Gazing across the vast and dusty Klethla Valley, my young eyes saw the boundaries of my world where the looming Black Mesa meets the sky, blue and eternal. The last stubborn remnant of snow patches hid away beneath the thick junipers. The sun traveled ever so slightly back towards the north; warming days reminded us that planting time was upon us soon.
I saw and participated in these changes of seasons in our exodus from one sheep camp to another. It was always an exciting time. Chickens and cats were caught and bagged for the trip across the valley, out where the soil is richer. We moved with seasons and it was always a time of promise for yet another good bounty of the cornfield.
We moved with the changes of the moon. “Ha nii baaz.” Full moon, Da ‘yii t,aa. New promising crescent, A’nnaano Dtaa’. It was a time when our nocturnal kin covered his face to wipe his tear of pain, or tears of joy in our efforts. This is the moon that beckons the Earth Mother to receive seeds. This we must do in her honor and respect. In my young and innocent hand I held the seeds of our next year: our sustenance. Into the damp earth I placed the promises with silent prayers and coaxing the gods, “Please grow these.” I placed them always wearing turquoise, a symbol of elusive moisture—turquoise somewhere upon the body, with respect.
The quantity and quality of your crop is always the test of your worth and standing in the community of your clan. Dirt beneath the fingernails is a constant in the summer.
Na Haas dzaan Shi ma’, Sha inil, dtaa’. Into this ground, My mother the Earth, I entrust my honor, My truth. My wholeness. Feed the promise.
I gazed across the quiet and vast horizon of my world. The faint and abrasive air days before the dust storm arrived were disconcerting, unlike a shaman’s vision of your misfortunes at the mind of skinwalkers. You hoped into power, and thus power into hope. The dust storm scatters our prayers to the Wild Gods. A faint curtain of dust hung far to the southwest from where the wind will awaken.
Summer away from the brutality of B.I.A. boarding school was treasured and hoarded in moments; moments in movements as planting offered. Delivering newborn lambs and constant hoeing in the field provided memories which sustained us another school year away from home.
As the young ears of corn began to thrive above ground, work really began. Hoes were sharpened and barrels of water were hauled and wires stretched. My job as a shepherd was to watch the flock with greater care. A brief distraction and all your labor of hope would be chewed to the nub. We did not want that. All activities were centered on the tendering of the young crop.
My brothers and I made our presence in the cornfield daily. We retired to our sheepskin bedding, dusty and aching from the day’s labor. We dreamt between rows of cornstalks. We heard empty barrels in wagon beds and tasted grittiness in our stew. This was years before commodity food programs arrived on the rez. After that, good intent made it convenient to neglect many cornfields afterwards.
I still carry with me good memories of time spent working rows of corn; my brother Nelson and I singing country songs aloud and fencing with dried beeweed stalks. He was always Errol Flynn to my Victor Mature. We laughed and we fought. We heard stories from elders working alongside us, tales to keep our spirit and strength aloft. We lay there in rows of cornstalks late one summer’s eve watching the fat moon, knowing that man had just landed there. We all tried to see any changes upon the moon.
Late summer arrives as the sunflowers drop their heads in sadness, for soon school will resume and the cornfield will wither away into another winter. But not before we steamed fresh corn and made kneel-down bread and collected pollen for another years’ sacrament. We will await another Moon of the Earth’s Stirring.
