondered how she survived with no income for what may have been a long time.

Lunch is at twelve, if that’s okay, she said.

I’m starving, I said.

Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to ask what you’d eaten today. I hope you like Spam.

I had trail mix bars. But my water I had to put into the radiator yesterday.

Water’s a problem, she said. The West is drying up, and the government doesn’t know what to do about it. You’ve probably read about water rights up country.

Yes, though not much, I admitted.

Well, I ration myself. Do what you want, she said. It has to last a week before the truck comes.

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The room I would share with Clara had a curved window set into the outer wall and two cots on each side of it. A small bureau sat between them. She had pulled out the two top drawers to show they were for me. A few things hung crookedly on hangers and others were tossed onto Clara’s cot. I’m a very organized person, as a rule, so I thought this would bear some getting used to.

I saw several blankets, Indian blankets, folded and neatly stacked on the foot of our cots as well as on a shelf above the door. Towels rested on top of them.

I put the teaching materials in the second drawer with some underthings on top. My extra jeans, two pair of shorts, and shirts I placed in the top drawer.

By this time my stomach was rumbling, and I smelled Spam frying, so I headed back to Clara. I found her in a kitchenette opposite our bedroom.

Can I help?

No, ma’am. I’m just about done. You like carrots?

Love ’em, I answered.

Good thing. It’s about all we can get in town anymore. The Navajos grow them in the spring and fall, but it’s too hot in the summer.

Are you a bread eater? Clara asked.

Hardly ever, I said.

Good thing. We can never get it at the store, and the Indian women still bake on stones, but it’s not always that clean.

I thought, Looks like I’m going to lose some much-needed weight.

4.

While we ate our Spam and carrots at a small table just outside the kitchenette, Clara spoke of her work. The people come here for medical attention, she said. You can see we don’t have much.

I noted three cots on the other side of the room. A glass-fronted cabinet stood nearby with bottles visible inside. A blood pressure cuff and stethoscope lay on top.

I sit here with them, she said, indicating the room we were in, and sometimes offer coffee to make them comfortable, although I usually wait till I’ve heard their story.

Are there a lot of children? I ask.

Mostly children come for medical needs, she said. Coughs, fevers, spitting up. Belly aches and earaches are the most common. Measles and chicken pox occasionally. Once one gets it, the whole tribe comes down.

Aren’t they inoculated?

She snorted. We’re lucky we get antibiotics. Penicillin and amoxycillin we have plenty of. No aspirin, just antibiotics.

Who runs this place? I asked. I mean who’s over you?

Well, the B.I.A. is supposed to be in charge. That’s the trouble—they do next to nothing. I send a requisition, and usually I don’t even get an answer.

What about phoning?

She snorted again. We have a land line phone when everything’s connected.

No cell phones?

This time she laughed outright.

I mean, I said so earnestly, wouldn’t cell phones be good for everyone to have?

Who’s going to buy ’em, sweet lady? I wish we did have them. Some of these people would love to have more contact with other members of their tribe.

Are they scattered pretty far?

That’s another tactic: divide and conquer.

We finished our last bites. Coffee? she asked.

I’m a tea drinker myself, I answered.

Ought to try a little mesquite tea sometime, she said.

"From the Indians?

Yep. Put you to sleep pretty fast, if you don’t go crazy first.

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He was certainly tall. His black hair was divided into two long braids, and he wore a plaid shirt with blue jeans.

Clara had gone out for a minute to check on something behind the building, possibly a broken water main.

Can I help you, sir? I asked.

He stepped further into the room.

Coffee? I asked. I didn’t know where to begin.

No, thanks, he said. Just information.

I hope I can be of help, I said.

There was a pause.

He said