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How we managed to raise the
children was always a miracle to me. I joked that we were always two weeks
away from total poverty and on occasion the expression wasn’t just a
thought but reality when one or the other of Rodney’s jobs ended. Thank
heaven for workman’s insurance with a company. There was always enough for
milk and bread until the next job came around. Once in a while when we
were just down to nothing off we would go to Dallas again to work for a
short time and as long as I could stand the city.
The time at the Kingdom
Hall gave me what could be a drink of cool water free from competitive and
racial problems. We made friends with all races and there was no division
and this always kept me alive in believing there could be a solution to
wars and hatred between nations.
The Myriad Convention
Center at Oklahoma City was where a lot of the yearly gatherings were
held. Congregations from a great numbers of a particular district were
meeting together. This is where I was content to sit through lectures from
the Bible. It was always a wonderful time because not only did I get
treasured physical rest but inevitably I would see someone I hadn’t seen
for years and sometimes even from the time I was a child.
The tall slender dark
complexioned man was standing a short distance from me. The expanse of the
place was always a wonder to me. How in the world could there be any
chance meeting by anyone, but there was. I noticed him because if there
was no identification of clothing or something you couldn’t tell what race
a person might be. His tie was the broadcloth fabric so many of the Native
American people wore. It was a plain dark blue in the classic wool, woven,
texture and on the very edge were the color to be seen on broadcloth, a
bit of yellow, a line of red and all with a soft line created by the
weaving of the fabric.
“What tribe are you?” I
boldly asked.
When he spoke, there was no
doubt in my mind he was, indeed, Native American. He stood quietly for a
moment and looked off into the distance as if he were at the edge of seem
tall bluff on the prairie gazing out over it.
“I’m Choctaw.” He answered
and then only the reply. No other information was forthcoming as is
characteristic.
“Are you married?” Again I
asked in a direct way and had no apologies to make for that because it is
the way of the Native American. No forked tongue here, just speech aimed
as sure as the mark of an arrow.
“She’s over there.” He
turned his whole body and tilted his head slightly toward the place where
his wife was sitting. I wanted to smile because sometimes Ponca people
used to point with their lips.
So it was we became friends
and some way or another we would meet again once in a while. Once, even,
they invited us to a fun dance and party when their teen-age children were
alive and joyful with that association there at Cushing, Oklahoma. An old
time fiddle player met my request to play the song, “The Eighth of
January" which had played during my youth by my Grandmother and her
brother William Collins. The tune was like fire to the gathering and
instantly there were people who couldn’t keep their feet still. The song
was later put to lyrics, “They fired their guns but the British Kept a
Comin.”
Here is the tune if you are
musically inclined:
http://www.folkofthewood.com/page4330.htm
http://www.niehs.nih.gov/kids/lyrics/battleof.htm
Maybe it is as the learned
folks say, “Religion is an Opium of the People,” but if this is so what a
sweet relief it is from the hardness of what the common people must go
through just to survive and that isn’t with the addition of any illnesses
or other condition peculiar to this time in history. |
