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It was one of those brilliant Pacific Northwest days that arrive like a gift from Heaven. Light flashed from every drop of last night’s rain. I could see that I would be wearing my Maui Jim’s today.
I was
still sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and looking out at the bay. A
small wind rippled the surface. No problem for boaters today. Maybe nobody
would fall in today. I could always
hope.
6:30 AM, lots of time for breakfast. I’m alone here, so I am the cook. I got up to the range and did a couple of soft eggs, and fried toast. Best kind of toast in the world, and most people have no idea.
My name is Daniel Wilson. I am the fire chief of the all-volunteer fire service out here on the reservation, and I am one of two cops. Between the two jobs I am kept moderately busy. We mostly either ticket drunks or transport them into town when they get themselves hurt playing bumper cars. I am not a drinker. I’ve seen way too much.
I have a foot in two worlds. My mom was a white woman, and my daddy was a tribal preacher, a rare bird indeed. Here I sit in their house. Both deceased. Sometimes it amuses me to wonder what my great grandfathers would think of my name.
I was still musing when my mobile started playing the 1812. It doesn’t take long to hit that button.
“Dan, there’s a mess in the cemetery! You need to see this, man!” It was the other tribal cop, Lloyd, and he was pretty excited. My work day commenced right there. I told him I would meet him there in ten minutes. “Bye, Lloyd, give me a minute.”
Grabbing my jacket, I stepped out into the daylight. The wind was cool and moisture laden. It would dry up later in the morning. I could hear the usual crows arguing points way up in the tops of the firs. A horn honked a few blocks away. It seemed like a nice normal res day. But you really never know around here. This place is not a hundred percent in the modern world. It still carries a scent of the recent past, a past that I could almost remember. But maybe those were just dreams.
I drive a dark green Ford pickup. It’s about ten years old. When I started it up, the windows fogged up and soon cleared. I was going over there, but I wasn’t breaking a leg getting there. He didn’t mention a body now, did he. I figured whatever was going on wasn’t going anywhere. Pretty quiet in a cemetery, usually. My philosophy is like Wyatt Earp’s. Be fast, slowly. I think that’s how it goes.
Lloyd was there waiting for me right inside the gate in his Honda. We don’t wear uniforms, but we are carrying and have a badge on our shirts. Lloyd looks like he goes about 145lbs and is about 60 years old with long white hair. He isn’t very scary looking, but I happen to know how fast he is. I’ve seen Lloyd disarm and secure two hundred pound drunks.
“What are we looking at here, Lloyd,” I said as I hopped out of my truck.
“You’ll see, Dan.” He was already walking uphill at a fast clip, toward the back of the fenced in cemetery plot, in a hurry to reveal the damage. I followed right behind.
When we arrived at my grandmother’s grave site, I could understand his urgency better.
Something about Indian cemeteries. They are not like a regular cemetery. They are full of offerings and gifts and mementoes. Lots of toys, plastic flowers, flags, important stones, all kinds of things decorate the graves of loved people. My grandmother had been an important matriarch. Margaret Louise Wilson. The last word on anything. Her grave was like a toy city. You’d probably have to see it to understand the scope of the thing. It looked celebratory usually.
Her stone had been picked up and dropped on its face onto the path in front of her plot. It was still in one piece. The toys and plastic flowers in their vases had been scattered. Broken green glass was all over the near area. A framed photo of herself taken in the 80s had been stepped on. The frame was in pieces, glass broken, photo wet.
I had to stand and look at it for a few minutes, because it was hard to absorb what I was looking at. Who could have done this? Her stone must weight 350lbs. I couldn’t have done it. I didn’t know anyone who could toss it aside like that.
Lloyd went to his car to get a box out of the trunk to put broken stuff into. While he was gone I said, “did you get bored down there, Maragaret Louise? What did you do? Can you see this mess?”
No answer was forthcoming.
A raven chuckled somewhere up in one of those old firs outside the fence.
Lloyd returned. “I’m really sorry Dan,” he began, “I can’t imagine who would want to mess up her grave like this.” His hands hung down by his sides for a moment or two, then he started picking up the broken pieces of her shrine, for it was a sort of shrine.
It crossed my mind to be thankful that the vandal hadn’t dug her up. I figured I would hire the monument people in town to come stand her stone back up. The daughters and grandchildren would be happy to redecorate her little place again. I would just have a to make a phone call to the head aunt, April, Margaret’s replacement, to set the job in motion.
6:30 AM, lots of time for breakfast. I’m alone here, so I am the cook. I got up to the range and did a couple of soft eggs, and fried toast. Best kind of toast in the world, and most people have no idea.
My name is Daniel Wilson. I am the fire chief of the all-volunteer fire service out here on the reservation, and I am one of two cops. Between the two jobs I am kept moderately busy. We mostly either ticket drunks or transport them into town when they get themselves hurt playing bumper cars. I am not a drinker. I’ve seen way too much.
I have a foot in two worlds. My mom was a white woman, and my daddy was a tribal preacher, a rare bird indeed. Here I sit in their house. Both deceased. Sometimes it amuses me to wonder what my great grandfathers would think of my name.
I was still musing when my mobile started playing the 1812. It doesn’t take long to hit that button.
“Dan, there’s a mess in the cemetery! You need to see this, man!” It was the other tribal cop, Lloyd, and he was pretty excited. My work day commenced right there. I told him I would meet him there in ten minutes. “Bye, Lloyd, give me a minute.”
Grabbing my jacket, I stepped out into the daylight. The wind was cool and moisture laden. It would dry up later in the morning. I could hear the usual crows arguing points way up in the tops of the firs. A horn honked a few blocks away. It seemed like a nice normal res day. But you really never know around here. This place is not a hundred percent in the modern world. It still carries a scent of the recent past, a past that I could almost remember. But maybe those were just dreams.
I drive a dark green Ford pickup. It’s about ten years old. When I started it up, the windows fogged up and soon cleared. I was going over there, but I wasn’t breaking a leg getting there. He didn’t mention a body now, did he. I figured whatever was going on wasn’t going anywhere. Pretty quiet in a cemetery, usually. My philosophy is like Wyatt Earp’s. Be fast, slowly. I think that’s how it goes.
Lloyd was there waiting for me right inside the gate in his Honda. We don’t wear uniforms, but we are carrying and have a badge on our shirts. Lloyd looks like he goes about 145lbs and is about 60 years old with long white hair. He isn’t very scary looking, but I happen to know how fast he is. I’ve seen Lloyd disarm and secure two hundred pound drunks.
“What are we looking at here, Lloyd,” I said as I hopped out of my truck.
“You’ll see, Dan.” He was already walking uphill at a fast clip, toward the back of the fenced in cemetery plot, in a hurry to reveal the damage. I followed right behind.
When we arrived at my grandmother’s grave site, I could understand his urgency better.
Something about Indian cemeteries. They are not like a regular cemetery. They are full of offerings and gifts and mementoes. Lots of toys, plastic flowers, flags, important stones, all kinds of things decorate the graves of loved people. My grandmother had been an important matriarch. Margaret Louise Wilson. The last word on anything. Her grave was like a toy city. You’d probably have to see it to understand the scope of the thing. It looked celebratory usually.
Her stone had been picked up and dropped on its face onto the path in front of her plot. It was still in one piece. The toys and plastic flowers in their vases had been scattered. Broken green glass was all over the near area. A framed photo of herself taken in the 80s had been stepped on. The frame was in pieces, glass broken, photo wet.
I had to stand and look at it for a few minutes, because it was hard to absorb what I was looking at. Who could have done this? Her stone must weight 350lbs. I couldn’t have done it. I didn’t know anyone who could toss it aside like that.
Lloyd went to his car to get a box out of the trunk to put broken stuff into. While he was gone I said, “did you get bored down there, Maragaret Louise? What did you do? Can you see this mess?”
No answer was forthcoming.
A raven chuckled somewhere up in one of those old firs outside the fence.
Lloyd returned. “I’m really sorry Dan,” he began, “I can’t imagine who would want to mess up her grave like this.” His hands hung down by his sides for a moment or two, then he started picking up the broken pieces of her shrine, for it was a sort of shrine.
It crossed my mind to be thankful that the vandal hadn’t dug her up. I figured I would hire the monument people in town to come stand her stone back up. The daughters and grandchildren would be happy to redecorate her little place again. I would just have a to make a phone call to the head aunt, April, Margaret’s replacement, to set the job in motion.
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