Sky Flower: Memoirs of a Mohawk Woman at the Edge of Two Worlds

By Ray E. Phillips

Some tattered papers discovered in the ruins of a cabin in the Adirondack Mountains reveal the life story of an old Native American woman, Sky Flower, written in the form of a diary. And what a story she has to tell! With quill in hand, the Mohawk writer records her life from her early memories as a spoiled chi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quill Publications
• Release date: Apr 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989906277

Ray E. Phillips

Ray E. Phillips enjoyed a long career in which he combined both writing and medicine. As a physician he specialized in cardiovascular disease, family medicine, and community health care. He founded a small foundation that enabled him to travel overseas to undertake medical projects, including in Bangladesh and Nepal. Born and raised in Massachusetts, he spent his adult life close to the Hudson River with whose history and natural beauty he fell in love. He explored it extensively as a hiker, paddler, sailor, and reader. In his own writings he was determined to evoke and pay tribute to the unending dramas played out in the lives of its human and natural denizens across the centuries.

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Special Thanks

A note of heartfelt thanks to all those people who have contributed their advice, assistance, and constructive criticism to the creation of The River Quintet:

The late Kenneth Little Hawk, Mi’kmaq-Mohawk storyteller

William Chip Reynolds, (formerly) Captain of the Half Moon Replica Ship

Janny Venema, author and (formerly) Dutch translator and Associate Director, New Netherland Research Center, Albany, NY

Walter Woodward, Connecticut State Historian

Stefan Nicolescu, Research Scientist and Collections Manager, Yale Peabody Museum of Natural History, New Haven, CT

Barrie Kavasch, author, Institute for American Indian Studies, Washington, CT

Teachers at the American School for the Deaf, West Hartford, CT

The late Frank Kozelek, Tarrytown, NY

Research staff at various libraries, including those at Kent Lakes, Corinth and Glens Falls, NY, Windsor, CT and Shepperton, England

Joan G. Sheeran and Wendy Phillips Kahn, editors

Sophie Seypura and Arturo Aguirre, illustrators

and Patrick Seypura, digital publisher and website manager.

—R.E.P.

This reissued and corrected version of Sky Flower was prepared and published following the death of Ray Phillips in July, 2021. The editors have made minor changes and proofreading corrections and now offer this edition in loving memory of the author. Throughout the writing of The River Quintet, Ray Phillips devoted himself during his last decades to bringing history alive with accuracy and compassion.

—Joan G. Sheeran and Wendy Phillips Kahn

PART I

Publication History of Sky Flower

Norris and Thornton, Inc., Publishers

127 Canal Street

New York, NY

October 2, 1964

Dear Sir or Madam:

It is our pleasure to submit a typed version of memoirs written in the late 17th century. We hope that you will consider publishing them as they reflect early American history from a personal point of view. The writer was an elderly Indian woman named Sky Flower who wrote her life story on paper in the 1690s. We know nothing about her other than the information contained herein. The writing is, nevertheless, highly descriptive. It appears in the style of a surprisingly well‐educated person for the time and place.

The circumstances upon which our family came upon these memoirs are sketchy. The fragile pages in a leather pouch were discovered about 1700 by an Adirondack trader. He had found the pouch near a circle of stones that may have been a crude fireplace in the center of—what appeared to be—a long-collapsed hut. Two items were found there: a rusted skillet and a small chipped Delft plate depicting a ship.

The trader gave these items to one of my ancestors, Andrew Eddy, a surveyor in Nova Scotia. The pouch containing the well-preserved papers, as well as the skillet and the plate, have been carefully handed down in my family ever since. We believe that the writings provide a unique view of life long ago in America and England.

Unfortunately, some of the original pages are missing or illegible. The ink has corroded the paper, requiring careful study of each word. Nevertheless, we hope that you will agree that the memoirs merit publication. Furthermore, we trust that you will do the writer the honor of publishing them in a complete and unedited form.

Yours very truly,

Nathaniel and Gladys Eddy

1309 East Sanford Road

Cold Spring, New York

Norris and Thornton, Inc., Publishers

127 Canal Street

New York, NY

Nathaniel and Gladys Eddy

1309 East Sanford Road

Cold Spring, NY

December 2, 1964

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Eddy,

As an associate editor at Norris and Thornton, I have been assigned to review the manuscript submitted on October 2. Please excuse the long delay in my response. Yet, it is with great interest that I have gone over the Memoirs of Sky Flower, as submitted by you, and received on October 18. Other members of our staff have also reviewed it, and found it highly enlightening about a period of history of which most Americans know little.

Our company has seriously considered the possibility of publishing the memoirs of Sky Flower and has decided to defer commitment at this time. The reasons are compelling. There has been a waning of interest in Indian literature across the nation. A sampling of book buyers reveals a readership that is too small to justify an expenditure of this magnitude. Since Longfellow’s popular poem, The Song of Hiawatha, published more than a hundred years ago, the image of the American Indian has become romanticized and mythical. The reality of life depicted in these memoirs jars that image.

Furthermore, we find many errors in grammar and spelling that require editing. In addition, the writing throughout is disjointed rather than having the precise organizational flow required of successful publications. Finally, we have no verification of the historical accuracy of this writing.

Thus, we have concluded that there is little literary merit or national interest in the submitted material. Your pages are returned enclosed in their entirety. Thank you for asking Norris and Thornton to look over this fascinating writing. I truly hope that you will find a company that will put Sky Flower’s story in print.

Sincerely,

Alan S. Jordan

Associate Editor

Prestley Press, Inc.

Suite 1024

134 South Park Avenue

New York, NY 10002

Nathaniel and Gladys Eddy

1309 East Sanford Road

Cold Spring, NY 10560

March 31, 2023

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Eddy,

I write to follow up on a communication exchanged more than fifty years ago with Norris and Thornton Publishers. First, my correspondence requires an explanation.

In September of 1986, Prestley Press took over Norris and Thornton Publishers to expand its capability of acquiring and producing books of historical interest. Recently, I have been reviewing our archives with the opportunity of looking over some of the submitted book proposals communicated to Norris and Thornton Company since its incorporation in 1894. Among old communications received was your letter. In it you describe the memoirs of an elderly Native American woman who wrote them in the late 1600s. Included was a copy of the response of Mr. Alan Jordan, editor.

As you know, general attitudes concerning the original American people have changed appreciably since your original submission in 1964. The pages described in your query letter may indeed contain a treasure of early American history. At the very least, their existence has piqued my curiosity. If this letter does reach you after all these years; if you still have the memoirs of Sky Flower; if they remain unpublished; and if you remain interested in publishing them, I would be delighted to look them over. I further promise to give your pages full and prompt attention. I do suggest that you send by certified mail a page or two of the original so that we might verify its authenticity by watermark or another identifier.

Sincerely,

Alejandra Ochoa-Muñoz

Acquisitions Editor

Ms. Alejandra Ochoa-Muñoz

Acquisitions Editor

Prestley Press, Inc.

Suite 1024

134 South Park Avenue

New York, NY 10002

April 16, 2023

Dear Ms. Ochoa-Muñoz,

It was indeed a surprise to receive your query about a manuscript submitted decades ago. On my recovery from this rather pleasant shock, I will answer the questions posed.

Yes, the memoirs of Sky Flower, a Mohawk woman, are still in the possession of our family. The letter received from Mr. Jordan more than fifty years ago convinced us that Sky Flower’s memoirs are a private and priceless treasure and that we should retain them as such here at our home. By now, all members of the family have read these pages and consider them a rare and unique glimpse into our early history.

My husband Nathaniel passed away seven years ago. Our children, now grown, agree with me that the memoirs after all this time should be made public. We insist, as was expressed in the original letter, that the writing be published as it was written, without embellishment, deletions, or corrections. Thus, we feel strongly that the flavor of this remarkable work would be preserved.

You should know that, over many years, my family has assiduously attempted to retrace the path of Sky Flower and to locate her family/clan/tribe through The New York State Historical Archives, regional museums, Native American documents, and genealogical sources. We have explored sites noted in the memoirs both in New York and in England. No meaningful leads have been uncovered. Yet, no detail entered by the author is inconsistent with facts known about the period of her life.

Thus, Sky Flower is a mysterious person who has witnessed and experienced the colossal changes in America that occurred during her long lifetime. She will forever remain unknown save for the salvaged notes written against extreme adversities, notes that continue to teach and inspire. We, bequeathed with her journal, can only be grateful for its long survival.

I am submitting by Certified Express Mail two pages of the original script containing watermarks. Added to them is our typewritten version of the entire script as best we can make out from faded handwriting. As you may anticipate, our family is keenly interested in your response.

With best regards,

Gladys Eddy

Prestley Press, Inc.

Suite 1024

134 South Park Avenue

New York, NY 10002

May 7, 2023

Dear Mrs. Eddy,

I am pleased to tell you that the pages of Sky Flower sent to me make fascinating reading. They are surely of historical significance and I agree with your family that they can be considered a priceless national treasure. Our rich heritage in American literature is seriously wanting when it comes to Native American people around the time of European contact. The life story of Sky Flower does much to fill in this historical void. Our review coincides, happily, with renewed general interest in the early people of long-ago America.

The original pages of Sky Flower’s memoirs were hand‐delivered to an agency in New York, Rosenbauer Associates. This agency specializes in the authentication of documents and artwork and has an excellent reputation for verifying intellectual works. Atara Singh of the agency officially informs us that these pages were produced in Belgium by a printing company under the name of deVries Drukkers. She further states that the watermark on both pages was used by this company between the years 1623 and 1647. I am pleased that this documentation was secured and knew that you would be interested to learn of this development. The pages will be returned by certified mail.

My associates at Prestley Press express the same degree of enthusiasm that I do in offering to publish the work while keeping intact its present form. The details of this offer are outlined in the enclosed contract. Should you have any questions, please be in touch at your nearest convenience.

As an editor, I fully understand your wish to print the book exactly as it has been written. As publishers, however, we need to make available a book in which the language is not too obscure. The reviewers here agree to edit some of the more antiquated writing while keeping enough of the old vocabulary, spelling, and syntax to maintain the flavor of the time. Because the writing goes from past to present frequently, and because we want to avoid confusion, we have added headings before various diary entries.In place of chapter titles, I have also taken the liberty of separating sections of the memoirs with place names. These will be used to create a Table of Contents. I trust that you will favor these decisions.

Enclosed, you will find a standard contract form. Before we can proceed further, it will be necessary for you to have the contract signed, notarized, and returned. You will also find our customary schedule for royalties defined. Please let me know if you and your family concur with the actions proposed in this letter.

I hope that we can meet in person as publication of the book proceeds. I only regret that your husband is not here to share in the progress of the script into print.

Sincerely yours,

Alejandra Ochoa-Muñoz

Acquisitions Editor, Prestley Press, Inc.

From: Gladys E. Eddy

To: A. Ochoa-Muñoz

Alejandra Ochoa-Muñoz, Sr. Acquisitions Editor

Prestley Press, Inc.

June 1, 2023

Dear Ms. Ochoa- Muñoz,

My family and I have gone over the terms for publication of Sky Flower offered by Prestley Press. We agree with all aspects and feel that the published work will provide a meaningful insight into life at a germinal time in our nation. We take the liberty of suggesting a title for the book to come: Sky Flower: Memoirs of a Mohawk Woman at the Edge of Two Worlds. This title seems altogether fitting for the remarkable life that she shares with us.

On a personal note, I request that the book be dedicated to my late husband, Nathaniel Eddy, a teacher of history at Kent Cliffs High School in New York for more than 40 years. He once told me that reading Sky Flower’s story during his boyhood, in fact, had made a powerful influence on his choice of career. Teaching through those many years always reflected this connection. Indeed, the keen interest in Native American history in the Town of Kent arises in part from Nathaniel’s students.

Lastly, we wish to express our gratitude for the interest and encouragement you have given us in this project.

Sincerely,

Gladys Eddy

William and Amanda Maude Eddy

Thomas and Letitia Douglas

PART Ii

Sky Flower:

Memoirs of a Mohawk Woman at the Edge of Two Worlds

Chapter 1

Tahawus

FIRST DAY OF FEBRUARY IN THE YEERE 1692

Snowe has fallen for three days and three nights. It buries my little house. I cannot open the hides that hang frozen over the entryway. That the roof may fall under its heavy burden worries me not a trifle. Here, snuggled along the shoulder of my mountain, Cloud‐Splitter, I am with my people in spirit, the Kanien’kehá:ka. The English know them as Mohawks, belonging to the Haudenosaunee or Iroquois Confederacy.

My name is Sky Flower. I am now an old woman, frail and bent with age. My eyes have seen much over seventy years and I am ready to tell my story. At least, I will try. So, reader, be patient with my scribbles. I am not clever in writing and my spelling is weak. My choosing to write in the language of England will be understood as the story goes on. I will tell you about my life now in the mountains and as it used to be.

2 Feb  BEGINNINGS

My life began and will end in the forest where a streame flows into the long River-That-Flows-Two Ways. Those days of long ago were hard on the people of my village, but my memory of them is mostly of happy tymes. My people worked together and cared for each other. They did not know how new things from faraway lands would change their lives forever. If these things gave comfort, they were not always for the better.

I tell my story that it might be of interest to someone in the future. Perhaps there are lessons to learn in a life lived at the edge of two worlds. Should an English-reading trapper or hunter find them, he may read them to his children and then they, to theirs. They will see how strange ways from across the ocean pulled apart my people. Although I made a choice long ago that took me into another world, the bonds of my Mohawk people gave me strength.

3 Feb  SOLITUDE

While stoking my fire and watching the smoke curl up through the little hole at the peak of the roof, I think about the reasons that led me to this life of solitude. No longer did I fit easily with my own people. Still, I needed to separate myself from the muddled affaires of crowded towns and some of those troublesome people who came from across the ocean. I wanted to leave behind the part of me that had become white European. I wanted to become a simple Mohawk once againe.

Here by myself in the mountains, I feel close to the Creator and at one with my mother, sisters and brother who now wander among the stars. There is no one to help me should a hurt or sickness befall me. But loneliness hurts much! How I long to see again my friend, Jacob Huizinga! Unhappily, he will not come with supplies until most of the snowe has melted. I have learned patience.

My custom each day: At first awakening, I pick up my piece of flint. Then, using its sharp edge, I make a slash on one of the two poles that support the roof. These marks count the days. Today makes eighty‐three and one thousand nine hundred slashes. At night I pray to the Creator Above All. I give thanks for my food, my shelter, the warmth of a small flame, and the song of the winter birds.

What made me choose to write my story? … a visitor inspired me to do so. It was not an ordinary visitor. Oh, no! It was a crow, an ordinary black crow. As soon, I write more of this remarkable bird.

4 Feb  DOLL

My days I spend in the pursuit of making baskets, something learned as a child and now relearned as a way of repaying Jacob for his exertions on my account. Yet, there is more of basketmaking to be written.

I am not without a companion. When I was a baby, my dying grandfather gave me a doll made of cornhusks, a doll without a painted face that I have kept all these years. More oft now, I talk to my doll about the joys and sorrows that have passed through our long lives. And for each of these passages through tyme, I have a different face in my mind for her. My face‐changing doll is such a part of my life that she, too, belongs in this story.

The cold cramps my crooked hand. The pain is especially bad because the pointer finger that holds the quill against my thumb is badly bent, the product, sadly, of a mishap in my youth. I must stop for now. The effort of [illegible for several lines]. Still, it does my spirit good to see a few words on paper, to know my life story begins.

5 Feb  WARMTH

I must mind the cookfire. The warmth is my sense of life. Only today do my numbed hands feel the quill between my fingers. Still, I must use the firewood sparingly. Weeks may pass before I am able to fetch more. The supply of candles, alas, is already woefully low. Tomorrow, if it is not too cold, I will write about my special crow, a messenger by the name of Lionel.

6 Feb  LIONEL

One morning—well before the first heavy snowefall of winter—I was awakened by a feeble caw, caw. I peeked around the edge of the hide entryway. A crow as thin as a twig stared back at me. The right wing, bent unnaturally sharp, told of a terrible injury.

Of course, I tossed out a few hickory nuts and kernels of corn onto the snowe cover and watched the crow, with head cocked to one side, gobble them downe. All eaten, it made its way on foot in a wide arch, dragging that broken wing. It then disappeared into a clump of bushes. I thought little more of the incident. Yet, should I have been surprised to find the crow back the following morning?

Yes, the crow did come back the next day and in the days after that. Always it arrived at daybreak with a steady caw, caw. My new friend always stood, feathers disarrayed, half-starved, sideways to me, looking at me with head tilted. Each day I offered him a morsel of food. Each day, the bird came a bit closer to my feeding hand, always staring at me, always standing sideways to me, right wing spread toward me, head always held at an odd slant.

The crow stayed a bit longer with each visit, pecking until all the nuts and all the kernels were gone. For a treat, I added a few chips of my dwindling store of chestnuts. More and more during the long nights, I found myself thinking about my new friend and longing for morning and another visit. Of course, such a faithful visitor should have a name. What folly to spend a whole night thinking of a good name for a crow!

7 Feb  INJURY

Oh, what joy! My early morning visitor trusted me enough to peck some kernels of corn from my opened palm. Then, up close, I discovered the reason for the crow’s strange custom. The left eye was bulging from the socket, and it had turned all white. It needed both eyes to walk a straight line.

Of course, the perfect name! Lionel. It is a happy‐sad name from my past. If the Creator gives me the strength and tyme to write my long story, the reader will understand why I chose to name a crow Lionel and why the name is so fitting.

How does a winged creature so clever as a crow become so badly injured? I suspect that Lionel was driven into a tree during the sleeting storme. Not able to find food in the ordinary way, he had to scour beneath the snowe crest for whatever pickings luck might offer. Will the reader think it wasteful that I use precious paper to write of a crow? Yet Lionel, to me, was a living connection with the outside world.

After many days my visitor was not as scrawny as he was when he arrived. Even the early morning caw, caw sounded a bit more spirited. In a few months, come spring and snowemelt, Lionel would be able to find his own. I should have knowne better.

8 Feb  QUIET

As was bound to happen, one morning, ’twas no scratching and no pecking at my entryway. I listened for a caw. All was unnaturally quiet. A peek between the hides did not find Lionel. Instead, it found a long, black feather.

9 Feb  FEATHER

Another day and no caw, caw to awaken me. My injured friend, I knew, was gone forever. It grieves not a little to think about Lionel’s fate. Yet, I have lived too long to overlook the ways of nature. Every animal, both prey and predator, has its own means to live another day. When injured, though, it has little chance. The crow, so clever and so good a flyer, lives not long without useful wings or keen sight. I fancy a fox and her pups, snug in a hollow under the snowe, were happy for an easy catch. All the same, such truths give me little comfort.

Yet how did the feather get there? It was a mystery. There is a belief in my Nation of Mohawks that the crow brings messages from the sky spirits to our people. I looked at the feather, between my fingers. How light and delicate, yet how strong! In some wonderful way feathers make possible the impossible—allowing creatures to fly. The storytellers by the night fire explain how the birds got feathers. The reason is good sense. For me there is still something curious about a feather.

My black feather spoke to me, You, too, it said, can fly beyond these mountains. Let me be your quill. I can carry you to places far away, to tymes long past. Write your story with me!

There between my fingers lay the power to bring my past to readers of the future. I pray: quill, connect me once againe to the worlds I had the privilege and the anguish to know. And so, with my quill, I scratch out my story. How a girl who grew up in the forest learns to put a quill to paper is not a story quickly told.

10 Feb  WRITING TOOLS

My metal knife helps me tell my story. Well-worn as it is, I use it to shave the tip of the feather’s shaft into a fine point, slitting it at the end. Fine paper for writing I have: two hundred sheets in all, held safe in a leather pouch. They were gifts from a stranger and are as new. In the pouch, as well, is a bottle of black powder. ’Tis this powder mixed with water that makes ink.

In my life there have been two friends named Lionel. One was a bird, the other, a person, and both were flawed in similar ways. Both friends brought joy to my life; both vanished suddenly. Why? I can only guess. With my writing, they return againe and againe to my heart. They will speak through my hand. Of the bird, I will write now and of the person, later.

11 Feb  FAMILY

Up before dawn. My head, if not my body, is filled with new excitement about putting the affaires of a lifetyme on paper.

To beginne, I suppose, it is proper to tell of my earliest memories. Then, my sisters, twins, were the center of it all. They were many years older than I, almost young women when I was born, always laughing and singing around me and putting pretty things on me, dressing me in flowers, beads, and feathers and painting my face as if I were their toy. The name of one sister was Awakens Corn, the name of the other, Laughing Rain. How they got their names? That is a story for another tyme.

The first born in my family was a brother named Tail Feather. He was always serious and strong‐willed, and he always tried to make life easier, safer, for us. He was away most of the tyme in my early life, so that my memory of him is not good. I do remember one day when he returned from a paddle of four round moons, bringing for me a beaded necklace of seashells. The necklace along with my cornhusk doll has stayed with me all these years.

Of my mother, I remember only a little. Her name was Morning Blossom. She was quiet and sad, spending most of her days inside the longhouse, staring at the cookfire. Mother died when I was still very young. Some say her life spirit flew away after my father, Kicking Elk, whom I never knew, failed to return from a long journey.

And so, this was my family, one family among a score or two in a small village along a mountain lake. In truth my sisters became my mother. Oh yes, ’twas one other person, my aunt, Meadow Bird Singing. She complained about my sisters’ way of letting me grow up—in truth, spoiling me. There were always bad feelings between my sisters and her. The tallow sputters, so I stop for now.

12 Feb  FOOD

My winter supply of dried and smoked food, whilst plentiful heretofore, beginnes now to dwindle. At last harvest, my garden was generous in beans and squash, not so much with corn. That does not grow well in the mountains. For all the work of planting I had only a few ears, but Jacob brought enough cornmeal to last. Sunne-dried berries with water always makes cornmeal taste better. I still have many chestnuts and acorns from last autumn. Snowe allows no shortage of drinking water. It is piled up so high that I can just scoop a little up by pushing my hand around the hides. Could life be easier? Enough writing for today. Some days, I tire quickly.

13 Feb  MOHAWKS

My page left off with my Mohawk family as I remember them. Now, about a story told by the elders in my clan:

Long ago, my ancestors feuded among themselves. One of the great chiefs, Hiawatha, brought them together, agreeing always to be at peace with one another. Five nations joined, promising to form a symbolic longhouse, likened to the dwelling place of several families under one roof but with separate cookfires. They became known as the People of the Longhouse, or in the language of the Iroquois, the Haudenosaunee.

Some Iroquois warriors desired to war with tribes of other nations. Others did not. Our clan separated from the main tribe, I was told, by a desire to lead a more peaceful life. Our elders chose to live far away from the River-Between-the-Mountains, to remove themselves from all conflicts. There were six or seven longhouses in our village. In each one were four or five families.

Our people faced the hardships of nature in the same way as did our forebears. They were patient, hardy, and cheerful. As far as I know, life had always been like this: one day following another, season after season. As a young child, I thought not of life in our village ever changing. Yet, life did change, and, for me, it changed overnight. Change for all my people came as well, not overnight but gradually and constantly. It was caused by people who came to our land on great ships.

14 Feb  HANDS

It snowes from tyme to tyme. Then, suddenly, the sunne comes through the haze, bringing its golden light through the smoke hole. Yet, I can tell that it is bitterly cold outside, for the thick skins that hang over the entryway have frozen stiff againe. But now, my hands are too stiff for more writing. They have served me well for a long time. Now I must treat them kindly. I will rest them for a day or two.

16 Feb  JACOB

My trusted friend, Jacob, did not like my plan to live alone in the wilderness. But search with me for the perfect place he did. That was six years ago in the sommer of 1686.

We looked with sadness at my abandoned village at Tahawus. The crumbling longhouses with barely a wall standing were overgrown with saplings. All was