A Proud but Forgotten People

A vision came upon a Paiute prophet:
Immerse all the Nations in a Ghost Dance.
To do so will bring back the ancestor’s cachet;
And amid the sacred hills the buffalo will again prance.

Dreams harbored by deluded and tired old men,
For haven’t you heard a fortnight ago they murdered Sitting Bull?
Snuffing out the Creator’s best time and time again;
More than mere flesh and blood those bastards stole.
                                                
Discard your dreams and dances of old
For the blue devils avenge old yellow hair’s demise.
They use the same shovels to bury the slaughtered as to dig for gold,
Never a moment’s respite from their malignant greed and vile lies.

In a bleak and forlorn corner of South Dakota
A monument stands at Wounded Knee site in commemoration.
The once proud and mighty Nation of Lakotah
Have been pushed into an abyss called Pine Ridge Reservation.

1973 Takeover and standoff (71 days) of Wounded Knee

Genocidal Results of the Failed American Indian Policies of the United States Government

MORTALITY:

• Lakotah men have a life expectancy of less than 44 years, lowest of any country in the World (excluding AIDS) including Haiti.
• Lakotah death rate is the highest in the United States.
• The Lakotah infant mortality rate is 300% more than the U.S. Average.
• One out of every four Lakotah children born are fostered or adopted out to non-Indian homes.
• Diseases such as tuberculosis, polio, etc. are present. Cancer is now at epidemic proportions!
• Teenage suicide rate is 150% higher than the U.S national average for this group.

DISEASE:

• The Tuberculosis rate on Lakotah reservations is approx. 800% higher than the U.S national average.
• Cervical cancer is 500% higher than the U.S national average.
• The rate of diabetes is 800% higher than the U.S national average.
• Federal Commodity Food Program provides high sugar foods that kill Native people through diabetes and heart disease.

POVERTY:

• Median income is approximately $2,600 to $3,500 per year.
• 97% of our Lakotah people live below the poverty line.
• Many families cannot afford heating oil, wood or propane and many residents use ovens to heat their homes.

UNEMPLOYMENT:

• Unemployment rates on our reservations are 80% or higher.
• Government funding for job creation is lost through cronyism and corruption.

HOUSING:

• Elderly die each winter from hypothermia (freezing).
• 1/3 of the homes lack basic clean water and sewage while 40% lack electricity.
• 60% of Reservation families have no telephone.
• 60% of housing is infected with potentially fatal black molds.
• There is an estimated average of 17 people living in each family home (many only have two to three rooms). Some homes, built for 6 to 8 people, have up to 30 people living in them.

DRUGS AND ALCOHOL:

• More than half the Reservation’s adults battle addiction and disease.
• Alcoholism affects 9 in 10 families.
• Two known meth-amphetamine labs allowed to continue operation. Why?

INCARCERATION:

• Indian children incarceration rate 40% higher than whites.
• In South Dakota, 21 percent of state prisoners are American Indians, yet they only make up 2% of the population.
• Indians have the second largest state prison incarceration rate in the nation.
• Most Indians live on federal reservations. Less than 2% of Indians live where the state has jurisdiction!

THREATENED CULTURE:

• Only 14% of the Lakotah population can speak the Lakotah language.
• The language is not being shared inter-generationally. Today, the average age of a fluent Lakotah speaker is 65 years.
• Our Lakotah language is an Endangered Language, on the verge of extinction.
• Our Lakotah language is not allowed to be taught in the U.S. Government schools. http://www.republicoflakotah.com/genocide/
 

Please take a moment and visit the website http://friendsofpineridgereservation.org

A Frame of Mind

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, ev’rywhere you go…” I hear old Bing croon in my head more and more as the big day approaches. A few years ago someone asked me how was my Christmas. Rather than promptly retorting with the expected great or wonderful, I paused and thought for a moment and then shrugged, “Okay, I guess. I find as I grow older memories of Christmases past give me more pleasure.” Being an old soul he nodded and I could see he understood.

As a child I believed in the two most sacred tenets of the holiday: Baby Jesus and Santa Claus. Both icons personified goodness, kindness, and generosity, along with possessing the superpowers to fulfill every child’s wish. Possibly within the whimsical meanderings of a youngster’s developing psyche they are somehow one and the same. Understandable, for many homes displayed the hallowed crèche underneath a Christmas tree adorned with ornaments decorated with the more commercial symbols of the season.

After my children had grown I could no longer vicariously anticipate Santa’s late night visit and the following morning’s site of an astonishing array of gifts wondrously displayed under the tree. Like many parents I possess a myriad of photographs of moments frozen in time of the expressions of awe and delight on the faces of my children as they excitedly unwrapped gift after gift. To think of all that exhausting preparation and toil spent in a few frenzied moments.

Now I find myself enjoying the simpler aspects of the season. Christmas trees and festive lights top my list of seasonal trappings. Simple and tasteful, mind you, not the carnival trappings some choose to bombard their homes with. A little evergreen embellished with a few twinkling lights can kindle a little Christmas cheer. Even Christmas cookies painstakingly decorated are a source of pleasure both to look at and to eat. Viewing old Christmas movies can also bring back that old holiday spirit. And until I have the pleasure of my own grandchildren (?) the excitement and anticipation within the eyes of other’s children does bring back some of that old holiday zeal. As for the real meaning of Christmas, well, I certainly can’t say, but a quote from my dad’s favorite holiday movie, Miracle on 34^th Street (1947 version), does make me ponder: “Oh, Christmas just isn’t a day, it’s a frame of mind.”

Keith Richards for President

Keith Richards was awarded the prestigious Norman Mailer Prize for Distinguished Biography 2011, for his autobiography, Life. This honor puts him in the same club as such esteemed Nobel laureates as Dr. Elie Wiesel, 1986 Nobel Peace Prize; Toni Morrison, 1993 Nobel Prize in Literature; and Orhan Pamuk, 2006 Nobel Prize in Literature, all awarded likewise with a Mailer prize. I don’t think Sir Mick will be able to top this one.

I have fervently followed the Stones for decades. While the erotic aerobics of Mick Jagger kept many mesmerized, I was always held spellbound by Keith Richards. I mean, c’mon, Keith Richards comprises the heart of the band (Brian Jones was its soul), pumping out dynamic riffs that have energized audiences past and present. Keith Richards embodies rock n roll like no other ever has or ever will.  

Maturity, or perhaps the awareness of the odds he has beaten to still be among the living, has mellowed his once infamous lifestyle. Watching interviews given over the last few years one can appreciate the intelligence that flashes, usually though humor, which he possesses. What makes him more intriguing as he ages is his appearance; if one saw him on the street and did not recognize him they might mistake him for a homeless schizophrenic, mumbling senseless prattle. But to those of us who know of him his eccentricities colorfully manifest his creative genius. 

He did not actually write his autobiography, he fully acknowledges that and gives well deserved credit to author James Fox. However he provided the material, the stories, and the insight which reveal the life and times of one of the founders of the greatest rock and roll band on earth. Long live Keith Richards, or as my daughter’s tee shirt proclaims, “Keith Richards for President", or in my book, king, pope, emperor, or anything else he chooses to be.

                                                                                  

While My Guitar Gently Weeps

I'm So Tired,  I'm Only Sleeping,  It Won't Be Long,  Good Night.

Imagine,  Across the Universe,  There's a Place:  Strawberry Fields Forever.

Here There and Everywhere,  Free as a Bird.  Do You Want To Know A Secret?

All You Need is Love

Jo's Diamonds

The newest addition to the complex,
 The Diamond Jo National River Ctr

I spent Sunday afternoon with a fellow history buff roaming through the National Mississippi River Museum and Aquarium. After all was said and done it cost a mere fifty four million to transform the modest original museum into a sprawling urbane complex located in the Port of Dubuque. The museum boasts aquariums (both fresh and salt water) replete with sea life from both north and south waters along with various live critters that inhabit the area. Part of the new edition consists of a state of the art 3D/4D theatre, concession stand included, which vends popcorn and overpriced jujus. I do understand that the times, they are a changin’, but I miss the old setup.

The Woodward Riverboat Museum
(before National River Museum)

Housed in the old Iowa Iron Works (later renamed Dubuque Boat and Boiler Works) the Woodward Riverboat Museum, in my mind, comprises the heart of the museum. But alas, this has undergone changes over the last decade. Gone is the collection of diverse artifacts that were painstakingly compiled over many years by Richard Herrmann, who initially displayed his treasure trove in the Museum of Natural History which was housed in his private residence on Central (Clay) Avenue. At one time the eccentric gentleman scholar displayed the remains of both Julian Dubuque and the Mesquakie chief, Peosta in his home. In 1897 he was the driving force behind the funding and construction of a permanent resting place for both city fathers.

The crude lead mine that was constructed to instruct and to allow the pseudo exploration of a genuine mine of Spain has been transformed into Huck Finn’s Cave. I guess the powers that be are going to use the Mark Twain angle to their full advantage. The stunning painting entitled Early Settlers by Bertrand Adams, a Webster City, Iowa native and artist commissioned by the WPA, still presides over the premises, however the collection of paintings done by local artists has been relocated elsewhere. The old building has retained the River of Dreams Theatre which features a 15 minute film spanning the impact of the River on the area narrated by Garrison Keillor which along with the log roll enhanced by mirrors entertained my children years ago. The authentic native garb and artifacts have been relocated to the museums newest acquisition, the old Diamond Jo Casino portside, now renamed the Diamond Jo National River Center.

The Woodward Riverboat Museum houses a fantastic display of historical artifacts, displays, and information regarding boat building and their uses. Joseph “Diamond Jo” Reynolds, entrepreneur and steamboat owner, relocated his offices from Fulton, Illinois to Dubuque in 1874. Mr. Reynolds portrait can be viewed in the museum’s National River’s Hall of Fame. The Sprague, aka Big Mama of the Mississippi, was built on the premises in 1901. This vessel set a world record for towing 60 barges of coal, a world-wide record that still stands today. A scaled down replica of the vessel is on display as well as various smaller authentic (and not so authentic) river crafts of various periods.

Before the National River Museum came to be, you entered the building via humble wooden plank stairs. Now it is connected to the new building and you just glide right in from inside. The first thing my eyes instinctively search for is the counter my dad use to sit behind. The counter of course is no longer there. After his retirement from the paint business my dad found a home down at the museum, greeting visitors, spewing information on local history, and guiding elementary school kids through the exhibits, regaling them with his fun grandpaesque antics. Back then when I would take my kids to the museum they were going to “Grandpa’s Museum.” My dad, now 87, still works there, regaling and informing countless visitors from all over the planet. That man belongs in the National River’s Hall of Fame.

After our sojourn to the museum we walked across the parking lot to the Diamond Jo Casino for a beer. For shame, Dubuque, don’t you have better things to build and tout down at the historic port? Yes, I know, important revenue, but at what cost and where does all the money really go? But that’s another blog.

1302

Whenever I drive past Allison Henderson Park I glance down the street to catch a glimpse of my childhood home.  The rambling structure, painted a pale yellow, beckons me at times to pay homage. So I turn right and enter the Twilight Zone.

The houses on the block stand in silent sentry, the street devoid of the motley crew of my era.  No matter what season or time of day I have yet to spot anyone. Is this a ghost neighborhood perhaps; existing only in the muddled recesses of my mind? If I park my car in the driveway and walk along the winding narrow walk, past the white lilac bush to the left and the bridal’s wreath to the right, around to the front yard and enter the porch will everything come to life? Perhaps someone will pop out from under the front porch, a dark snug place with blankets spread over the hard dirt floor, and scare the living daylights out of me.

My father lived in this house as a child; family lore has it that he was born in the front bedroom (the very room my sister and I shared). However that could not be for the house was built in 1925, a year after my father’s birth. My parents acquired the home from my dad’s mother, my beloved Nana, in 1960 and settled their thriving brood within its familial walls. Sitting regally on a corner lot the property served as the hub for the neighborhood kids. And keep in mind this was back in the day when families bore more than today’s statistical 2.5; needless to say, for half a century 1302 with its spacious back yard played host to many a hyped up on kool-aid, Wonder bread and graham crackers kid.

Besides the cramped quarters under the front porch we kids held the greenroom as our domain. The room, aptly named for the color of it roughhewn stone walls, was situated under the upper and lower back porches which were added to the house after WWII. Entry into this secluded chamber consisted of an outside door which could be padlocked from the inside. I recall countless initiations into secret clubs that transpired in this hallowed room (and according to unnamed sibs who know who they are, sexual initiations too). As we grew older the musty room hosted adolescent beer parties, pot soirées, and a few hallucinogenic trips. Yes, I know who you are.

Fortunately my father owned a paint and wallpaper business fore this allowed him to inexpensively restore the magnificent oak wood floors and sundry woodwork. After this extensive task was completed he went to work rewallpapering the kitchen, dining, and living rooms on the first floor and then onto the four bedrooms and one bathroom (yes, one bathroom for seven people in those days). When I moved in at the tender age of four my sister and I were awarded the master front bedroom which was papered in a flowery pattern accented with lace curtains, reminiscent of the forties. By the times the 60’s came to an end the walls had been papered with a bold red, white and blue psychedelic flower pattern and the beautiful oak floor covered with a red shag carpet. A few years later (after my sister left for college) my dad let me pick out an exquisite red and white toile wallpaper depicting scenes of gentile French aristocrats lolling about. Pretty impressive taste for a young girl I must say.

As my father labored to enhance the inside my mother’s artistic expression decorated the outside. Two rock bordered gardens enhanced with colorful explosions of petunias, pansies, marigolds, impatiens and zinnias lined the front walk. Various floras nestled against the front of the house along with a thriving wild rose bush (which was taken out late one night after Mr. Donovan up the street neglected to properly brake the laundry truck he used after hours). The shady side of the house was edged with fragrant lily of the valley. Continue on down the steps past the notorious greenroom and you were greeted by a vibrant display of tiger lilies (whose leaves Pammy Wiederhold ate for salad during a session of playing house, consequently spending the night violently throwing up). And last but not least were the regal lilac bushes which bordered the backyard, providing a buffer from the bustle of the alley. They were a lavender hue except for the aforementioned white lilac, the queen of the yard, which stood in the center of the lawn. And with this queen there lived a king, one mighty gigantic cotton wood tree which snowed cotton throughout the neighborhood every summer, causing angst among neighboring householders. But any complaints regarding the gifts of his majesty fell on deaf ears for this tree was too noble to be cut down, end of discussion.

On the south corner of the property grew a strange looking tree, twisting limbs and strange flowers whose sweet liquor was sucked out by youngsters and humming birds alike. The tree’s anatomy presented the perfect perch for a tree house. Up the trunk boards were nailed to gain access to the wood floor constructed by the boys (pre-women’s lib). To the right and across the driveway grew a mulberry tree, mecca to the birds and a few children who never bothered to wash the bird droppings off the tart berries; wiping them off on one’s clothing proved good enough to the chagrin of many a harried mother. And last but certainly not least, nestled close to this food source, stood an ancient fir tree, fun to climb if one overlooked the fine splinters that shed off its bark. I swear this tree was brilliantly lit up at Christmas time when my grandmother still lived there; a memory or a dream, I’m not sure.

In 1978 my parents decided to sell and move to a smaller abode fore they were getting older, the kids were gone, and the house and its environs were understandably just too much work. Gone forever were the backyard parties, the festive holiday gatherings, and the commotion of many excitable kids. It was sold to another family, not related, and forever lost to the clan. They resided there briefly; maybe too much area to keep up. They sold it to a childless couple who, heaven forbid, gutted much of the inside and recreated it into something entirely different. One wonderful detail they added, however was bestowing upon the dwelling 2.5 bathrooms, a little tidbit of information I discovered online.

Mulberry tree in forefront, fir tree no longer there. Cotton wood trunk in back

Author's Note:  I did check with my dad regarding the house; he was indeed born in the front bedroom in 1924 for the house was built in 1922.  End of discussion.