Sunday past was Father’s Day, a day set aside to honor the adult man in our lives—the constant source of strength and wrath. Our fathers.
Growing up on the Dineh’ land of the 1960s, I do not recall any celebration for these ties. Summer set in and the dry and dusty days multiplied as my father’s voice echoed throughout the sheep camp. He sang loudly as he worked the timbers for the new hogans, as he hauled water in 50-gallon drums to water the fledgling cornfield and us alongside him. I heard his voice in the late night, with healing chants as another ill patient took in the blessings. I heard his laughter as he related olden stories and hilarious stories of people and situations. I saw him move about in a heavy red flannel shirt and a matching aviator muffed cap, handling the axe with ease. My father was a man I knew on the exterior. I did not know him that well.
My father was a very respected medicine man in a Navajo way. My four brothers worked with him at the time on projects from morning ‘til evening, sweating and spitting out grittiness. He was a man of constant motion. He praised us for a job well done and why it must be nothing less. We felt his wrath when we slipped in our work ethic. For all his humor and Buddha-like stature, he was just as serious when it came to us. When he drank, it brought a curtain of darkness. I tried to deny my memory of that. Dramas on a section of Shonto called Hidden Springs.
When he was orphaned at an early age, he was given to an elderly distant relative, a very holy healer in the Chuska Mountains of the Four Corners area. There he lived and ate and slept to the rhythm of ancient chants. He tended the sheep high up on the alpine meadows, ever alert for predators. Under the tutelage of this elder couple, he gained the knowledge and practices of a healer. He grew up alone with the couple, and mostly through osmosis, he became the youngest well-known practitioner of the ancient art. At the age of 21, he performed his first ceremony. A true calling of the heart.
I never got to know him as a father in a traditional sense. He was in isolation a lot, it seemed. In a small hogan on the side of a mesa, he stayed alone. I used to ride my horse to bring him food. The bundle of supplies always dwarfed me as my legs barely reached the ribs of the steed. I felt special on those days. He quietly took in the food and with a few choice words of encouragement, I was sent back off the mesa.
To my innocent eyes, he was more a God-like man whose solace and blessings brought many patients to our door. I looked to him not so much as a father, but a spirit many sought. I wanted to reach the interior and the heart of the man. I could not.
My father passed into the spirit world in the late fall of 2004. He was 87 years. I bid him “Ha goneii’ Shi Zhe eh.” Goodbye, my Father. I wish I spent more time getting to know you. Thank you, Robin, for being by my side through that hard and sad time. I cannot deny my memory of that.
I hope you all had a wonderful day with the adult man of your childhood.
