BIRCH CLUMP NOVELS & BOOKS FROM AUTHOR, JOSHUA SEIDL, SSP

PEANUT BUTTER & PICKLE PIE

SAMPLER

Samples from the 3rd Birch Clump Village Reader. More

art, more short stories. What happens to Amos from the

first BCV Reader? Fishing Hole continues in the third

book. The cover of this Sampler was drawn from a real

photograph. Want to know the story behind that?

WELCOME BACK

TO BIRCH CLUMP VILLAGE

This “Sampler” via Issuu services, but published by me, shares art

and some teaser of the stories found in my 3rd installment of the “Birch

Clump Village Reader” series.

“Emerald Rising: Birch Clump Village Reader 1”

“Fritha: Birch Clump Village Reader 2”

“Peanut Butter and Pickle Pie: Birch Clump Village Reader 3”

Which BC Village resi-

dent wore the tightest

jeans?

What became of Amos

in Fishing Hole part one

in Emerald Rising?

(Was he murdered,

abducted, rescued, es-

caped on his own, any or

all of the above?)

What Friar left the mon-

astery and got married?

Is there really such a pie

and does it taste good?

← Who or what is get-

ting stuffed in the trunk?

Y es. There really

is such a thing as

Peanut Butter

and Pickle Pie. It

might sound like something

that ranks right up there with

a pilsner beer ice cream

float, or with pickles and ice

cream. However, my uncle

worked out the recipe and it

tastes great.

Posted here, is a portrait

painting I did of what I think

Dean (Thompson) Phelan

might look like at age 29.

That’s when he was inter-

viewed by Sgt. T.

Douglas about the

pie.

I’ll let you read a

portion of that inter-

view here. The actu-

al recipe comes free

in the book. Of

course you have to

buy the book to read

the recipe.

INVENTING PEANUT BUTTER AND PICKLE PIE

(INVENTED 1974)

AS TOLD BY DEAN, 1980

S gt. T. Douglas, taking his tip from the Motts, looked up Dean Phelan. He had two major stories in mind, more of

how and why Dean left the Friary, and how he came up with the idea of creating a peanut butter and pickle pie. [… cut …] Par for the course, Dean appears to be totally off subject. [...cut…]

Cecelia delivered her first child in May 1972. Rumors had Jig as the father. Although he took her to their 1969 high school prom, they had not gone out with each other, not given any other sign of having a relationship since. [...cut…] Any rumor stood a chance with her silence about who fathered the baby ever since she began to show. Then, a horrible encounter at the Yooper Ice Garden Show might have germinated the story that Jig was the father. Some beer breath good ol’ boy students harassed her, poked fun at her pregnant belly. The noise of the winter festivi-ties shrouded their taunts from Jig. From his distance, he thought she was laughing along with the three young college men. Jig recognized one of the young men, Gale somebody, as having started a rumor that Jig was homosexual. Jig’s unique personality dispelled the rumor over time, simply by not re-acting or responding to the accusation. He carried on, the few times

anyone asked or alluded to the rumor, as if the remark went over his head. He dared them through his inaction to consider if they would find it wise or not to repeat. Cecelia was a beautiful sight. The waves of light bent through the ice sculptures played in her long blond hair. She was animated, almost dancing. She was fun to be around. Gale suddenly slapped her across the face. Jig jerked from his place, ran the hundred yards to her rescue. He never stopped running as his right arm wound up behind his head and then trust it into the guy’s face just as it looked he was about to slap her a second time. Cecelia felt a warm spay hit her face as a blur of another person smacked into her tormentor and took him down. [...cut…] A couple bystanders alerted others in the area that a fight just broke out. In that same instance, a tall, very athletic built student rushed in breaking the hold Gale’s companion had on Jig. The latest intruder shoved Jig towards Cecelia. Two other men, following im-mediately after and likewise well built, placed themselves as a shield protecting Jig and Cecelia. One of the tormentors, however, had clear access to Jig. He rushed forward, and with a right cross to the face, put him down. Cecelia screamed. Three cracks from one of her tall defenders whipped the young man’s head back and forth, and laid him face down in hard pack snow at the side of the walkway. [...cut…] The remaining unscathed bully yanked Gale to his feet and they retreated through the gathering crowd. Cecelia was at Jig’s side aiding him to sit up. Blood flowed from his busted lip. “I saw him two days later,” Dean went on with his story. “Man,

he was hit hard. I mean he was busted. That side of his mouth, chin and cheek was one large reddish purple patch. I’m told the six-footer he took down looked far worse. ’Sort of wished I saw that.” “Me, too,” Douglas admitted. “’Cept in your case, I think you would have gotten involved.” “More-n-likely. [...cut…]” “Some of you Villagers sure get into some violent mixes for a peaceful, back water town.” Douglas kidded. “I came here for a sim-ple pie recipe. If you don’t mind,” Douglas interjected, “but does this have anything to do with why you left Annunciation Friary and that hideous dessert you left them with?” Dean’s smile had an embarrassed laughing quality to it, “Well, ja, sort of. Sorry. “When I heard about that, I thought of how things were with Cecilia and me back in high school. I’d get in a fight, and lose. Ce-celia was there helping me to my feet, feeling sorry for me. I missed a woman’s touch. Then I held her baby; even gave it a bottle. I knew I wanted to have a family. My experiences with the Jamian Friars was great; no regrets, but after a lot of thinking, I decided to leave.” Douglas moved the interview on, “Mott told me to ask you about the pie you made up on your way out, the peanut butter and pickle pie.” “You should try it.” “I did; the other day. Trudy or Mott made it.” “And?” Douglas hesitated. “Tell you the truth . . . it took me a bit to give it a try. Peanut butter and pickle pie, you must admit, sounds about as appealing as pickles and ice cream, or a beer float.” “And,” Dean insisted with a grin, coaxing a judgment. “It’s fantastic. You need to enter that into a contest.”

“It was sort of a last minute thing,” Dean chuckled. “I already made them a peanut butter cheese cake; sort of a cheese cake. Man-daamin and Cuautlotazin use to eat peanut butter and pickle sand-wiches. The thought turned me off until I tried it one day. Not bad. At the last moment, I chopped up some pickles, drained them, patted the excess juice out and tossed it into the pie. They thought I was mad.” “I think they still do,” Douglas joked. “Maybe, but they cleaned up that pie dish that evening; nothing left.” [...cut…]

The drawing on this page has nothing to do with t h i s story. It is from “Bible and Brawn.” →

LETTER OF REJECTION

(Estimated sharing: 2009)

G ustavo Antonio Garcia Lopez, (Lakota) joined the Congrega-tion of St. James [CSJ] in or around 1967 and took the name Bro. Levi. He had previously been a postulant in another new Order founded by Fr. Cooney, but was dismissed because he did not keep his Indian ways to himself; that is, Lopez did not deny his heritage. His brief introduction is in Cloudburst, the follow up novel to Hawk Dancer.

The following is a Letter from Bro. Levi to Prior Onjishkaw’o, founder of the Friars of the Keepers of Creation, [FKC]. Onjish-kawa’o (Paddle Against the Wind) is the Religious name of Sgt. T. Douglas. CSJ and FKC, (not to be confused with the KFC trademark,) are Religious Orders of Friars and Sisters unique in that they are made up mostly of Native Americans. Their primary apostolate work is with Indigenous People in accord with Indigenous cultural norms.

He wrote a letter to Onjishkawa’o about racism in seminaries and in Religious Congregation. This letter is the result of an email and another letter about an incident that barred a family member from visiting Native American relative in a monastery.

Onjishkawa’o and the two Native Cousins shared the letters with me along with a telling of events and a bit of history. They invited me to use the information in my short stories, so long as I did not disclose the identity of the relatives and the monastery. I decided to use the two letters, slightly modified, to carry the story.

Dear Brother Onjishkawa’o I wish to share some insight to the ongoing biases in religious orders and congregations and in seminary. Not long back, perhaps around the years 2001-02, a man came to me and told me his story of a rejection by the superior of a religious congregation. To protect identities, I assigned a fictitious name to this man, Dale.

Dale, age sixty-one at the time, learned of a distant relative in reli-gious life and he wanted to go out and meet this family relative. The relative, a Religious Brother, checked with his Monastery Prior about preparing a room for Dale’s weekend visit. The Prior, already somewhat agitated by the Brother’s sideline activity in Native minis-try, coldly refused hospitality, “People will ask questions. I cannot let this Indian relative of yours come.” The Brother had been a member of the Order for around ten years, having joined at age thirty-eight. He took his Solemn Profession a year earlier.

Like me, he had been in an earlier congregation that rejected him for being too Indian. He waited around eighteen years before return-ing to religious life. He received no serious challenge in his new Or-der over his heritage until they elected a new Prior in 2000. Sup-pressed resentments from some members over his Native activities, cultural and ministerial, surfaced shortly after.

The Religious Brother spent a few days to consider how best to relay the message. He even considered packing his bags and aban-doning his religious congregation. Moderate resistance or biases were expected and experienced. However, he did not suspect the degree of animosity some members had against his openness of his culture until after that last election of Prior and new counselors. Those opposed had the ear of the new Prior.

There is no place for us in the Church, he reasoned, if our equitable stand-ing can be turned on and off at the whim of changing prelates.

He eventually answered Dale and gave the Monastery Prior’s re-sponse verbatim in an email. Each day, thereafter, he took stock of

what he would pack and by what clandestine means to leave the home and Church he loved. He owed them no goodbye or an explanation. Yet, he fretted how unfair this was to those who lov-ingly accepted him as a Brother and encouraged his work. ’Though permitted contact with his people, all such involvement had to be outside of the Order’s regular apostolate. Native People were not welcome to gather at the monastery. Hibernians met there. Polish and Italian cultural clubs (and their generous dona-tions) were welcome. People of color, those people, were not. This

was a Nation of Immigrants. We are a vanishing breed, a shadow people. “Those people,” he overheard in the early years if a few Natives

visited or held a meeting, “are taking over this place.” How he wished a few of the Brothers had collectively spoken out

on justice on occasion rather than to let the outburst of racism lin-ger over community meals or recreation periods. No one spoke un-til he or the outspoken biased one got up and left.

Dale took his time before offering his thoughts and his advice to

My Grandfathers pastored this

Church in the 1950s

the younger relative living in a monastery. Here, then is a copy of Dale’s letter in reply to his cousin monk’s

email:

Dear Cousin,

I am appreciative of your email and of your good words. I have been dumbfounded, confused and deeply hurt in a way I have not known before. I did not want to respond from hurt or anger, so I decided to let some time pass and to seek counsel from friends of mine among the Catholic clergy. Your heart is good and right, so this letter is not aimed at you. I write in hopes that you will share these thoughts with your Father Prior. I leave it to your discretion whether or not to share this with him. I became the youngest altar boy ever to serve at our parish church back in 1949. I cannot forget the proud look on my Father’s face, a Blackfoot converted to Catholicism. My Mother, a Lakota/European, descends from several generations of Catholics. Our Pastor lovingly advised me that I had a vocation calling and walked me through the entry process for seminary in 1958.

My ordination was not to be. I married and had two children. My family was gone by 1978 and opportunity came my way to fulfill my vocation in a different way. I became a Chemical Dependency Counselor. I received direction in a vision from my Blackfoot Grandmother, who is in the Spirit World, to focus my work on the suffering of indigenous peoples, but to reject no one. Sacred Elders shared many sacred teachings as I went about my work on Indian reservations clinging to my Christian faith and seeking out my Cath-olic family on the reserves.

I hope you and your Father Prior may have the blessed experi-

ence to come to the Catholic Church on the Yankton Reservation in Marty, South Dakota. Breath taking Indian designs makes up the stained glass windows, and the entire surroundings. Truly, our Elder Brother Jesus, the Christ, resides there.

It is some experience to pray at the Church at Wounded Knee. It is said, that after the massacre at Wounded Knee, December 29, 1890, the decimated Lakota who managed to survive were taken to the Catholic Church and many died under the banner that read, “Peace on Earth, Good will towards men.”

I was fortunate to work in association with the St. Francis Mis-sion on the Rosebud Reservation. I was afforded a beat up old couch in the basement of a halfway house for alcoholics. To me, it was the Ritz.

I used to watch a legendary old Priest make his rounds on foot. He wore the old biretta hat that you seldom see on priests anymore. He was highly respected and he returned that respect to us Indians. I once heard Amazing Grace sung in another Indigenous language inside a cave that earlier Indians had hid in from those who would harm them.

Here is some historical trivia that I learned on that reservation: There is a tradition among the Rosebud Lakota that a dying

Chief may choose whomever he wishes to succeed him. Upon the untimely death of Spotted Tail, he chose his good

friend and spiritual advisor, a Catholic Priest to lead his people. The priest was an Indian from an Eastern Tribe from the Five Nations area.

I have a multitude of stories about Indigenous Catholic interac-tion. If I were provided an opportunity to share with your Spiritual Family at your Monastery, it would have been these stories of how Christ works through the hearts and souls of Catholic clergy and

religious to bring the message of Salvation to those who might not otherwise hear it.

My deepest hurt is that by rejecting me, the Father Prior has re-jected so many souls that I deeply love who suffered rejection for five hundred years. I have only one question left, should Christ re-turn today wearing a headband with an Eagle Feather, would the monastery Prior provide him a room?

I bear no malice and shall pray that enlightenment will come. Cousin, I honor you for your work and urge you not to let this inci-dent deter you in any way. I think a meeting would be better anoth-er time. In Christ’s Love, Dale Francis This photo is the model I used for the fictitious Sgt. T. Douglas, chronol-ogist for the Friars of St. James and of Birch Clump Village. The drawing I made of T. Douglas has longer hair and a pointier beard. This photo was taken around 1980/81.

Why the look of “Oh shit!” Bible quoting Eino just sucker punched the slightly larger Elroy in “BIBLE AND BRAWN.” He realized a bit late, that’s he’s in big trouble now. There is no getting out of a fight after that.

BIBLE

AND

BRAWN

The victor gloats. After a well fought, drawn out

fisted fight.

The loser writhes,

squirms and thrashes

about with his hands

tied behind his back

in:

Bible & Brawn

A GOOSE IN DEER SEASON

Erik Fern packs it in. (In the car trunk that is, as well as his

jeans.) A goose chases a deer onto the road way. One car squeals

and leaves rubber in an emergency braking. The other car flies out

of control off the highway and into the forest.

Glass is spewed over the trapped driver. Dramatic as this sce-

ne is, A Goose in Deer Season has it comical moments.

The driver of one car checks on the driver of the other car

Read: A Goose in Deer Season

FISHING HOLE

PART 2

IN “PEANUT BUTTER &

PICKLE PIE” BCVR 3

Amos’ assailants left

Amos tied up in the back

woods in Part 1 (in the book

Emerald Rising). He strug-

gled without success to get

free. He made it to a back

county road after two hours.

A driver stopped for

him, but the cliff hanger left

us wondering if he would

help Amos or was about to

abduct him. The story con-

tinues in the Birch Clump

Village Reader 3. He had

fainted and his hands are still

tied behind his back and are

nearly dead-numb.

← This is not Amos.

This is a character for anoth-

er story currently filed as

Oops, Wrong Person. That

story is still in the works. It

is planned for another issue

of BC Village Reader.

All my books are available as paper backs and as e-Pub ebooks.

Lulu.com sells both versions.

Amazon sells only the paperbacks.

Barnes and Noble sells Nook version.

ITunes also sells the e-Pub version.

Note: Look for “2nd Edition” if you purchase the novels in paper-

back, “Hawk Dancer,” and “Cloudburst.”

More information is on my website: www.HawkDancer.com