As the Willow Bends

By Teresa Lee

Life is hard enough growing up Odawa in the middle of the twentieth century, but when you are nineteen and discover that what you thought was your life story isn’t, the shock can be devastating.

Tehya reacts as any young adult might, demanding answers to the questions that have haunted her most of her life. She struggles to find her way back to the truth she believed was hers forever.

Beginning with an indigenous people living near what today is called Lake Michigan, this sweeping historical novel celebrates the wisdom of Indian culture while lamenting lost love, injustice, and death.
In addition to Tehya, this is a story of Hands at Work, known by all as Naukee; Faces West, known by all as Lenaya; and other strong Indian women. All of them share a noble heritage with links and ties to ancient warriors, chieftains, healers, treaty signers, and more recent public servants.

It is a story woven with threads of family ancestry, survival, and resilience borne of the willow. The voices speak heart-rending truths about how two races of people came face-to-face, forced to learn how to live together within boundaries – often amid forces beyond their control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Nov 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781973675167

Teresa Lee

Teresa Lee is a Michigan author. She has published three children’s chapter books with settings and storylines directly related to life in the state of Michigan: Boxcar Joe (2012); Leggins (2014); and Black Ice (2016) co-authored with Brian Webster. As the Willow Bends is her first adult novel. She is a former elementary teacher who specialized in reading and written language. She has studied Native American history and culture in America most of her life.

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Copyright © 2019 Teresa Lee.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-9736-7515-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-7516-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019914308

WestBow Press rev. date: 11/06/2019

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Under the Summer Sky

Notes

From the Author

Reflections: A Place to Start

The story of Nenjaunookee

Land of the Crooked Tree

A Trail to Follow

The Storytellers

Days of Odena: The Summer Village

Makwa: Bear Clan

The Feast of the Dead and The Ghost Supper

Stories of The Death Moons

Mi-shoom-si: Grandfathers

Celebrating Tsunawung

And So Comes Petranawa

Odawa Bravery

Era of the Boarding Schools

Noah Lambert: At Your Service

Harbor Point

Naukee: Forty Years Later

The story of Teleathewa

At Home

Spirits Whispering in the Wind

The Healers’ Gift

A Day of Reckoning

Lambert’s Bakery

Virgilene

Walking the Life Trail Together

Unexpected

The Call

A lifeline of Hope

Words that Wound

Shadow of Despair

One Step at a Time

The Story of Leneweaya

A Path of Truth

Pieces of the Puzzle

Wawayawonay (Lily of the Lake)

The Carlisles

Master Marcus

Sparks

The Pageant

The Leaving

Full Circle

More Answers

Homecoming

The Visit

The Story of Ann Reynolds Carlisle

Borne of the Willow

The Genealogy

Petranawa’s Ancestry

Facts: (The Story before the Story)

Bibliography

Dedication

To all people of the Odawa Nation both living and deceased:

The gentle nature and noble spirit of Gitchi Manitou’s woodland children is evident in the generational life walks which history has recorded. Thank you/Meegwatch.

This spirit gift continues to be present in Native hearts

which will forever belong to…

The Anishinaabe People:

The Brothers of the Three Fires;

Odawa/Ottawa

Ojibwe/Chippewa

Pottawatomi/Potawatomi

Acknowledgments

Little Traverse Bay Band of Odawa Indians

Harbor Springs Historical Museum

Harbor Springs Library: Sue Ross, Tanya Graham

Petoskey Library

Blackbird Cultural Museum: Bob and Joyce Shagonaby

Martin and Nancy Breighner

Dick and Stephanie Guyer

Peter Carrington, Ph. D./Edible and Toxic Plant Specialist; Curator; W.J. Beal Botanical Garden, Michigan State University.

Eric Hemenway, LTBBO, Archivist

Audrey Cole Elsesser; Editor

Deborah Mercer; Editor

Cathy Grill; Editor

Caretakers of St. Ignatius Catholic Church

Ahptooeenh, Middle Village/Goodhart

Little Traverse Regional Historical Society, Inc.

Marquette Mission Park and Museum of Ojibway Culture,

St. Ignace, Michigan., 500 North State Street.

Fr. Marquette Burial Site, St. Ignace

Under the Summer Sky

Wigwams on a sandy shore

Nesting near the forest floor

Waves of blue lap the sands,

On which a Native nation stands.

A people gathered heart-to-heart,

Weegwahms rest two scores apart.

Canoeing north with eyes to see

Wa-ga-na-kising…The Crooked Tree.

High above the bluff it stands,

A sign, a place, of Indian Land.

Under boughs of cone hung fir,

Humble people of native birth,

Stir in beds of animal skins

As softly another day begins.

Bands here gathered from far and near,

Hold sacred rites from year to year.

Stories told by fire’s glow,

Of all that’s passed since long ago.

And more of births and deaths year’s past,

Or what may come with winter’s blast.

Elders work as wee ones play,

Throughout the long warm summer’s day.

Northern Lights paint the hues

Of darkest nights’ damps and dews.

Stories told from long ago,

The truths of Life to young ones show.

See wrinkled brow. See wizened face.

As Heads of Council, take their place,

Sharing wisdom through the years,

their hope…to stay their Nation’s fears.

They sit beneath the Council Tree,

Conjuring what their eyes may see,

Sharing round the news of brothers,

Fighting for the sake of others.

Planning for a White mans’ war,

Since Indians ruled the land no more.

Young ones bringing zeal to bear,

For what was to come…the burden shared.

Sunrise shafts turned up the heat,

Life hummed on with measured beat.

Weave the mats. Hunt the game.

Honor the land; From whence you came.

A Native band of brotherhood;

Working for the Common Good.

Birch bark shelters lashed tight and true,

And yet so much still left to do.

Nature’s harvest? Pray, not too lean,

So winter’s face, seems not so mean.

Stories told round firesides’ glow,

Help pass the frigid winter’s blow.

The Nations work with little rest,

And Mother Earth serves up the test….

More babies born, and mouths to feed,

Prompts stores of berries, roots and seeds.

Scrape the furs. Mend the nets.

Time to rest when snows commence.

Centuries lived in stories told,

Through drumbeat dance and songs of old.

Of bravest warriors riding the wind,

Whose songs of war defended kin.

Hunting grounds in war were paved,

With Native blood proud and brave.

They fought as brothers hand-in-hand,

And stood their ground, to save their lands.

Their quest to stay the white-faced tide,

Proved a road of great divide.

Old Man Time drummed the beat,

Of Mother Earth’s sad defeat.

As open land from sea-to-sea,

Was blocked by fence and ceased to be.

This land held dreams of what could be,

Bringing unmoccasined feet, who came to see,

What could be theirs, and then did take…

So an end of these noble Nations made.

T.L.S./ August 8, 2002

Notes

Willow/’wilo/ n.1. scientific genus Salix, (of the family Salicaciae, the willow family), meaning a tree or shrub of temperate climates that typically has narrow leaves, bears catkins, and grows near water. 2. Deciduous species growing in Michigan among alders, silver birch, oaks, elms, hickory, ash, chestnut, butternut, basswood, and poplar which also belongs to the genus Salix. Its pliant branches yield osiers for basketry and its wood has various uses. 2. a pliant wood used in ancient times and modern for baseball and Cricket bats, wickerwork, carving, and weaving baskets. Note: Willow bark, identified from early times has having pain relief properties, is currently used for medicinal pain relief in aspirin, and other pain relievers. Wikipedia

As the willow bends through storm and gale it remains standing when others fall. Its extensive root system allows its living spirit to withstand great distress. Despite the abuse of forces outside itself, or the blows that Mother Earth may inflict upon it, yet the willow remains when others of its brothers have vanished from the face of the earth. And so the willow stands ready, yet again, to endure whatever punishments may come its way. Its living spirit knows that Gitchi Manitou will continue to protect and nurture His special creation so that it might remain for all time.

From the earliest days of the ancients and despite the ravages of time, the people of the Anishinaabek live to see the future; gifted with the ability to survive and the enormous fortitude borne of the willow.

There are two modes of invading private property; the first, by which the poor plunder the rich…sudden and violent; the second, by which the rich plunder the poor, slow and legal. –John Taylor, An inquiry into the Principles and policy of the Government of the United States. (1814)

From the Author

It is hard to say which vision of Ahptooeenh (Middle Village) is more rending to the heart. Is it the stately spire atop St. Ignatius Catholic Church? The Holy Cross reaches up to touch the bluest sky the mind’s eye has ever imagined: Inspiring. For others, the draw might be the pristine view and beautiful rhythmic song of Lake Michigan as its heaving waves sometimes slam, sometimes lap the sandy shoreline just down the steep hill from the white clapboard church. The grandeur of the great water pressing Michigan’s western coastline washes over the mind with utter tranquility and leaves the soul wanting for another look at a view impossible to forget: Peaceful perfection. Could it be the endless miles of forest-green coniferous trees lining the sandy shorelines? Vistas of thousands of acres populated with ancient trees that have shaded generations of Gitchi Manitou’s Children. Which ever majestic view it happens to be for each person, the sight triggers an undeniable sigh of soul; an inner flutter which cannot be ignored.

The setting for this story is the northwestern region of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula known to the Odawa as Wahguhnuhkzee, in more recent times, taken from the ancient name of Wau-gaw-naw-ke-zee meaning Land of the crooked tree. The region extends north from Zhingwakzibing (Charlevoix) and Agaming (Bay Shore) located to the south. The area follows Lake Michigan’s eastern shore north to Cross Village, Ahnuhmawahtegoing (which means ‘Holy Cross’ in Odawa), around the Straits of Mackinac, and over to Cheboygan on the northeast side of the state. The region’s natural border to the west, is Lake Michigan. It is one of the five Great Lakes whose beauty is unsurpassed in most corners of the world.

The undeniable Holy Cross of St. Ignatius of Loyola, so called since 1856, stands as a symbol of unwavering faith. It is one of the forces that created the presence of the first Catholic mission, then called St. Francis of Xavier, on this sacred ground in 1831. It can be seen for miles from the top of the hill, where an ancient Indian trail winds through The Tunnel of Trees, now paved and well traveled. Enjoy the ride at 25 mph if you are smart. This state scenic tour route on M-119 has some tricky curves and hairpin turns with foreboding names like the Devil’s Elbow, and Horse Shoe Turn. The old Catholic mission church is situated about nine miles north of Harbor Springs. The drive provides sights, which spark yearning needs of the soul, and can move even the hardest of hearts.

For me, it was the rows and rows of white crosses which line the sandy dunes on each side of St. Ignatius Church at Middle Village. The site is grown over with shore grass, blueberry bush, silver birch, and sturdy willow. It is the white wooden crosses that tell the story. Each marks the grave of a life lost. A story of loss in so many ways, yet a story filled with perseverance and courage. A story reflecting the fortitude born of these lost souls and the nation of Native people they left behind. All committed to their legacy of survival.

I still recall the first time I ever stepped foot on that holy ground. I can feel again the goose bumps that raised up on my arms as I stood transfixed and stared in silent, heart rending amazement at the ramshackle graveyard tucked in beside a mission church that had stood in that spot for over a hundred years. My breath caught in unexpected surprise at the sight before me. My mind raced ahead to try and unravel a possible explanation. What exactly had caused the lined array of white crosses to be there? What event had occurred creating this ghostly and repeating pattern of two large crosses followed by several small ones?

It had been a casual walk, by invitation after dinner. A visit to the home of dear family friends, Martin and Nancy Breighner, had found me joining my host, Martin, for a guided tour to view, in his words, A very interesting place of historical significance right here at Middle Village. Martin, knowing my interest in anything historical, had put it to me in that way. Of course, I could not resist. It proved to be a stroll of great significance for me.

It was a walk down a road that I would not soon forget. It was a walk down a road that in all practicality was just beginning. My footsteps would follow the old Otamung Road (meaning Mud Road) but now called Lamkin Road. The very same path walked by many of the people whose names stared out from those white crosses. It would become a journey into the past that would take awhile to get there. This was no ordinary happenstance. It was a story waiting to be told. I asked with hushed intensity, Martin, what happened here? My host proceeded, with the greatest of reverence, to reveal the truth of the white crosses. It was a legacy demanding that the telling needed to begin.

It is here that I begin to share only a part of the tale of Ahptooeenh, Middle Village, found on maps and known today as Good Hart. It is the place where the story was born. It is a place of wonder in physical beauty and reverence for the lives lived out there. It is in this setting that I share the story of five generations of Odawa women of substance. The threads of genealogy, across time, create a tapestry of history which influences and reflects the characters and events. Some outcomes, actually sewn generations before the story, add to the unique social climates and human conditions surrounding the family connections and character interactions. As the Willow Bends, tells in earnest about the childhood of Naukee, mother of Lenaya, grandmother to Teleathewa. The story begins at the turn of the century, and continues through the late 1960s as Teleathewa grows into womanhood. It is a story to be told so that others might understand.

This is the story of Nenj-au-noo-kee (Hands at Work) known by all as Naukee, daughter of Nahg-miz-chig-a (Makes a Brew) her mother, and O-da-me-tchwa-ne (He has a Big Heart) her father. It is the story of Leneweaya (Faces West) or Lenaya Osinewa Beland, daughter of Naukee and Pe-tran-a-wa (Naukee Osagaway and Peter Osinewa). It is the story of Teleathewa (She Knows) Beland, known to all as Tehya; daughter of Lenaya Osinewa Beland and granddaughter of Naukee Osagaway Osinewa. They share a noble heritage with links and ties to ancient warriors, chieftains, healers, treaty signers, and more recent public servants. Still today, the Odawa tribe continues sacrificing to do whatever it takes. It is the story of a people still bending like the willow, against forces beyond their control.

The story of the Odawa people of Wahguhnuhkzee, The Land of the Crooked Tree, is a collective history born of the oral tradition. At Ahptooeenh or Middle Village (known currently as Good Hart) just two remaining weegwahmuhn (Indian houses) and an Odawa Indian burial ground remain to prove that once a people of importance routinely toiled, suffered, lived and died there. Over the years, Good Hart has carried with it many names to mark this most historic and holy ground. This place holds many stories of importance for the people of L’Arbre Croche, the place of The Crooked Tree. It was the place of the summer moon and seasonal summer village for the Odawa people and all which that life walk entailed. It is a story of the People of the Three Fires: A tale for the ages, but not the only story in the hearts and minds of the people who own it.

T.L.S.

Words from the grave site of Margaret Joan Pontiac Odawa (February 28,1941-June 16, 2008): Her grave can be found in the Indian section of the Emmet County graveyard located off from Cemetery Road in Harbor Springs. Years ago, Indians were buried in a separate section from the Newcomers. During these times of tribulation, grave sites were often left unmarked, as great numbers perished during the influenza and small pox epidemics. However, this is a grave site adorned with many articles of remembrance and honor as a descendant of Pontiac.

Native Visions

       Do not stand at my grave and weep,

       I am not there; I do not sleep.

       I am a thousand winds that blow,

       I am the diamond glint on snow.

       I am the sunlight on ripened grain,

       I am the gentle autumn rain.

       Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there. I did not die.

Reflections: A Place to Start

Those Tehya loved did not deny their part in the lie. They continued to press their love for her as the reason she had been protected from a force she had no control over. The truth of the betrayal over all the years was a stinging blow which Tehya could not wipe from her mind or heart.

Teleathewa (She Knows), called by Tehya, dug her toes into the soft sand at the waters’ edge. She let the water gently roll the sand over and around her toes until all ten of them were buried and the golden sugar covered her feet almost to her ankle. She wished she could be those toes shut off from the world around her; left to herself until some power, greater than herself, moved her from this current space of emptiness and heartache. Had it been only yesterday when the world seemed more right? Oh, if only to be there again, when she felt in control of herself, her life, her future. How could one gesture, of helping someone in a bad situation, turn into such a nightmare? This was all a very bad dream, which had become a long dark tunnel with no light at the end.

The sun was rising at Tehya’s back as she faced west. She could feel the warmth of it on the back of her neck. It tempered the chills that flashed through her as she recalled the words from only a few hours ago. Those words had brought her world crashing down around her. She turned toward the sun and the direction of the breeze, letting it touch her face with the gentleness of her grandmother’s fingers. Tehya always found a sense of comfort here in this place where her grandmother and even her own mother, Lenaya, had brought her as a child to unwind and sooth her moods. Daynwa, her cousin, would wait in the truck for as long as she needed to gather herself and calm her nerves. Being here at Middle Village, Good Hart, always had the same effect on everyone in her family. It was their place of reprieve and re-centering of spirit. Here, they connected with their ancestral grounds and cradle of first life. It was the only place her people felt truly at home and protected from the world. Tehya hugged her knees, burying her face between them. Silently, she welcomed the gentle whispers of the ancient spirits, carried on the lake breeze, as they breathed life back into her wounded soul.

Tehya thought back over what had transpired in the last eighteen hours, trying to make sense of it all. Daynwa had finally relented to her pleas, bringing her here in the old family truck. Together they had come in the wee hours of this morning. It was now many hours past the family meeting which had shared secret pieces of her life. Pieces which had been missing for far too long. The tears she now shed, from hearing the truth of her life, would not stop. Her mind and heart cried out their fervent need, continuing to spin their webs of distress so that sleep would not come. The plea had been to go to Ahptooeenh/ Middle Village. Just take me home, Daynwa, Tehya had pleaded. Just take me home. And he did.

As she watched from her favorite dune, the sun broke above the serene and endless blue water her people called Lake Mitchigan,"The Man Devouring Lake." The warm rays of energy found Tehya facing a harsh reality. Tehya was struggling to find any measure of comfort in a life story much different than the one she had awakened to the previous morning. Everything had changed. Tehya stood to face the morning sun, the light of life. She knew that nothing would ever be the same. Tehya knew the truth. It all made sense now, even though she didn’t want to admit to herself that it did. Finally, all the pieces of the puzzle had been put into place, and she saw the whole picture, as she had never seen it before. What she thought she knew about herself, about her life, was really only half the story. Everything that she had accepted as the fabric of her being, all that made her who she was, had been torn into pieces. Now all she had were fragments of her life story, pieces and parts of old and new, that she would somehow have to find a way to weave together again. How would she ever make sense of this new reflection of herself? It was a reflection that she no longer recognized.

Tehya felt like one of the crystal goblets which she had often seen being washed at the Big House on Harbor Point. Something too delicate for just anyone to care for, and set apart for all to admire. Like the Waterford crystal goblets, when broken the beauty was scattered in too many pieces to ever be whole again. A shattered soul, impossible to mend or fix, was what she felt herself to be in this moment.

As she walked along the water’s edge, she let her mind drift back in time, so as to escape the questions, the lies, the betrayals. Thoughts and images raced around inside her head, causing her heart to race, and her breath to catch as she began yet again to hyperventilate. This can’t be true, it just can’t be! Her thoughts pounded her sensibilities. Tehya dropped to the sand beneath her, and sat with her head in her hands.

Daynwa’s earlier words swirled around her, Cousin, take deep breaths, calm your spirit. Put your soul and mind in a different place.

She would heed his words. He had loved her as a sister since they had been little children, running on the shores here at Middle Village. It was now a smaller village, but still located in a region historically known to her people as Wahguhnuhkzee (Wah-guh-nuhk-zee/ meaning ‘Land of the Crooked Tree’). In the days of her grandparents’ youth, her village settlement was called Ahptooeenh (Ahp-too-eenh/ meaning in the middle) or Middle Village by The Brothers of the Three Fires. By the county government records and state maps it had been changed again sometime in the 1930s from Good Heart, named for a beloved chieftain, to Good Hart. Daynwa had brought her here for one purpose; to reclaim that part of herself which would always be Odawa.

Tehya shifted her thoughts back to the place where it had all begun to unravel. Tehya lived now in the remembering, trying to find a way back to herself, the person she had been before last night, the person she thought she was. Tehya was determined that the answers would be given. Someone was going to answer all the questions which now haunted her thoughts. Someone was going to give an accounting for all the questions she wanted answers for; answers to questions about the yesterdays of her mother. She would demand it. The truth would finally and fully come to light as the rising of the sun.

Daynwa would wait for as long as it took. She loved her cousin as a brother. He knew her heart and that this was her search for spirit. What better place to start than at the beginning, in the place which she had loved as a child and would love forever. Here, where she had run in the sand and gathered the shells while Naukee, her grandmother, had waited patiently. Here, at Middle Village, where the spirits of the past resided. Here in this place, where the stories were made and their Odawa history had been created, shared and revered. They both knew this would take a while.

It had all started several nights ago. This whole mess had begun with one simple phone call taken at home in the house where she and her grandmother, Naukee Osinewa, had lived together for ten plus years. It had been just the two of them, after her grandfather, Petranawa Osinewa but always Papana to Tehya, had left them so suddenly and without warning. How could one phone call have put into motion the chain reaction of unforeseen and coincidental events which had changed her life forever? She would not think of it now, but instead lose herself in a different time and space. Tehya’s rememberings, the images of face and feature, voice and sound, had pressed themselves into her heart’s memory.

In her mind, she floated back to the past and was fully in the now time reliving it all again. She would begin with what she knew to be truth. She would recount the stories carried and shared by Naukee, her grandmother, and by Nachiga, her great-grandmother. The same stories which had been told to her in this very spot, as she lay resting with her ancestral mothers, listening to the truths of yesterday. The life stories of Kikkee, her great-great grandmother, and even Taugwanee a grandmother from so long ago. The truth of their hearts and the sorrows born of living were in their stories and the stories of the ancients.

Tehya’s spirit was clawing its way back and clinging to a treasured heritage filled to overflowing with a lineage of genuinely courageous and compassionate people. Her whole life she had been surrounded by living spirits who judged others by character alone. She claimed as her own, a people who dismissed biased judgments; the stings of which had scarred their collective honor and dignity for centuries. She defiantly refused any connection to this breed of human beings, she had recently encountered, devoid of consideration for the life walks of others.

Tehya had heard over and over the stories of her grandmothers’ lives and how they had lived them. Her identity as Odawa was steeped in her days at Ahptooeenh, Middle Village, and the line of powerful and proud Anishinaabek. (Anish-in-aa-bek/ Indian people of culture), the people from which she had evolved. Tehya would find peace and discover her own soul once again. She would search for herself in the stories of the past. She would begin with the life story of her own grandmother. As so many of her people had done before her…she would be like the willow in facing the truths which the stories held. She would bend, but she would not break.

PART I

The story of Nenjaunookee

(Hands not Idle)

Land of the Crooked Tree

In the time of the sugar moons, generations of Odawa moved from the inland glades and protected thickets out to the fringes of the mighty water. Msh-kik-ke-kwa

Nenj-au-noo-kee, affectionately known to all she knew as Nau-kee, dug her toes into the warm sugar sand and felt the tickle as it sifted between them, and trickled down the face of the sand dune where she rested. She sat hugging her bare knees, resting her chin softly atop her bare kneecaps, feeling the cooler lake breeze find its way beneath her coarse cotton shift. The shady beech tree, which she had chosen to sit beneath, whispered its timeless song of lake shore melody as Kee-way-din, the northwest wind, danced upon its leaves. Naukee’s heart was full of the possibilities that lay before her as her mind recounted the hopes she held inside her soul. This year, in the days of the summer moon, perhaps it would be arranged and she would take a husband. She already knew her heart’s choice.

Grandmother, Mother, Naukee, and her older and only sister, Round Stone, had just returned mid-morning from one of their productive gathering expeditions. Naukee had excused herself from the group as the other three walked past the mission church on their way home to their weegwahm. Round Stone, who went by Rose, plodded ahead without so much as a see you later. She wanted only to be back in the cool shade of their lake shore dwelling.

Na-chig-a, whose name meant Makes a Brew, was mother to the two girls. She reminded her youngest daughter gently, Naukee, be not long in this place. We will be about the work of the graves shortly.

Naukee’s grandmother, Kik-kee, added with authority, The blueberries must be sorted and cleaned before the gathering at the holy ground. Rose and I will attend to it, but do not stay away long. Naukee nodded in response sharing a warm loving smile with her grandmother. Naukee walked in silence toward the bluff, glad to be off by herself once more. Nachiga continued speaking to Rose, but her mother’s words did not carry on the wind to Naukee’s ears.

Here on a high sand dune along the shores of Mitchigamee, Naukee stopped to kneel down in her favorite spot. She seated herself quickly, so as not to waste a minute of the short break she was allowing herself to enjoy. She needed to sit quietly for a few moments, gathering her thoughts and reflecting on some of the things that had transpired since they had arrived a few months earlier. The days at their northern summering grounds always passed so quickly, despite all the work that was required. The gardening was never finished, but Naukee would not think of those things now.

As the summer wind blew playfully across the white-capped waters of the great lake, Naukee embraced this moment of quiet time to enjoy once again the natural beauty that surrounded her each day. This was her favorite place to be when she wanted to be alone and think. It was the place her mother and grandmother had brought her to reflect and worship Gitchi Manitou, the god of her people. It was the very same place they had come throughout her seventeen short years of walking the life trail when they needed to gather themselves and recenter their souls. Naukee would bring her own children and grandchildren here as well, when the time came.

Now alone, she rested from the gathering just finished and found herself reflecting within her spirit on the things taking place around her and within her. Inner forces were keeping her vigilant and fully aware of past life-ways of her people. Naukee’s thoughts always took wing here in this place. She allowed the spirits of the ancients to carry her back in time to recall the stories, traditions, and most importantly, people of the Anishinaabek. In an instant her mind could be living life played out through the oral tradition. She had heard the stories of her people told over and over since she was old enough to understand. The stories of her people held little change regardless of the storyteller. This fact held the truth of the oral tradition for the Odawa nation of Anishinaabek living along the western side of Michigan. The storytellers were revered in their ability to retain the stories and share the history of this noble nation so that all Odawa might know and understand the reasons and evolution of life.

The Wah-guh-nuhk-zee bands of Odawa living in the far northwestern area of Michigan, had looked for the sign of the leaning tree for countless decades, in early spring and the time of rebirth, when the lake sturgeon began to run. They came to the place of L’Arbre Croche, meaning The Crooked Tree. The name was given to the area by the French voyageurs, because of a massive tree with a bent top which stood high above the water’s edge on a massive sand dune. They had looked for it always as the physical marker of the place where the Odawa of Michigan summered. It was a large area which included the land extending from just south of Little Traverse Bay to the Straits of Mackinac along the northwestern shoreline of Michigan. It was called The Land of the Crooked Tree.

The people migrated, as did their animal brothers, from places where the rivers seldom froze, and the massive timbers cut the cruelty of the mighty winds of winter. In rhythmic pattern, the rotation had continued. The journey north was triggered in late spring, after the sugar bush was done and all the sweet sap had been made into maple sugar cubes or maple syrup and stored. Only then would the journey back to L’Arbre Croche or The Land of the Crooked Tree come. Repeating again in late fall, with the nights colder and the ferns tipped with frost in the mornings, the journey back to the wintering grounds would arrive. The people would go once more to stay near the mouths of main river systems further south until the late spring thaw. Survival came easier with the protection of the deep forest. Natural signs, coming with the changing of the seasons, were the heralds for when the Anishinaabek would come again to their summering grounds, or with heavy hearts depart for the wintering grounds many miles from this sacred place. It was always understood that the coming and going came with the same hard days.

The traveling canoes rode low in the great river water loaded with the impressive bounty of animal pelts trapped during the winter months along the Grand, and Muskegon river systems south to the St. Joseph River. These valuable pelts were traded for supplies needed along the way. If travel overland was required, many labored to pull toboggans carrying the very young with willow legs, or aging humans too weak to walk. Baskets and leather bags lashed to human backs and horse saddles, carried what was needed to turn deserted forest into villages teeming with life.

After the mid-eighteenth century, Wah-guh-nuhk-zee, meaning the land of the crooked tree, became the name of this area used by the Odawa, and anyone else who knew the way. The gathering village was known as Ahptooeenh, meaning In the Middle due to its central location for the Odawa along the western shore of Michigan. So, it came to be called Middle Village by the younger generations of the Odawa nation.

A noble people gathered here. Their souls belonged to this beloved spot of communing through years of familiarity and companionship. Great numbers of Anishinaabek Odawa came. They came walking, riding by horse and paddling by gliding birch bark canoe. They plodded ahead of rolling carts or overland sleds laden with supplies for survival and materials needed to construct their summer dwellings. Unto the region of L’Arbre Croche and Middle Village the First People would stream. Their spirits welcomed the sight of that solitary bent and crooked tree high above the bluff. Below it, sat miles of running sand that would be home for the warm summer months. Upon arrival at the summering grounds the men would shoot their rifles into the air. It was their way of announcing the arrival of Gitchi Manitou’s children to His sacred place. This great water was known to the Odawa as The Man-Devouring Lake. The Big Water was a sleeping force so beautiful, yet so deadly in any disrespect shown by living creatures for the power it possessed.

In this place, dark green firs rose dramatically behind its dunes. Seasonally, the conical weegwahm stood serenely in double rows for as far as the eye could see, along the sandy shore. Only twenty moccasin steps separated one dwelling from another for more than twenty miles along the sugar sand beach. Longhouses were set in rows along a central path located on higher ground well behind the rows of weegwahms. These gathering houses, approximately sixteen to twenty feet long and twelve to fourteen feet wide, were permanent structures remaining for all seasons to welcome the Odawa on their return. The longhouses waited for gatherings of the people.

The Wahguhnuhkzee Odawa, never ceased to be thankful for the generosity Gitchi Manitou provided them. Their songs and dance gave praise to Gitchi Manitou for filling the trap lines each winter, allowing the fish to be bountiful, and providing game to be hunted. All were considered blessings poured out, which proved to be a big portion of their livelihood, as well as their survival. The same rhythm of life had continued for generations, too many to count. Soon it would all be different as a great change had already begun in the life way rhythms. In Naukee’s lifetime, the migrations would stop forever.

This spot atop the bluff ridge stood about sixty feet above the lake shore and offered a truly majestic sight. Naukee sat with her back to the Catholic mission church situated at the bottom of the bluff. The neatly kept mission church held generational history centered around her people. St. Ignatius was a common fixture in the community at Middle Village. Regardless, Naukee always kept her eyes fixed on what was before her. She would never tire of the dazzling pristine view of azure water that was hers to enjoy from this lofty perch. Nor did she disregard the shoreline trim of ancient pines which touched the shoulders of Michigan’s shoreline. The dark green, fragrant firs created a framed fringe running down the points and peninsulas that were part of the massive body of beach sand, sculpted dunes, dense forest and life-giving water. Mit-chi-gam-ee was the name used by the Odawa to name the entire region of the Great Water.

The white tresses of foam, forcefully pushed by the wind, adorned the waves and bore a stark contrast to the brilliant blue of the water. Like the fluffy white clouds that danced across the sky dome overhead, white-caps floated up and over the heaving water’s constant motion, melting away as another crest raced forward to take its place. Naukee imagined these white caps, which danced upon the watery surface, as the white- haired heads of the ancients who had passed on into the spirit world. She conjured their return to the living world on days such as this, dancing their joy and appreciation upon Mitchigamee’s back.

A frisky gray squirrel, scampered across the canopy of leaves above Naukee’s head, catching her attention. She turned to look for her little forest friend, chasing in play, and busily gathering beechnuts and acorns for the winter stash needed during the time of the hunger moons. Squirrels came often in pairs visiting whenever Naukee stopped by this way. Never frightening them, their play seemed to go on without pause, speaking to Naukee’s heart of the strength of the life force. Its constant continuation of habits, and repeating rhythms was known by all living creatures. Store your winter mee-jim well, Little One, Naukee spoke quietly. The winter snows are not always kind. You will need your food. Be safe.

Everything surrounding Naukee in this sacred place remained a part of her very being. It was here, where she loved to recall the memories that painted her soul with color and filled her heart with happiness. She looked skyward giving thanks to Gitchi Manitou for the blessings laid at the feet of the bands of noble people who gathered together here as family. She had allowed her mind’s pressing desire to travel back in time. She valued remembering the past. It was not only her walk in life that was important but also the walks of those coming before her, who had already crossed the River of Death into the spirit world.

Naukee’s eyes scanned the forward beach. Her mind began to imagine the flickering presence of campfires up and down the beaches of Mitchigamee. She conjured the dancing flames that under the night moon could be seen for miles in any direction. Instantly, Naukee was drifting back in her memory to the stories told around the night fires. The stories of her people, and of all their struggles and sacrifices. The oral tradition, repeated over and over throughout the generations, would always live on in the hearts of the Odawa. Even after her last breath here on earth, the stories would