Another Day in the Country
The Thanksgiving potlatch
© Another Day in the Country
American Indians, their lore and their customs, long have been fascinating to me. I don’t know many people from that culture — a handful — but I can read books.
When I read “The Indian Tipi, It’s History, Construction and Use,” by Reginald and Gladys Laubin, a book about their foray into an Indian nation and some of the things they’d learned, I decided that I needed to learn some of those lessons, too, and declared that I wanted to build an Indian tipi.
It took a while to get the poles — Mother’s Day and my birthday — but my husband got lodge pole pines cut, and I bought enough canvas from a boat outfitter to make a covering. This was only the beginning of my learning.
Boundaries was one of the first lessons. This tipi was mine. I declared that no one else went in without my permission once it was finished. I needed one place on our three acres in California where I could return and find it just as I’d left it.
That last sentence has a lot of hidden meaning. If you are wife, mother, or caretaker of a home, you know what I’m talking about. If the rest of those inhabiting the home aren’t picking up after you, helping with chores, learning how to do laundry and fold and put it away, you are violating someone else’s sacred space with your stuff.
The concept carries over to your yard, your town, the land — which also is sacred. You can extrapolate out to include the oceans and the universe. (I won’t mention, except briefly, that there is someone’s garbage at this very moment in the ocean and even in outer space, and it needs to be cleaned up!)
The next lesson was about things that are sacred — special, set apart, above criticism, dedicated. Sacred isn’t just about religion; it’s also about being entitled to respect — which includes people, your body, and a culture.
Because I’d just read the book, “There, There” by Tommy Orange, and felt so chagrined at how our country has disrespected Native Americans and their culture that I decided that this I was going to try to make amends in some small way Thanksgiving and lead my immediate family in a Thanksgiving potlatch —a gift-giving feast practiced by indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest.
I didn’t tell them it was a potlatch. I just said, “You’re invited for Thanksgiving dinner, and will all of you please bring something for our meal and a story — maybe a game you’d like to play, too.” We are a game-playing bunch.
Then, I told the men, ranging in age from 11 to 72, that this included them and “woe be unto” (direct quote from Scripture) the guy who gets his wife or mother to do their part.
The outcome of our day together was fantastic. Everybody brought something — Carol made dilly bread, Kristina brought green bean casserole, Jess made the turkey — which is quite a feat since she’s vegetarian. She didn’t shoot it, but she wrestled it into a pan and later admitted it “was not a Martha Stewart moment.”
My cousin Gary made some really good egg nog from scratch. He even went out and purchased the ingredients and made a video to prove to me he’d done it all.
Clayton, who is in 6th grade, made some wicked chocolate / oatmeal cookies. Madeline (2nd grade) helped her mom make sweet potatoes, LeeRoy brought a can of his favorite cranberry sauce, and I did the rest, which included welcoming the “pilgrims” in one of my fanciest Indian headdresses (which I collect). (It’s a small collection — two.)
“What is the best gift you’ve been given since last Thanksgiving?” I asked.
They had to think about it as we passed around the food.
The food was yummy. In good Indian (or German) tradition, there was enough left over for each of us to take some home for the next day.
Did I say it was wonderful? The best Thanksgiving ever, and we’ve had a lot of great Thanksgiving days.
For lots of years since coming back to Ramona, we’ve gone to Lawrence to spend the day with my cousin Joe and his family.
His wife, Janet, is the best of a lot of good cooks I know, and Joe always makes the mashed potatoes like his mom, Naomi Fike, and her mother before her, Leah Ehrhardt, used to make.
Last year, their family came to Ramona — Joe’s hometown — for Thanksgiving dinner with us. This year, they all met at the house of his oldest son, Ryan, house for their Thanksgiving feast.
In Ramona, Leah, my gram, was present at our potlatch Thursday by way of her pineapple / grape salad, as was Martha, my mom, with her sour cream gravy and Aunt Naomi with her mashed potatoes.
Maybe someday, when I’m gone, I’ll be at one of these Thanksgiving dinners again with my Indian headdress, on not just another day but on Thanksgiving Day in the country.