Leatherlips Curse

Time for the Annual Muirfield Memorial PGA Golf Tournament in my neck of the woods. It is said that Jack Nicklaus built his course on Wyandot Indian burial grounds, and that the tournament is cursed by Chief Leatherlips. It is certainly peculiar that every year, golfers and spectators are drenched with pounding rain. Could it be that Central Ohio just gets a lot of rain this time of year? Possibly. 

  

Leatherlips

Wyandot warrior 

There were signal trees,

bent, tied as sapling maples,

marking the sacred burial ground

of the Wyandot.

They grew into silent curled trunks,

respected by the Sells brothers

and their settlers;

words were their bond.

Two hundred years later:

no one remembers.

The chief sings a valedictory chant,

song of the living dead,

laughs as he calls wind from the Scioto,

rain to avenge his people.

Strident golfers run for cover

in shiny Range Rovers;

spectators under umbrellas

watch torrents of answered prayer. 

tk/May 2014



Masterfully read by R.A.D. Stainforth... 

Magi

Natives, Slavs, dark Irish, moan

for elsewhere, sigh like an accordion―

they hover with snake eyes,

offer melancholy and vodka.

Smoke rises from their pipes,

twists the many places before

with all the next stations―

part boxcar, part gypsy wagon.

They swaddle in babushka, braid bone

in my hair, rock me in peat and hay,

croon lullabies of painted roses.

I am colicky―sleep takes a long time.

I dream of conjurers, hypnotists

whispering  a distant star―

a scent of madness and resin candles,
the raven-smooth face of the Black Madonna. 

tk/March 2014



R.A.D. Stainforth melts my words like candle wax... 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

*The Sleeping Gypsy, 1897, by Henri Rousseau

My DNA results...accidentally on purpose...

Last week the results from my mtDNA (maternal line) test arrived. My maternal Great-Great Grandmother was said to have been full-blood Cherokee. Like most Native American roots, it's hard to document on paper. Family Tree DNA already had my sample, so all I had to do was order an upgrade.

After eight weeks of anticipation, the results finally came in, not only confirming my Native American heritage from my mother's line, but also an unexpected percent of Ukrainian!  My main maternal links in order of percentage are: English, Irish, and Native American.

The Ukrainian connection explains a lot...my love of winter, melancholy, poetry, Russian icons, vodka...and maybe even why I recently bought a vintage student accordion, which I am slowly learning how to play. I find this all very fascinating.



* I snapped this pic accidentally on purpose

Papoose

R.A.D. Stainforth's beautifully poignant recitation...

Clouds play out,
time-lapsed and furious,
above a pulsing angiogram –
the tree of life.

There is no canoe.

Only the river holds me,
colicky, in her arms, 
gentle enough to keep my face
above the water.

Papoose at her mercy.

I float, unable to resist the current,
listen closely 
to her ancient lullaby.

She is my mother.
I don't need to know why.

tk/ July 2012

Join The Mag creative writing group. 

furry head things

It all started, when my daughter borrowed one of artist Nelson Shanks' props for a Halloween costume. It was a quirky-cool vintage ermine collar, complete with head and feet, that she wore, not around her neck, but on her head, Cleopatra style.

Apparently, Shanks was so taken by the critter on her head, that he painted one of his models wearing it, in the same way.

I thought it might be fun to embrace my Native American DNA with the furry-head thing, as well.  Crazy? Yeah, I'm not quite right in the head, fur or not, but I feel the tingle of my foremothers' smiles.

The Curse of Chief Leatherlips

Wyandot warrior

It's Leatherlips season again at Willow Manor. Native American Wyandot Chief Leatherlips was executed 201 years ago, June 1, 1810, on the banks of the Scioto River, in the general vicinity of Willow Manor. 

This chief was called "Leatherlips" because he was known to be trustworthy; his word was his bond. He was friendly with white settlers in and around Dublin, Ohio, including the early resident Sells brothers, and was a local fixture at their new Black Horse Tavern. 

Leatherlips' Wyandot people relocated to Northwest Ohio, and were plagued by many mishaps, including disease. They blamed Leatherlips for their turn of unfortunate luck, returning to Dublin to escort him to their northern encampment. When he refused, his fellow Wyandots accused Leatherlips of witchcraft, and pronounced the sentence of death, executing him by tomahawk. 

This time of year is also our local Muirfield Memorial PGA Golf Tournament. It is said that Jack Nicklaus built his course on sacred Wyandot Indian burial grounds, and that the tournament is cursed by Chief Leatherlips. It is certainly peculiar that every year, golfers and spectators are drenched with torrents of rain. Could it be that Central Ohio just gets a lot of rain this time of year? Possibly.

dark elixir

(mə-lăs'ĭz) 
n., pl., molasses.
A thick syrup produced in refining raw sugar and ranging from light to dark brown in color.

I love any recipe containing rich, dark molasses. Some time back, I was quite surprised when one of my European blog friends had never heard of such a thing.  I didn't realize it was such an American commodity.  This week, I stumbled upon a recipe for Indian Pudding.  Of course, the name alone made my Cherokee DNA tingle, but it also contains a double treat:  molasses and cornmeal.  This might be considered a fall or winter dish, since it is delightfully earthy, rich and spicy. Since they are my favorite months of the year, I celebrated in my usual quirky way, by making it on the first day of spring. It was delicious. And still cool enough in Central Ohio to enjoy it while wearing woolly socks.

Indian Pudding

1 cup yellow cornmeal
4 cups milk, heated, but not boiling
2 eggs, beaten
3 ounces of finely minced suet (Okay? Fresh out; used butter. Isn't this what birds eat?)
1/2 cup sugar
2/3 cup molasses
3/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp ground ginger
1/8 tsp ground allspice
1/4 tsp cinnamon

1/8 tsp freshly ground nutmeg (this is always fun)
1/4 tsp ground cloves

Preheat oven to 300 degrees F, butter an eight inch baking dish (I used a 9 inch round stoneware). Gradually add the cornmeal to the milk and stir; mix until thickened. Cool slightly, fold in the eggs. Add the remaining ingredients and mix well. Pour into baking dish and bake for 2 hours.  Serve hot with vanilla ice cream.

Don't forget, my new chapbook, Patina, is available for pre-order.  I have an advance sales period of six weeks, before the pressrun is determined.  If you are interested in purchasing a copy, it would help me tremendously if you would pre-order a copy now.  Click the book image on my sidebar or the link below.  Thanks so much for your invaluable support, my friends. You're the best. 

FINISHING LINE PRESS PRE-ORDER

embracing my Native American DNA

sepia saturday, we are who we were

In the last several years of genealogical research, I discovered my maternal Great-Great Grandmother, Mahala Ray, born in 1812, is said to have been full-blooded Cherokee. This is almost impossible to prove on paper, considering many Native Americans carefully hid their ethnic roots, completely disappearing into white families, to avoid atrocities such as the Trail of Tears. The word "squaw" was an epithet of utmost disgust. Many census takers presumed them to be white, and recorded them so in the records.

Mahala was born in Tennessee and spent most of her life in Jackson County. She married William E. Smith, had nine children, was widowed, and then married her widower neighbor James Spivey, 37 years her senior. Their son, George Washington Spivey is my Great Grandfather. Sadly, other than this, I know nothing else about her.

"We have come to understand that who we are, is who we were," said Anthony Hopkins, in the role of John Quincy Adams, at the climactic moment of Steven Spielberg's Amistad. This haunting quote from the film has often made me wonder exactly how much influence DNA, as well as the life experience of our ancestors, have on who we are today.

Pioneer life was harsh and childbirth unending. I would love to know Mahala's dreams, her fears, and what bearing her ethnicity had on her life. I also can't help but wonder what effect her life has on mine, apart from the obvious things, like the color of my eyes and hair. My DNA is tingling to know, since her story is also part of my story.

Family Tree DNA has my sample, on which I plan having additional tests run, to check for Native American genes. I'll be sure to keep you posted on the results. This would confirm the oral history that's been handed down through the generations.

vintage postcard from my collection

Every man is a quotation from all his ancestors.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

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