The Tao of Nookomis Read online

  SOMEONE FARTED in the sweat that night and although he wouldn’t admit it, we all knew who it was because he couldn’t help but start giggling.

  Did you hear the boogat?

  I did, Scottie, I did.

  A Place of Visions

  When they had completed the mending of nets, the boy and his father put them into fish boxes and brought the boxes down to the boat. They tinkered with the boat’s aging motor, the man explaining to the boy the numerous adjustments that needed to be made to ensure it could carry them safely out and back from a day on the big lake. He knew a time would come when Ron would need to know the old motor as intimately as he knew it. He knew as well that someday the boy would need to possess the skills to tear it apart and rebuild it and put it back together again. And he knew as well that someday the boy would also have to remove it and replace it with a new motor. So it was good that he got to know the boat and its workings now. And on this day as they bent over working on the motor, the father and his son talked and reminisced of other times and future times and times that would never be. Parts of the conversation were funny and laughter spilled out of the boat’s cabin and carried over the lake. There were always the stories about the father and his brother, Eddie, the boy’s uncle, when they were younger. Some of the stories began humorous and turned serious. Others were just the opposite. It was the father’s way to use humor to teach. And on this day of humorous and serious stories, the father at one point called his son by his Anishinaabe Ojibwe name, Beetwanakwad (Coming Cloud). Hand me the ratchet, Beetwanikwad. I need a Phillips screwdriver, Beetwanakwad. He would point with his lips to the needed tool. Point the Anishinaabe way. In a way it was a teasing. In a way it was serious. It was all of these things.

  The boy asked his father about the name. He had done this before, and it was not unusual. Again the story was told. It was a story as old as the boat motor.

  “One time when you were a little baby you got really sick. And we brought you into the rez clinic, and they gave you some medicine, but it didn’t do you any good. You had a fever and diarrhea. I remember your mom and me we didn’t know what to do. Mostly it was the diarrhea that bothered us. That can kill a baby because it dehydrates them. And you really stunk up the house with that diarrhea.”

  They both started laughing. Then the father’s voice became serious and he spoke again to his son.

  “And that went on for almost a week, and we were really getting worried. So one day your Uncle Eddie came over and he said something about maybe you should get an Indian name because in the old days the babies were always given Indian names so they wouldn’t get sick. Now up until that point, we didn’t know what else to do so we asked Eddie if he would give you a name. And he said he would.

  “Now we didn’t see him again for a couple of days but eventually he came over and said he had a name for you. And he reminded your mother that in the old days whenever someone was given their name there would be a big feast given by the family.

  “Now, we was pretty broke back then—”

  Ron had this mischievous look in his eyes and couldn’t help but interrupt, saying, “So what else is new?”

  The father smiled and unknowingly wiped some engine grease from his forehead. He continued the story.

  “I wasn’t working and your mom was cleaning a couple of houses for rich people over on Madeline Island and that was all the income we had, so all we had to eat was government commodities. So your mom opened one of those cans of commodity chicken, made some instant mashed potatoes and heated up a can of corn, and we had ourselves a feast.

  “Then Eddie started to speak Ojibwe and English mixed, but mostly Ojibwe. Now, I know what he said but I can’t tell it to you in Ojibwe. You see, I can understand our language, but I can’t speak it fluently. Then I remember Eddie leaning over you and taking you by the hand and he said he was giving you a name. A name he had dreamed, he said. And he said it and told us it meant Coming Cloud. That name means you have great potential. That you have promise both as an individual and as a member of the tribe.

  “So after that was done he had your mother put together a separate plate of food and he put some tobacco on it and took it out into the woods and offered it to the Great Spirit, or God or whatever he calls himself, or whatever. Now the next day you started to come out of it. Of course, Eddie says it was because you got that name. I think maybe it was something in the mashed potatoes.”

  They both laughed again.

  The father then reminded the boy that in the giving of a name was the duty of the person to try to live the ideals in it and that it was also an obligation upon the part of parents to remind their children of the deeper meaning of the name.

  “That’s why you’ve heard this story so many times. You need to be reminded all the time. One of my jobs as a parent is to do that.”

  And the father was thinking when he said that about how many times he had told that story and how the boy had grown and changed since he was a little baby. When Ron was a baby he would be in the house in his Indian swing and one of his parents would push it and soon he would be asleep. Sometimes his mother would sing lullabies, the same ones her mother sang when she was a baby. Then on warm days he would be taken outside to show him the blue of the sky and the many forms of clouds. There he also came to learn the sounds of wind and crickets and birds. Although neither Ron nor his father knew it, for many thousands of years this was the way that Ojibwe children were taught the art of observation, and of listening. Not simply listening, but the deeper meaning of listening. Not simply observing the obvious, but searching for meaning beyond the obvious.

  The father remembered all the children’s stories he had told to this young man. Stories for the fun of it and stories for a deeper message. Stories to enhance the imagination. He remembered his own father saying that in the telling of a story the children also learned to dream. That dreaming was the first way of having visions. That there was purpose in it.

  It was amazing to him that he had told the boy only once that he was never to utter his Indian name in Ojibwemowin. That was one thing Eddie told the boy as soon as he was old enough to understand. That for a person to speak their own Anishinaabe name was almost to be vain. That he was just a little boy when Eddie told him that and now he was a young man and never, never once had the boy said his Anishinaabe name. That he had never once heard him say Beetwanakwad.

  On that day after the pair grew bored of tinkering they stood on the pier and looked out over the lake. Less than a mile out was Basswood Island. It stood silent and beautiful and deep green against the blue of sky and water. And farther out were Madeline and Hermit and oak islands. Just several hours earlier, the father had asked his son to come with him down to the boat to help him work on the motor. That is all he had told him. But he had meant many other things.

  “Come with me, and we will share things. I will teach you the art of tinkering, a skill I have perfected from many years fishing with an old boat on the lake. We will spend this time together and get to know each other.”

  Before Ron and his father returned to their home, the boy looked over the side of the boat. The water was calm and he could see the image of himself in it. He gave himself a funny face. His image gave a funny face back. He looked at himself again. In the background was his father’s voice.

  “Ronnie. It’s time to majah (leave).”

  The boy looked at his image in the water.

  “See you later, Coming Cloud,” he whispered to himself.

  THEY LOADED THE TOOLS into the back of the pickup and jumped in the cab. It roared to life, and they jerked their way up a steep incline, then down the highway past federally approved pastel government housing. Then off the paved highway and up the dirt road toward their house. The boy was thinking it was Friday and that on the following Tuesday he would be returning to school. Returning to school and no longer able to fish or mend nets or tinker with boat motors except for weekends. Thinking that even that would soon end because of t
he approach of fall and winter. He looked toward his father, wanting to hold onto this time forever.

  “Dad, do you think we could go camping out on Basswood this weekend? You know, we haven’t camped out there since spring, and pretty soon it’ll be too cold to stay out there. Maybe we could hike to the other end of the island and camp near the old quarry. You remember … From there through the trees you can see Bayfield and Madeline. And if we camp there we won’t have anyone else near us because if there are any tourists camping on Basswood, they will be staying right next to the pier. How about it? Just you and me.”

  The father looked toward his son and smiled. He knew that he had all kinds of work to do during the weekend. There were nets to be pulled and set again, and nets to be mended. There was some serious tinkering to be done in the work shed. He had also promised his wife they would spend an evening at the casino. But that could be done during the day and evening on Saturday.

  “Sure, why not.”

  Because the father knew the time would come when a son would become an adult and leave his home. When he would no longer ask to spend time with his father. When the father would long for the company of his son.

  So that afternoon after they returned home, they began the preparations to go camping, or to be correct, Ron made preparations to go camping with his father. He found the sleeping bags in the closet in his room, hidden under a pile of old clothes awaiting a trip to the Goodwill store. A kettle, frying pan, some utensils (camp utensils, consisting of a hodgepodge of bent forks, oversized spoons, and butter knives that were no longer straight), flashlight, matches, plastic garbage bag, a knife—all directly from the kitchen. A roll of scented toilet paper from the bathroom. And where was the tent, he asked. The father told him it was right where it was supposed to be, behind the back seat in the pickup truck. Now for the food. Some potatoes, eggs, a can of Spam and some coffee. Candy bars. Somewhere mixed in the rustle of food going into the pack was his mother reminding her son he was only going to be gone for one night.

  “Remember to take the cell phone,” said his mother, handing him the phone. “Just in case I need to tell you something.”

  But it was more than that. It meant take the phone just in case I want to talk to you. Just in case a freak storm blows in, and I wonder if you are okay. Just in case there is an emergency and I need to find Eddie to go out there and get you. Just in case I want to call you. Just in case I miss you.

  So everything was stuffed into a pack and all of it together weighed enough to challenge any young weight lifter. When it came time to leave, the pickup fired up, and down the road they went, a father taking his son on an overnight adventure.

  A young man hanging onto time forever.

  They parked the truck next to the pier, and his father locked it up as if there was anything in it to steal. Ron pulled the pack out of the back of the truck and loaded it into the sixteen-foot aluminum boat they kept next to their fishing trawler, The Megan. His father handed him down an empty coffee can to dip excess water out of the back of the boat and indicated that today Ron would be the motor man. He said something about remembering to prime the motor this time and push the control to “start.” Apparently this was something the boy had forgotten before, based upon past adventures.

  After he had dipped out some rainwater, Ron pushed the priming bulb three times and pushed the control lever to start. It coughed and misfired several times. Then on the fourth pull it roared to life, proclaiming itself to the world with a pall of blue smoke. Soon they eased out away from the pier, then it was full speed out into the lake.

  The ride over to Basswood Island was quiet and relatively calm. There was a light chop and only the hint of a breeze. They rode in silence across the water because to talk would be to interrupt the beauty of the ride. The wind in their hair. The slap of the water against the bow. Gulls. The approach of the island and fading away of mainland, almost as if they themselves were standing still and the rest of the world was both moving away and toward them at the same time. Halfway to the island and to the right was Madeline Island and the town of Bayfield. Off in the haze and to the south was Chequamegon Bay and the city of Ashland. To the left was the channel separating Basswood and the mainland. And through the channel, they could see Oak and Hermit islands. Sailboats. Fish trawlers. Pond nets. Behind them and fading into the hills, the Ojibwe village of Red Cliff. This was more than a simple boat ride. It was a journey that told the story of this place.

  Soon they were approaching the pier on Basswood Island, and Ron nudged the boat up alongside it. He shut the motor down, and it coughed and sputtered and tried to keep running. His father jumped up and out of the boat and secured it with ropes at both the bow and stern. Ron handed the pack up to his father. He climbed out and stood on the pier, stretching as if he had just completed a long and treacherous journey. And he celebrated the end of this short journey the way all boys end all journeys.

  “I need to pee,” he said and headed into the bushes.

  FROM THE PIER there was a trail that began with a steep incline and then meandered its way to the far side of the island. It was late afternoon and by some stroke of good fortune there were no other boats at the pier. That meant there were no other campers. They took the slow climb up the trail, stopping once to rest. At the top of the hill was a clearing, the island’s camping spot, complete with a National Forest Service outhouse and several strategically placed fire pits. Here they turned and looked through the trees and down the hill toward the lake. Less than a mile away, resting in the mainland hills, was the village of Red Cliff. Two sailboats were headed toward the Bayfield slip under motor power. It was not uncommon for boats to run out of wind on late summer afternoons between Basswood and the mainland.

  “How about camping right here?” Ron wondered aloud, thinking only of the weight of the pack, forgetting completely about camping near the quarry. But his father mumbled, “Nah,” and they were off down the trail.

  They continued down the trail for a half mile, taking turns carrying the pack. Soon they came to the long-abandoned brownstone quarry, overgrown with bushes and trees and moss. There on a large block of stone they sat to rest, and the father told his son about the place. About how early in the century some of the islands had been mined for the brownstone, the huge blocks shipped by steamer to Chicago and Duluth to become buildings. That now there was only a large overgrown cavity to show for it and how in time the earth would heal itself. And the father didn’t say it but he was thinking about how time and circumstances had molded and changed the place. How their presence in the place at this time was just part of its story. He imagined an ancient sea pressing sand to stone. Of all the animals that had walked on it, eaten from it, and lived on it. He wondered about all the other people from other tribes and other times who had walked this trail, and who had lived and slept here. He had to ask himself, who would ever know that the stone of a building once nurtured life, or was once life itself? But he didn’t say anything of what he was thinking because the boy was young and might not understand.

  They continued the walk and soon came to the southeast side of the island. There they found a clearing and set up camp. It was a magical spot, close to the water yet hidden amongst the pines. It was not an approved National Park Service campsite, but they would make camp anyway. After all, his father said, the National Park Service had taken the land from the tribe against its wishes some years ago to establish their national lakeshore.

  “This was Ojibwe land once. In fact, part of this island was once your grandmother’s land. And as far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter that they say we gave it up, or signed it away.”

  There was conviction in what he said, and more than a hint of resistance. Historical mistrust.

  Ron’s father set up the tent and unpacked their provisions. He sent the boy on a foray for dry wood, and Ron made several trips into the bushes and returned each time with large armloads of branches and twigs. Then he found several large dry logs, perfe
ct for a late evening fire.

  They made dinner, something with fried potatoes and Spam, smoke, twigs, and mosquitoes. Ron’s father said it tasted French, and they both laughed. For dessert they each had a can of peaches out of the can. Dinner was followed by camp coffee.

  “Stronger than jail coffee,” his father said. There were secrets in what he said.

  Then they sat and talked about the end of summer and the father told his son about the coming of fall. Of the storms that come during October and November and the times he had been caught in the storms on a leaky old trawler named The Megan, whose motor needed weekly tinkering to keep it running. Whose owner needed an occasional storm so he would have stories to tell a son.

  “I remember one time we were out on the other side of Outer Island. Me and your Uncle Eddie. And that lake is so moody. When we had started out that day the weather was just fine. Sun was shining. Birds were chirping. Life was good.

  “Then we got out there and started pulling nets and pretty soon all hell broke loose. Wind and then rain and that little boat was just bobbing up and down. Waves about ten feet high and nowhere to go.

  “So we turned into the wind and started chugging to a protected area to sit it out, and of course the motor was missing and wanting to quit on us. And your mother was on the radio worried as hell and we were trying to keep the thing running and stay alive and talk to your mother all at the same time. And finally I said to your mom, ‘Why don’t you find someone else to talk to for a while?’

  “Well the minute I said that, we were in a full gale.”

  There were other stories of storms and all of them had a happy ending because there was a father and his son around an early evening campfire. That is the proof of a happy ending.

  When the father tired of fish and boat stories and the boy tired of asking questions, they sat quietly watching the fire. Now began a quiet time. A listening time. A watching time. The snap and sizzle of wood burning. Shadows created by its light. Warmth. A red and darkening sky. The first evening stars. The soft breeze that signals the beginning of night. A man and a boy staring into a fire the way people have looked into fires for many hundreds of thousands of years. Something old and almost primitive. They did this for a long time.