Ownership...
I have been haunted this week by a statement made to the Dawes Commission in 1902 by Monroe Butler, a Choctaw freedman. The Dawes Commission was named for Henry L. Dawes, appointed by President Grover Cleveland in 1893 to oversee the enrollment of individual Native Americans and divide tribal lands into allotments. It was thought at the time that eliminating the practice of communally held property and allocating individual farms would help tribal members assimilate into white culture and become more “civilized”. What it actually did, and why, is a topic for another day. What pertains to Mr. Butler is the fact that he was a former slave. And although he was probably of mixed ancestry, the Dawes Commission did not allow enrollment in more than one tribe, and as a further division, did not allow “freedmen”, slaves freed after the Civil War, to enroll with tribal members. They were enrolled on separate lists, if at all.
There were dozens of other rules and regulations and provisions pertaining to parentage, residence, marriage, etc. And in order to establish the authenticity of someone’s status, testimonies were taken from enrollees, family members, neighbors, and friends. Here is Mr. Butler’s statement:
“I am 49. I belonged to Tom Pitchlynn. My wife is dead. She was Easter and belonged to the LeFlores. My children are Henrietta, 15, George, 13, Mary, 20, and Joshua, 19.”
I belonged to…
Although I have read it a dozen times before, that phrase had a profound impact on me this week.
I have lived with rules and restrictions all of my life. So have you. We know what it’s like to “follow the rules” and “obey the law”. We have our own experiences with the consequences of disobedience. But being owned by someone is a very different concept. Ownership implies the right to control and dispose of the property that is owned. Ownership gives the owner all the power and the “owned” no choices at all. For slaves the consequence of disobedience was usually death or resale. Last year I read an interview with a woman who was sold three times. She was treated well as a “house slave”, but was not allowed to read or write, live in a place of her own choosing, or marry as she wished. And her brother, a field slave, was frequently beaten.
We’ve all read similar “slave stories” and seen them on the big and small screens. We are sorry “those things happened” and we accept that they were a part of our past that we now find abhorrent. However, if you are like I was a few years ago, you probably equate slavery with the Deep South, cotton plantations, and the Civil War. That’s what we learned in school. It wasn’t until I returned to Oklahoma and became involved in history and genealogy research that I realized how many “slave stories” originated right here in our own county in the not-so-distant past. My early ancestors owned slaves; later ones were friends of former slaves or went to school with the children of freedmen. The impact of slavery still affects descendents of freedmen who were denied tribal rights. Slavery wasn’t just “those people, over there, back then”. It was us…
I’m not sure where all of this knowledge and rambling leads to…except perhaps to a profound gratitude for the advantages of freedom. I pray that “I belonged to…” is a phrase never uttered again by any living person.
BTW, shortly after appearing before the Dawes Commission, Monroe Butler was shot and killed while plowing his field. It is believed that he was killed by some men that he had accused of stealing.
Faith, Hope, and Charity
The devotion that was read at yesterday’s meeting of the Caddo Civic and Cemetery Club was based on 1 Corinthians 13:13- “And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.” The verse is often quoted, liberally interpreted, and provides guidance to millions of Christians. It certainly correlates perfectly with the conclusion of the collect read at every meeting: “…and Oh, Lord God, let us forget not to be kind.” (For those of you who don’t know, as I did not before joining this group, a “collect” is a short prayer, often assigned to a particular day or season.) That mandate weighs heavy on my heart this morning.
February is the month of love. We’re reminded by advertising and sappy movies to show our sweethearts how much we adore them by showering them with candy, flowers, and perhaps something sparkly and expensive. This is often the month reserved for fund raisers, charitable donations, pledge letters, and church collections. People get engaged or married, or renew their vows in February. I’m one of those blessed to be born in the month of love. And of course I enjoy all of the hoopla and red hearts and chocolates that herald my special day…however…
A careful reading of 1 Corinthians indicates that it’s not the “candy and flowers in February” type of love that Paul encourages us to practice, but rather the daily expression of our true nature and Christian values: kindness. I like to think of kindness as the result of love, the action of love. I can be kind without receiving anything in return. I can be kind without being recognized for it.
I can be kind though others are not.
I can be kind simply because it’s the right thing to do.
Oh, Lord God, let me forget not to be kind.
Wisdom...
I’ve loved this since I was a teenager. There is so much thoughtfulness and truth in it.
Mending Wall
by Robert Frost
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."
Bird Notes...Caddo, 1883-84
Gary and I were talking with one of the volunteers at Hagerman about the abundance of quails that once roamed this area. She was unfamiliar with the bird study done at Caddo in 1883-84 (few people have heard of it) so I offered to make a copy for her. I glanced through it again because it has been several years since I last read it. There are many birds listed by Mr. Cooke that are either gone completely or no longer exist in large numbers. It didn’t surprise me to see that the Carolina Parrot, now extinct, was included in Mr. Cooke’s notes. And the notes of Mr. Audubon may explain why we no longer see them!
Birds of Oklahoma, 1883-84
Wells W. Cooke
- Conuropsis carolinensis. Carolina Paroquet.— According to the early naturalists, this species was formerly abundant throughout much of eastern Oklahoma. A sharp lookout was kept for it every time that the timbered districts were visited, but none was seen. A stuffed one was still preserved that had been shot near Caddo several years previous. In 1882 a large flock was seen about 18 miles from Caddo; other smaller flocks were reported from time to time, the last being January 15, 1884 on the Blue River about eight miles from Caddo. They were, of course, resident.
Audobon’s notes:
The Parrot does not satisfy himself with cockle-burs, but eats or destroys almost every kind of fruit indiscriminately, and on this account is always an unwelcome visitor to the planter, the farmer, or the gardener. The stacks of grain put up in the field are resorted to by flocks of these birds, which frequently cover them so entirely, that they present to the eye the same effect as if a brilliantly coloured carpet had been thrown over them. They cling around the whole stack, pull out the straws, and destroy twice as much of the grain as would suffice to satisfy their hunger. They assail the pear and apple-trees, when the fruit is yet very small and far from being ripe, and this merely for the sake of the seeds. As on the stalks of corn, they alight on the apple-trees of our orchards, or the pear-trees in the gardens, in great numbers; and, as if through mere mischief, pluck off the fruits, open them up to the core, and, disappointed at the sight of the seeds, which are yet soft and of a milky consistence, drop the apple or pear, and pluck another, passing from branch to branch, until the trees which were before so promising, are left completely stripped, like the ship water-logged and abandoned by its crew, floating on the yet agitated waves, after the tempest has ceased. They visit the mulberries, pecan-nuts, grapes, and even the seeds of the dog-wood, before they are ripe, and on all commit similar depredations. The maize alone never attracts their notice.
Do not imagine, reader, that all these outrages are borne without severe retaliation on the part of the planters. So far from this, the Parakeets are destroyed in great numbers, for whilst busily engaged in plucking off the fruits or tearing the grain from the stacks, the husbandman approaches them with perfect ease, and commits great slaughter among them. All the survivors rise, shriek, fly round about for a few minutes, and again alight on the very place of most imminent danger. The gun is kept at work; eight or ten, or even twenty, are killed at every discharge. The living birds, as if conscious of the death of their companions, sweep over their bodies, screaming as loud as ever, but still return to the stack to be shot at, until so few remain alive, that the farmer does not consider it worth his while to spend more of his ammunition. I have seen several hundreds destroyed in this manner in the course of a few hours, and have procured a basketful of these birds at a few shots, in order to make choice of good specimens for drawing the figures by which this species is represented in the plate now under your consideration.
Trees
I’ve probably mentioned more than once that I have an affinity for trees. I spent a great deal of my childhood walking in the woods, climbing trees to escape my brothers, picking fruit from trees, and resting in the shade of trees. I love big trees, little trees, and trees that some consider merely “big bushes”. The first photo I took for my first photography class was a photo of a tree limb. I got an A.
I suppose our family also has a tree history. Generations of our family have raised fruit and nut trees. One of my uncles has acres of pine trees. There have been many, many carpenters and wood carvers in our family. One of my mother’s ancestors was even killed by a falling tree. Recently widowed, she left ten children, including a six-month-old. They were taken in and raised by their grandfather.
Even though we live on the prairie there are plenty of trees to enjoy. Yesterday was a fine day to take a little walk and visit with the trees. One of the things that impressed me was that trees not only provide food and shelter for man and beast, but when they die they return to the earth and replenish the soil. I was happy to photograph several phases of tree life.
Eula Parker
I was sorting through some old letters and papers yesterday and came across this little item.I don’t when Eula wrote it or how long I’ve had it, but I loved reading it again. I may have posted it before, but new readers will enjoy it. Eula was a great friend and neighbor. I remember visiting her as a child. She always gave me cookies and encouragement. Years later, as her neighbor, I enjoyed many, many hours of gardening with her.
Eula and Mollie.
Meditations of a Gardener
As I work in my garden this morning,
I am completely surrounded by precious memories.
There are the iris beds. Many of them are from the garden of my
mother-in-law. I can just hear her telling me the colors as we dig them
up and about the people who gave them to her.
Then there is the Rose, Oklahoma, with color showing in its buds, a tribute to our green thumbs, because it is a cutting from the bush standing under her bedroom window.
The French lilac, standing so proudly in my flowering hedge, came from my grandfather’s old home place. With the help of my precious mother, we dug up the roots, then had to wait several years for it to bloom. But it is worth all the waiting when its fragrance drifts through the evening air as I work in my garden.
Eula's home on Liberty Hill.
The broad leaves of the white lily, that has never boomed, remind me of a happy trip my mother and I took to East Texas to visit her cousin.
I’m still waiting for the blooms while they are tending heaven’s garden.
The pink rose standing at the corner of the house, is from a dear neighbor, gone these many years; but, each spring as the pink rose puts forth its buds, before any other, I’m reminded of her love and fellowship.
Eula's garden is behind me.
Everywhere I look there are plants from my mother’s yard,
intertwined with shrubs and plants from friends still with me,
all reminding me I’m loved and not alone.
Perhaps someday I’ll be a precious memory in somebody’s garden.
E. Parker (died 2014)
It takes a village...
Fifth grade- Elaine, top left.
This morning I’m feeling especially grateful for the many classmates, neighbors, teachers, friends, colleagues, pastors, employers, and other “non-family” people who made an impact on my early life, influenced the choices I made, and guided me through some challenging experiences. None of them had any obligation to befriend me, support me, or encourage me, but they did it anyway. And more than a few doctors and nurses literally saved my life and made it possible for me to be here at all. Yes, I give the ultimate power to God, but he uses some wonderful people to fulfill his purposes.
We sometimes neglect to thank the village that raised us, so this is my attempt to acknowledge and thank mine. It isn’t possible to list them all and many are still making my life better. However, I would like to recognize two who have already departed: Elaine my best friend from fifth grade until cancer took her life in 1986 and Doris, my co-worker for three years, my friend for thirty-five years. I still miss them…
