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Prairie Winds

Issue 57 Spring 2013

Generously Supported by the South Dakota Arts Council & Technology and Innovation in Education

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Issue 57 / Spring 2013

Project Editor

Dr. Scott Simpson

A project of

1925 Plaza Blvd

Rapid City, SD 57702

Phone: (605) 394-1876

in cooperation with

South Dakota Arts Council

Cover photos:

Untitled by Jory Andre

“Out of Rubble” by Calvin Limberg

Copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved

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Writers

Photographers

Lilly Johnson, elementary

Tatum Kooima, elementary

Alena Schumacher, elementary

Tia Tycz, elementary

Ryan Dinsmore, middle level

Jilian Ebert, middle level

MaKayla Grissom, middle level

Penn Johnson, middle level

Madisyn Louder, middle level

Jack Niedringhaus, middle level

Samantha Pooley, middle level

Linday Voeltz, middle level

Sarah Zimmerman, middle level

Bailey Baumgartner, high school

Justice Coyle, high school

Cierra Rogers, high school

Carson Tuttle, college

Sandra Bacon Gaspar, educator

Marilyn Hofer, educator

Rosemary Dunn Moeller, educator

Jory Andre

Alexis Aslesen

Kassi Barrington

Nakkia Belle

Allison Edwards

Calvin Limberg

Austin Podhradsky

Abi Reed

Allysa Sorenson

Scott Simpson

Jessica Tilberg

Kaylynn Wee

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Marilyn Hofer

Life Kite

With Mom’s help

my brothers and sisters and I fitted the fragile balsa frames together

on the metal table in the farmhouse kitchen. I covered my frame with yellow parchment paper

and tied seven colorful scraps of fabric together for the tail. We headed off across the gravel driveway into Skarin’s pasture

that breezy Sunday afternoon in the early spring. “Give yourself plenty of space,” Dad called

and I ran to launch my kite. As the kite rose, Dad wrapped his weather-beaten hands

loosely around mine as they held the spindle of string.

Patiently he guided me to let out just the right

amount of string so the yellow

paper kite could dance

and s

o a

r.

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Jilian Ebert

Great Grandma's House The long gravel road, That rusty old shed, Her little farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere. Welcomed by Chief Red Dog, He barks and tries to jump on the parked car. Dirt in the porch from hunting boots, Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen, Noisy relatives talk and laugh in the living room. Grandma's butterflies seem to float around her house And land on the walls, They've always been her favorite. I notice the wall where the grandchildren measure ourselves to see who's tallest And through the patio door, I see the rusty old squeaky windmill behind her house, I relax, I smile, and I embrace it all Because this place is a second home to me.

Morgan Hines

“House in the Hills”

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Cierra Rogers

I Will Never Forget

I will never forget the sight of

Dozens of deer bounding across my backyard,

The miles of endless rain in my first typhoon

My little sister smiling at me at the age of two

The pride on my dad’s face after seeing me race

Seeing a buffalo look me dead in the eye.

I will never forget the smell of,

Cinnamon and mint in our Christmas decorated house,

My first whiff of Axe spray,

My cat Gerry when she licked me on the nose after eating her vomit,

The oh-so unique smell of after-rain,

The beach on a summer day.

I will never forget the taste of,

My step-mother’s home-made peanut butter cookies,

Disgusting okra wading in a pool of slime,

Joshua Clemens after my first kiss in the 6th grade,

Frozen ice on my mother’s car (ouch),

Fresh water after a day of running outside like a maniac.

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Cierra Rogers (I Will Never Forget continued)

I will never forget the feeling of

Pride when everyone devoured my apple dumplings,

Joy during my favorite seasons, autumn and winter,

Regret after I crayoned the walls at age two,

Sadness when my brother left the house,

Determination when I think of how much I want to succeed in the future.

I will never forget the sound of,

Things crashing down during an earthquake,

Daft Punk after my brother showed me them for the first time,

My father’s loud, deep, hearty laugh,

A cow mooing after I touched her fur,

Thousands of cicadas in the North Carolina dusk.

Allison Edwards

“Rural Sunset”

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Carson Tuttle

To See You Again Sit at the table, the booth that was only whimsy, fiction until this moment. Smooth the java with single servings of nostalgia laugh a laughter deep, nourish me for a lifetime. Can you still feel the battered tire swing burning the backs of our legs, or soft Summer stinging our shoulders? Those days that rose with innocence set with clumsy words, not fascinated by your lips or your hips, but the way your collarbone suddenly escaped my view, curving angles of geometric wrists. Cowardice would prevent a kiss, only hoping to weave your fingers, arms, pinky toes with mine, part scholar, part toddler, part lover, and three parts martian; hiding my bald shins, puffing out my chest, straining to sing Darlin’, Darlin’, Stand By Me, Did you notice? Under calculated sips, you ask, How have you been? Separated by circumstance, tabloids lined street corner news stands, watching from afar as time made you lovely,

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Carson Tuttle (To See You Again continued)

reading anxiously your life’s headlines. Walking through hidden bookcases, like a Nancy Drew suspect in a mysterious crime, how you would thrill me! But a heroine cannot pass a note or wheeze, inhaling a first smoke. On a sixteenth birthday, she is not on my right. Crashing on tile floors, your story dissolves to faded photographs. In this moment, step out of grey still slide into my daydream’s corner booth. Brief, though it may be, become my soul mate for this breakfast,

marry me over coffee, name our children Flapjack and Boysenberry, laugh a laughter deep, nourish me for a lifetime, then count this another memory, for after this day I will read your story no more.

Austin Podhradsky

“Monday Morning”

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Penn Johnson

New Home

When I was 8, I was adopted by the Johnson family and that was the best thing that ever happened to me. The bad thing was leaving all my friends, and it was very hard. I never had been on a plane before and I was scared, but it was cool looking through the window. When we landed in Germany I saw a picture of a cheeseburger. I didn’t know how to speak English so I had to use my hands to point. When I got the cheeseburger the first thing I did was smell it all around and then I took a big bite and it was pretty good. Now we were heading to America. It was a long flight.

When we got to America it was dark so I asked if there are any hye-nas. When they said no I was so happy because back in Africa there are hyenas every night. It was hard learning America’s language because when I am meeting someone and they say something, I have no idea what they are saying. The food is very different and fattening and the good thing is that they have Ethiopian food.

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Tia Tycz

The Place You Will Never Want to Go Sioux Falls has usually been a quiet place. But once a swarm of vam-pires came. People were screaming so loud that China called to com-plain about the noise. People were turning into vampires faster than you can say, "Can you please pass the syrup, dear?"

"Yes, Honey!'

But all that got passed was turning into vampires! Lock your doors! Board up your win-dows! Head to the base-ment. And if you don't have a basement build one!

I'm Tia from Reporter News. That's a wrap peo-ple! "EEEEAAAAHHHH!

The End! OR IS IT?

Nakkia Belle

“Black and White 8”

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Sarah Zimmerman

Wind Oh wind, you can be swirly You flow around everyone You might blow us away Or not move us at all You stir up a breeze That steals people's hats With you paper floats When you swirl around You force people to shiver When you cook up a freeze Or you can be warm Like a sizzling stove Oh wind, you are the most powerful thing on earth

Allysa Sorenson

SD Weather

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Justice Coyle

5:00 PM

Everyone’s almost home

Full of emptiness and exhaustion

Thinking about their long tiring day

The loud honking of irritated drivers

Who are impatient and can’t wait to relax

I want to flip them off

And tell them to stop

Swerving in and out of lanes

Trying to get around me

On the back roads and away from craziness

I can hear the rev of the engine

And the sound of gravel

Crunching and cracking

Underneath the tires

My stomach growling

Wanting something good to eat.

The food to prep is waiting for me at home

To make something nice

For my grandpa and me

The frying pan gets warm

And the sizzling begins

As the hamburger starts to turn brown.

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Justice Coyle (5:00 PM continued)

The T.V. is up loud

So we can hear over the crackling

Of the boiling fatty oil

One of my grandpa’s favorites

Old Ms. Judge Judy.

The sun is slowly setting

Making a mixture of

Orange and yellow

Which shines dimly into my window

And onto the kitchen table

Something I see every day

And it reminds me of beauty

And the day that I just accomplished.

While others are doing homework

Or listening to music

I hear the clattering and scraping

Of the forks on the glass plates

While my grandpa and I

Dig into the delicious dish.

This time always goes by

Very quickly

With the rush home

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Justice Coyle (5:00 PM continued)

And the cooking of one of my

Favorite dishes

I never can grasp onto

That hour

And enjoy my evening

As it is slowing down.

Kaylynn Wee

“Sunset Shadow”

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Cierra Rogers

Snide Apology

I have brushed

My unknowing hand

Against your unknowing butt

While standing in line

You probably thought

You had enough space to back up

You didn’t.

And now this is awkward.

Forgive me

Your unknowing,

Unfamiliar butt,

Was just so darn cute

Kassi Barringson, “Email Me”

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Tatum Kooima

Basketball EEEENNNN! “There goes the buzzer! The Jackrabbits win by 3 points over the USD coyotes. Again USD with an amazing, no outstanding, game, but it isn’t enough to beat SDSU!” Any place where basketball is played, I love. The squeak on the floor when you’re trying to juke someone out on a hesitation. The stench of everyone’s sweaty shoes, or socks, or even bags, fills the room. All of the different colored shoes, or jerseys. When the sweat drips down my face. When I tuck in my shirt, the game starts. You don’t even have to say anything to a teammate, it is like we read each other’s mind. Inside, I think to myself, “But good isn’t enough, great is what I aim for.”

Calvin Limberg “Neon Strings”

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Ryan Dinsmore

Hockey

One of the most exciting parts of my hockey career I wasn’t even playing my regular position. Two years ago our goalie got sick and we didn’t have a backup. I volunteered to play. I didn’t have a lot of experi-ence playing goalie. But I guess it was beginners’ luck.

I found out our last place team was going to play the undefeated red team. I said to myself, “Just don’t let us have to forfeit.”

I walk onto the ice and my team gets me warmed up. I feel like I’m about to puke. Opening face-off, red skates down and scores on me. “Ahh,” I say out loud.

Going into the second period the score was 2-0. Red was winning. I go back to the net queasy. At the face-off, my team scores. It feels like ten pounds was lifted of my shoulders.

The red team did not like that next face-off. The captain of their team comes at me and takes the hardest slap shot he can. I stick my glove out the way I thought it was coming. “Slap!” It sounded like dyna-mite just went off. I look in my glove and there it was. I felt like jumping for joy, but instead I tried to act cool.

Third period came and the score was 2-2. Early in the period the red team got a goal. Then we did. The final five minutes my heart is pumping. I am lucky enough to make a couple good saves.

3:52 left and we scored. I could not believe we were beating the undefeated red team, 4-3. The final minutes wind down and I’m ecstatic.

We shake hands, but after me and my team can’t control the excite-ment. They dog pile on me and it feels great.

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Samantha Pooley

Those Were the Days That special dirt path Where so many young memories grew Running, jumping, laughing with friends Those were the days I long to go back there every second I didn't have a care in the world Falling and scraping my knees Racing with my brother Those were the days Playing soccer in the yard Lying on the grass Giggling and talking Staring straight up into the baby blue sky Those were the days Now I sit here My future ahead of me Worried about sports, grades, and growing up How I wish I could go back Those were the days

Alexis Aslesen “Macro Edited”

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Bailey Baumgartner

Football Season

The end-of-August heat has gotten the best of us. Some double over to catch their breath as others pace in circles, trying to cool off. Coach allows a drink and we all rush for the pump, hoping there’s enough for all. I push and shove my way through the mob of sweaty men, hoping for a sip before repeating the Grid Iron Mile.

As I grab the hose, I see out of the corner of my eye a scene that makes my heart falter; two of the players, grappling on the yellowed-earth, yelling at one another with anger. We all try to break it apart, but it’s too late; Coach has already seen it. We all stand and wait for our punishment, though it wasn’t all of our faults.

“On the line, boys!” Coach yells and we sprint, with what little en-ergy we have left, to the line and space out from one another.

He orders sprints, two sets for each five yards along the thirty yard stretch. We look at each other with a hint of worry. He usually works us harder.

“On two! On two!” our quarterback screams, his mouth guard slightly muffling his voice. “Set!”

We get into our stances and hold our positions. I feel the sweat bead and stream from the brow of my helmet, only able to hope for it to miss my eye for if I move, we have another set of repetitions.

“Go…Hut! Hut!”

We take one last breath of the warm air before pushing off the hard earth and propelling forward in unison. The sound of our cleats hitting

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Bailey Baumgartner (Football continued)

the ground roars like thunder as we make our repetitions, nobody miss-ing a step or cadence.

The hot air clings to our skin as we finish our punishment, hoping to God for Coach to have mercy. As Coach approaches, we show our re-spect by getting on one knee, leaning onto our helmets and facing him through the August sun.

He reminds us of who we are. How we are no longer individuals, but now a team. A family. No matter what, we have each other’s backs. Through the blood, sweat and tears, we are all brothers, including me.

With a final Mustang breakdown and a loud “Hoo-Rah!” we realize we are all one.

Kaylynn Wee, “App Large”

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Alena Schumacher

untitled One day at my grandpa's farm Comet, my horse, broke through her stall. I wasn't surprised. That stall was ancient and easy to break. I could tell she wanted an apple so I went to the orchard, picked one or two and fed them to Comet. Then I took her saddle and got on her and rode off to the junk pile. The junk pile is a nasty place filled with gar-bage. Brendan, my brother, thinks that a dragon is hording the trash. A junk dragon. I just think it's there.

I went over to the junk pile. Nothing had changed. I went further off then. I found my uncle Jordan. He was just staring in a bush. I said, "Uncle are you okay?" He didn't answer. I had Comet kick him in the butt.

"Oh Alena, I didn't know you were there," he said, then I saw a beauti-ful flash of sparkly light.

"Huh?" I gasped. "A fairy." I always thought they were real.

I kept on riding Comet. She snapped a branch and it fell in our path. We were searching for fruit, we just couldn't find it. We finally found the raspberry bush, picked a few, and left. We ate the raspberries, then I brushed Comet's mane, gave her oats and water, then it was time to go. I hugged Comet, got into the pickup, and we drove away. But then something big and green in the sky caught my eye.

"Told ya, " said my big brother. It was a junk dragon.

Lexi Aslesen

“Bob”

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Taylor Kruetz

Bystander I sat there and watched... I didn't do anything about it, I just stood there like a block, I feel bad, Because he was getting pushed around and kicked, Like a rock in the sand, And I didn't say anything... I just stood there and laughed, And chanted "fight"! With all the other kids, How mean and selfish I was, He got called names, All day, every day, Instead of yelling "STOP!", I just hid in the crowd with everybody else, And now I ask my self, Why didn't I do anything? What was I thinking? I want to tell him that, I'm sorry, I look back on it now and, And think, I wasn't just a bystander, I was a bully too.

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Carson Tuttle

Whistle-Whistle Pop

When morning light cracks, my skull rattles to ear-piercing bebop saxo-phone

Prize-fighter in the corner, crave the bell, you pitbull,

crushed ankles will likely give out, useless things

no one needs them. Standing only on my knees,

box like a bengal, vicious animal, I'll gnaw, claw,

drag your spine to concrete, bare my heels 'round sidewinder hips.

Center ring, Wow! the crowd, aaah's and guffaws.

All I need is a challenger, line up on the wall,

hand over my playground tormentors,

makers of faulty toilet paper dispensers,

televangelist charlatans, door-to-door vacuum salesmen,

let's do battle.

Dry cereal begging for milk, lace up your gloves,

pimps of childhood prostitutes, this is the view from my knuckles,

any writer who is not Jack Kerouac, any writer who is Jack Kerouac,

draw your sword, throwing star, taser, tear gas grenades,

take me to Custer's Last Stand, I want a piece.

Extradite your monstrous nightmares to my field of war

give them up, let me be your champion.

Walk ten-paces North and I ten-paces South,

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Carson Tuttle (Whistle-Whistle Pop continued)

Turn, FIRE, cowboy, FIRE!

Once they're gone, the saxophone will cease,

Once they're gone, our fathers will take us fishing,

Once they're gone, lovers will know, it was for them

Once they're gone, we will find the Northwest Passage.

Until then, call on my armor bearers, Samson and Radar,

antagonize me, pry open my eyelids and starve me,

keep me vicious, rip away my silk-robe humanity,

my mind a July 4th shell, ready to whistle-whistle pop.

Fuse is lit, stand back children,

blazing, flying, explode the sound of retreating darkness,

let it ring for 3 long seconds.

Scott Simpson, “Neon America” Photograph of Nam June Paik’s “Electronic Super Highway”

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Jack Niedringhaus

Custer State Park, South Dakota

June 16, 2009

Walking down a flower-filled hill on a beautiful summer afternoon, my big brother Jake says, “Ouch, I think I just got stung by a bee.” “Are you okay?” my dad asks. “Yeah, I’m fine.” But when Jake looks down at his ankle he sees two holes with blood dripping down. He calls for my dad and tells him what happened. My dad puts him under a big shady tree.

“It was a rattlesnake,” I hear my dad say. Just then my brother goes unconscious and he doesn’t move. When I walk past him I see the blood on his ankle and his eyes closed. I wonder if I would ever see him alive again.

“Call 911,” my dad shouts to my uncle. It was a miracle we got re-ception down in a valley like that. They called a helicopter to come get us because no vehicle could come.

We see the helicopter fly right past us. We take off our shirts and start running around trying to get the helicopter’s attention. After an-other pass he flies down and gets my brother to the Rapid City hospital. The last thing I remember seeing is his feet with a bloody ankle. I start crying and pray to God to let my brother live.

They get him into the hospital and they found out that it bit him right in the vein so he reacted right away to the bite. They sent him to Sioux Falls because they had used all the anti-venom they could use on him and he was internally bleeding.

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Jack Niedringhaus (Custer State Park... continued)

They sent him to Sioux Falls and he recovered in about three days. My brother said that he could hear everything that happened even the doctors saying, “I don’t think he’s going to make it,” but he hung in there and survived. He has recovered fully today and is a great football player at O’Gorman High School, Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

The game warden said that he has been to that same exact spot many times and never got reception. They also said that they haven’t had a snake bit there for many, many years. Yes, it was a miracle and I thank the Lord every day for helping my brother live.

Scott Simpson, “Little Devil’s Tower Trail”

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Linday Voeltz

Within the Shadows

Where every evil thing loves to play Deep within the shadows

They watch you They follow you Without a trace

They copy you step for step

Until the hair on the back of your neck starts to rise You get the sense that someone is pursuing you

But as you turn around to look No one's there

Deep within the shadows and mist

The ghouls and ghosts hide with fear from him As he lures you off the path that he's forbidden to touch

You see the one thing that makes him fear the light

Although their feuds are legendary Vampires and werewolves have nothing against the real monsters

They are the strongest monsters alive They truly rule the shadows

But never the light

The light was never made to protect the real monsters They try to deny it but how can they

Look out side they kill each other everyday They are killing their love

They are who you ask?

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Linday Voeltz (Within the Shadows continued)

For every monster that has ever lived

There is one that stands out No, not the ghouls, ghosts, vampires, or werewolves

But us, we are the alpha

James Wold, “Jones”

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Rosemary Dunn Moeller

I Laugh, Because There’s Nothing You Can Do about It

I went to morning kindergarten in the fifties. Afternoons were nap time and quiet play until my sister, Fran, came home. Then my day start-ed. Frances had decided by fourth grade that she would become a teach-er. She poured her passion for her future career onto me.

I sat at my little desk in my little chair and learned to read and write day after day, lesson by lesson. I got her attention. My big sister had a use for me, a willing subject to practice her chosen career path on. To me, teaching was love, and I grabbed all the attention I could get. I made Fran look good. Her gift was teaching, and learning was mine.

In first grade I was the obnoxious kid with her hand up all day. By second grade I was in the principal’s office most of the time because this story predates an intercom system in P.S. 18, and I ran messages for her to the teachers. By third grade I was tested and sent off to a special class for gifted little kids in order to thwart the Russian dominance of science.

I did well, but always knew inside I was a phony, just someone who had a great head start on everyone else and could stay ahead by listening to my big sister teach me about sentence diagramming. I followed her in-to the sixties.

By then playing school was replaced most days with Dick Clark. We had to watch American Bandstand, in black and white, and I couldn’t go out to play until I’d danced three slow, three jitterbugs and three cha-cha-chas. During the extras I got to iron sheets and pillowcases, while she was trusted with ironing shirts and skirts. It took forever some days, but others it was great. I was getting attention from my big sister and life les-sons about nails, hair, bras and how to garter nylon stockings.

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Rosemary Dunn Moeller (I Laugh...continued)

She still wanted to be a teacher but the subject matter changed. While she considered English Teacher as her path I was doing fine, but then she settled on art and I was doomed. I could learn nothing, do nothing well enough to rank the refrigerator, like she always did. No awards or certificates for beautiful creations, darling sculptures.

But at school I was catching up. By seventh grade I realized she couldn’t do algebra alone, needed lots of help memorizing biological terms and classifications, and had a shaky understanding of American History. Her French was terrible. I tutored her through some stuff, which she appreciated but didn’t enjoy. By then I knew I also wanted to be a teacher.

Fran still gave me her novels to read, Thomas Hardy and James Michener. I discovered Tolkien and Heyerdahl on my own and put aside Dad’s Sherlock Holmes and The Saint. I loved books. But that love is a loop: from the page, through my eyes, back to my hands holding the pag-es. Teaching was still my path to real love.

With Fran gone away to college, I was lost. My parents weren’t that interested in attending most of my theatrical or musical productions. She came home one weekend because I’d written a radio drama that won a prize and was produced locally. We sat by the big old radio in the living room and listened, while our parents were in the den watching TV. She wasn’t embarrassed by my work, no teasing afterwards, which was huge to me at sixteen.

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Rosemary Dunn Moeller (I Laugh...continued)

After my high school sophomore year I went to Hampton Institute in Virginia for a summer of French, music and theatre. Having had six years of French, I was advanced enough to teach a French class, so I did, which now, I realize, made life very easy for our instructor. But I was teaching! Preparing classes, standing there and knowing what I was do-ing, with people watching me and learning stuff. I loved it!

At university I finally had a chance to really work in the world. It was the sixties and I was idealistic, wanted to help. So, I volunteered to be a teacher’s assistant at the Catholic school across the Genesee River from campus. I spent three years there, happily working with kids who had no idea who I was or why I showed up. But I was teaching. I was useful to society. Not just a free-wheelin’ student, but a volunteer.

My education and career path had bumps, detours, and road con-struction problems, but my sister was always there to inform me how misguided I was and what I should be doing instead. I’d drift off into some weird place, find a job, take some classes, hang out with unmoti-vated people, then back for a family visit to my sister who would help me re-direct my energies and get motivated.

I eventually finished a teaching degree and got a full time position as Professeur d’Anglais at the Secondary Teachers’ College of Bamako, Mali. I was a Peace Corps teacher with a job and degrees, places to go and people to meet, especially my fellow Peace Corps farm boy from South Dakota, whom I married.

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Rosemary Dunn Moeller (I Laugh...continued)

For years, I taught in the Mid-west at elementary, high school and college levels, whatever was available and interesting. I wondered occa-sionally why I loved teaching so much. There’s the unbelievable energy from working with young people and adults who are developing and growing in unforeseen directions. But there’s also the foundation I find inside myself. My first teacher loved me as a big sister does, very critical-ly and pragmatically. We were stuck with one another by birth and made the best of it. That active and applied love has been my creative energy. She loved what she was doing with me when other big sisters were just free babysitters. The love I learned to appreciate is never still, but flow-ing around, busy and overscheduled. Given, never held onto.

After forty years we’re both retired teachers but still very active. Last time I visited Fran, I saw the pillow I gave her that says, “I smile be-cause you’re my sister. I laugh because there’s nothing you can do about it.” I went with her to the art museum where she volunteers to teach classes to kids in the summertime. I was her teacher’s aide that day. It was the first time we’d ever taught together. I loved it.

Jessica Tilberg

“Scents of Color”

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Madisyn Louder

Kolden Do you remember when we ran barefoot through the cool mud under the hot July sun a few years ago? Or when we ventured across the rusty barbed wire fence to hunt for ancient "dinosaur" fossils that we would show off to mom and dad? Or the time that we were at grandma's and we laughed so hard that chocolate milk exploded out of our noses? Those memories will forever be kept in the secret corner of my heart reserved for only you. You are the bravest 8 year old I know; you've experienced some pretty rough times. I tear up watching you roll around in your wheelchair, not even thinking about the inevitable reality. You always keep your head up and ignore the negatives that I can't help but worry about…

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Madisyn Louder (Kolden continued)

"Mommy, I'll be okay. Don't worry, God is protecting me," you assure mom as she stares into your tired, glassy eyes. And looking at you now, with the IV's and bandaged foot, I can hardly keep myself together. But I know I must. For all the ones who care about you, and especially for you, because I know you'll get through this, And I know that you trust me when I tell you I will be right by your side from now until the end of this mess. Just know that everyone around you is keeping you in their prayers, and that we know you have the strength and support to help you along the road to recovery.

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Lilly Johnson

Aaaahhh. I screamed falling from what felt like cloud nine.

“Honey, what do you want to do for your birthday?” asked my mom.

“I know that I don’t want to have any friends over, so I was thinking…could you take me to the Grand Canyon?”

With hesitation she said “…that could be doable!”

I was so happy she said yes I was smiling all day long.

“Wow!” I exclaimed looking at how deep and long the Grand Canyon is.

Grabbing my mom I walked over to the Canyon and my foot slipped on a loose rock and down, down, down I fell.

“Nooooo!” screamed my mother as I fell.

Suddenly, feeling a change of force, I looked down and saw my mom get-ting farther and farther away.

“Mom look I am a super hero!” I said, falling back down into the Canyon.

Up and down, up and down I went for another five minutes.

When I looked back up at my mom she was flying towards me.

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Sandra Bacon Gaspar

Washigila Wiping the Tears They gather in the school gym to let her go on a wet, April Sunday: First hugging, shaking hands in that decisive, single downstroke. Elders in wheelchairs. Booted cowboys, hats off. Neighbors, relatives, friends. Black-haired children scale the bleachers. Out-of-towners chat up health and weather. Plump cousins lay the feast: Foil and lid-covered roasters, commercial pots, Tupperware bowls, giant spouted dispensers for tea and lemonade, and, at the end of what would be the line, two iced and scripted sheet cakes flanked by smiling photos: Anne a young woman. Anne before she died.

Anne Colombe 1954-2011

We love you Aunt “FiFi”

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Sandra Bacon Gaspar (Washigila continued)

In loving memory

of Anne Fifi Colombe Fisher

“Mother, wife, grandmother, sister aunt & friend”

You are greatly missed.

In this life she was a polished stone, a rare beauty among rougher pebbles: Reader, sophisticate, scholar, wit but never haughty, never rude. Gardener, wife, mother, friend: Raven hair, charcoal eyes, effusive smile, family heart. And feisty enough to earn an Indian name upon her passing: Kicks a Hole in the Sky Woman. Gone away sudden the previous winter. Kicks a Hole in the Sky Woman. Wanagi on her way to the spirit world. Opposite the food on the tiled floor, folding chairs circle a makeshift altar: a buffalo hide and, at its head, a skull bleached white but painted and adorned, black horns hung with eagle feathers,

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Sandra Bacon Gaspar (Washigila continued)

its great hollow eyes staring west. And the things they need: Sage, tobacco, wasna, water; c’anupa, bowl and stem; plates of food, an offering to the spirits. As rain pours down upon the metal roof the family gathers, blood and hunka both, to end their year-long sorrow, soothe their pain through ancient, sacred rite. First the heartbeat drum and song. Then burning sage in abalone shell, its cleansing smoke to each around the circle. We come to pray and wipe your tears away, the young man says. We bring you medicine. Now mourning ends. We send our sister Anne to shine among the stars, a twinkle in the Milky Way. Lakota singers sing for her. They send their songs along with her to ease her journey, help release her spirit. Five women round the circle, each with gifts: First, a moistened cloth for brimming eyes. She wipes the saddened faces, speaks to each in turn:

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It’s okay to cry. Tell her what you will before she goes. The second woman sweeps the sacred sage, this time wet, on every shoulder right and left, on every forehead there. Next a woman comes with sweet wasna, a spoonful goes in every outstretched palm. Then a bowl of water offered up for each to sip communion-style. And last a woman comes to comb their hair, grown back symbolically, since it was cut the day she died, or would have been in days gone by. The holy man sits down upon the hide, takes up the pipe, puts ruddy bowl to stem, then fills it with tobacco, bit by bit: A pinch he offers up to each direction, then tamps it down with stem of leaf-stripped sage. A pinch to mother earth and father sky, the last he rests against his beating heart before he puts it in the sacred bowl. He lights the pipe and takes it round the circle, Each smokes in turn to make the people strong. Now Reverend Moore comes in with book in hand. He reads familiar words that we all know:

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Sandra Bacon Gaspar (Washigila continued)

Faith, hope, love abide, these three: The greatest of these is love. The greatest of these is Anne. The other mourners join the circle, shake hands ‘round with family sitting there. And it is finished. they eat together, humbled, as one people. The rain continues dancing on the roof.

Abi Reed, “Fleeting Dreams”