La Mer as La Mere

Water is one of the many things I like to think about.
71% of the Earth's surface is covered by water. 73% of the human heart and brain is water.
Ocean currents move people, weather, animals from one shore to the other, river currents flush out debris and transport goods between ports.
Blood currents deliver oxygen to muscles and flush toxins from the body.
While still in the womb, mere weeks from taking our first breath of air, we take practice breaths under water - inside our mothers. Water forms tears of joy, and of sorrow.

While interviewing director Derrick LaMere for the upcoming screening of his film, United by Water, all of these themes came to mind as he talked about the importance of 'bringing the people back to the water' - in acts of conservation of resources, preservation of culture, and reconciliation of human relationships.

His other films also are about people returning to the water to reconnect with their environment, their roots, their human-ess.

"Your name is very powerful," I said, thinking of the French translation of La Mer, The Sea

"It is, the water is, in many ways, our mother," he said - referring to the French translation of his actual name, La Mere, The Mother

And then he told me of his grandmother, and his great grandmother.

And now I'm thinking of Water in terms of Mother

How, when I was a child, I would dive deep to the bottom of the pool and try to stay there, marveling at the feeling in my ears of hearing the blood rush with each heart beat, and the muffled shouts above of splashing kids in the pool . I'd pop up for air and look at my mother sitting on the bleachers beneath an umbrella - holding my baby brother. Is this what he heard while he was inside of her?

Even now, on days when the world is too much with us, I'll slip into a warm bath and slide under the water, with just my nose above the surface. Listening to the inner sounds of my body carrying on: the beat of my heart, the inhalation of breath into my lungs, and the muffled drip, drip of the faucet, and all is right with the world again.

All You Need is a Toothbrush and Clean Underpants

Everyone has a holiday travel story filled with unfortunate events. Here’s another one for the books…

I don’t normally check a bag, but this year I decided to take advantage of the convenient option of checked bags – roomier suitcase, space for gifts, and all the liquids a woman desires - including a bottle of rum. We planned to take a flight from Wenatchee to Seattle, enjoy a leisurely dinner and a restful night’s sleep before our flight to Britain the next day. These plans were futile, beginning with the checked bag.

After landing in Seattle, we strolled to baggage claim with the other passengers to wait for bags that never arrived. While my husband walked the length of the airport baggage area searching for our bag, I stood in a long line at customer service. Apparently, all the bags where lost. All I wanted was dinner, a cup of tea, my liquids, and my comfortable pajamas from my checked bag. It was not to be. We gave up and turned in for the night…sans liquids and comfy pjs.

In the morning we lumbered down to baggage claim, and there was our bag, sitting all alone in a vast empty line of silent luggage carousels. I opened the zipper just enough to verify that this was indeed my bag - and upon seeing my socks and underwear, promptly zipped it shut without fully examining ALL the contents. We grabbed the bag and rushed upstairs to check it in before joining the security line before our flight to Chicago, which was delayed.

The flight from Chicago to Manchester was also delayed, and there was a scene at customs. The customs agent simply was having one of those days (or lifetimes) where he gained immense satisfaction from being an asshole. We watched as numerous families were loudly belittled for "wasting his time and everyone else's" for imagined slights and sent to the end of the ridiculously long line of over a hundred weary passengers and crying children. When our turn arrived, the only available agent was this power-wielding sack of flesh. We also were immediately shunned, yelled at, and sent to the end of the line for showing disrespect, when we had not been able to get in a single word to answer the belligerent rapid fire questions of "and how would I be treated if I were to travel to your country?! You are wasting my time. END OF THE LINE!" Making our way back through the maze of line forming poles and rope we were intercepted by another agent who took us back to the front of the line and hand delivered us to a different agent - they passed knowing looks and we sensed that the agent who was having a no-good-rotten-horrible-day was a regular occurrence.

With all the delayed flights and customs drama we missed the prime 10 a.m. train to Edinburgh, but managed to score tickets for the noon train. There was a bit of confusion before boarding the train, as our tickets did not match the train cars or seats. We stopped a uniformed man to ask which car we should board and were informed these tickets were for the metro train across town, not this train right in front of us, ready to leave the station. Being the calm, rational, people that we are, we tossed our luggage on the theoretically wrong train and jumped aboard. Long story short, the uniformed individual happened to be new on the job and gave us directions that would have most certainly ruined Christmas. The other passengers were very helpful in explaining the ticket and seating process.

We arrived in Edinburgh, the hilly capital of Scotland. Cobblestone streets and Harry-Potter-esque architecture make up the section known as Old Town, lined with baked potato delis and shops offering highland wool and Celtic jewelry. I opened my bag and rummaged around for the rum. It was gone. Of course it was gone. When a bag goes missing in an airport for 12 hours, so does the rum.

On the return trip, I ditched all the liquids and opted to carry on my bag instead of checking it. That was a “stable genius” move on my part because everything that could possibly go wrong in the history of air travel went wrong.

Perhaps that sentiment is overblown. We did not die, there was no water landing, and the air sickness bag was not required. However, the pilot came over the intercom and said, "Folks, this plane is smaller than the one we would normally use for a transatlantic flight and the fuel tank is not big enough to get us all the way to Chicago. We're going to stop in Bangor, Maine for a refuel." As we approached Bangor, Maine, the pilot made yet another announcement, "Folks, Bangor Maine is too windy for a safe landing, so we are going to try to make it to Boston for a refuel."

Never fly American. Who uses the wrong plane??

All this wrong plane business resulted in an unexpected overnight stay in Chicago, as everyone missed their connections. Representatives met passengers at the gate and had dinner and hotel vouchers, and tickets for rebooked flights. American Airlines rebooked us on an Alaskan Airline flight to Seattle the next morning. This time I had my comfy pajamas in my unchecked bag, so staying overnight in Chicago was not that inconvenient. The next morning we arrived at the gate and were on standby for seat assignments. After all the passengers boarded, and just before the plane door was shut, we were assigned seats. As they scanned my newly issued ticket, the ticket agent said, "I'm sorry, American didn't complete the purchase on this ticket - You'll have to go to gate K7 and have them issue you a purchased ticket." I ran to K7 and was told, "We aren't ticket agents." I ran back to N9 (yeah, a different terminal!) and they let me on the plane anyway, sans ticket.

My advice for sane holiday travel? Forget the checked bag. Just take a backpack with a toothbrush, clean underpants, and comfy pajamas. Be prepared to enjoy the ‘scenic’ extra-long way home.

Book Reviews: Lost Homeland by E. Richard Hart and When the Sun Reaches the Mountain by Christine Cassano

I recently read two books side by side: Lost Homeland: the Methow Tribe and the Columbia Reservation, by E. Richard Hart, and When the Sun Reaches the Mountain by Christine Cassano. Reading these two side by side gave insight into how and why the First People were forced out of their homeland, and how those actions impacted later generations.

Richard is a prolific author and former director of the Institute of the North American West. He is a noted historian and expert witness for tribal matters throughout North America. He lives in Winthrop. Christine is a retired professional hairstylist, she is the 1991 Champion of the International Americas Cup. She was born and raised on the Colville Reservations, and went on to own and operate Christine’s Institute of Hair Design in Spokane, where her students also went on to win national awards. Christine lives on the Colville Reservation in her home that she built in Inchelium.

Lost Homeland gives a detailed outline of the many different people who spoke for the Methows about land use and borders without their knowledge or consent. The land was bargained out from under them, a little each year, while the majority of people were away from home each season gathering food in the upper valley, preparing for winter. The book is written from the perspective of an expert witness preparing a detailed summary and includes official correspondence of documented events, maps, and photos.  

When the Sun Reaches the Mountain is a very personal narrative of the life of a young Native American girl in Washington State during the 1940s and 1950s. Christine shares loving details of her hard-working family who lived on the Colville Reservation. The memories of her mother’s touch and her father’s instruction make their impoverished lifestyle feel rich in experience, although filled with difficult obstacles. She describes everything in great detail, down to the smell of home cooked food, the feel of the blankets, and the sounds of daily life. The story unfolds as most memories do, in bits and pieces. She begins with her first night as an adult in her newly built home, reflecting on the wide arc of her life’s path. The first memory is of a summer before school, working with her family. As most smart young women, she was looking forward to school, but then a tuberculosis diagnosis takes her far away to a specialized hospital where she spends years. From a sterile hospital bed, she draws upon thoughts of her family to get her through each day.

From Richard’s book, I learned that the Columbia Reservation - which includes the Methow traditional territory - was never officially disbanded. This detail has fallen out of public knowledge. The Confederated Tribes, which includes the Methow people, have, “an excellent record in natural resource management,” and have been a powerful ally in recent events surrounding decisions about natural resources in the Methow Valley. We have the Methow Valley Interpretive Center in Twisp, and the Methow Monument in Pateros, but there is more work we can do as a community to help preserve and honor the history of the original people, the Methows.

From Christine’s book, I gained a perspective of how the human spirit perseveres from someone who lived through tumultuous changes during the 40s and 50s in the Pacific Northwest. Native Americans straddled multiple rivers of change at a time when public health epidemics and changes in the economy affected all of America. Healthcare, livelihoods, and education were far from home if you lived on a reservation. Christine details hard challenges, but does so with an inspiring frankness. Her story is an uplifting narrative of strength and perseverance when it nothing in life seems certain.

Mae Ellen Libby Smith

Originally published in the Methow Valley News, November 22, 2018

May Ellen Libby Smith was born on a late summer day August 15, 1918. Her mother, Marian Libby, was harvesting corn from the garden when her water broke within view of Leecher Mountain from Twisp River. May’s father, Chester Libby, grabbed his horse and rode to summon Cora Scott, the midwife. Her given name at birth was, “Mae”, but she has always signed her name as “May”, the gardeners favorite time of year, when Emerson’s words come to life, “What potent blood hath modest May.” She was born at home later that day – although, you could say May’s first introduction to life was the rich Methow soil of her mother’s garden.

May’s paternal grandparents, Ashbell and Sarah Libby, built the first schoolhouse on Libby Creek. They continued on as school administrators for many years. A deep appreciation for education was firmly planted in May. From her parents’ home on Twisp River, May rode the bus to school in Twisp, and attended the large school that is today’s Methow Valley Community Center.

May fondly recalled the teacher who introduced her to poetry, Ms. Virginia Ramm. “I loved poetry. I’d lean my head into old Daisy while milking and I’d write poetry!” she exclaimed. “Give me a word, any word, and I’ll write a poem around that word.” With a twinkle in her blue eyes, May raised her hands and gestured as she recited “The Day is Done” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. “The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather…” her hands swept the air in a gentle downward waft, “From an eagle in his flight…” she continued to the very end.

“I’d get up early, while it was still dark and go sit at the ponds with my dog, waiting for the sun the rise. The moment dawn hit the water, it seemed like the whole world came alive, all the frogs and birds, it was so loud!”

After the 8th grade, the family needed May to go to work. She was heartbroken to leave school, but she enjoyed her time working at various places, starting at a restaurant in Tonasket, and including the original Logan’s in Twisp.

During WWII, May got a job at the Vancouver shipyards. She was outfitted with a Harley Davidson motorcycle, sidecar, and a team of women to manage the tool warehouse and deliver tools to ships. “That is where I met Eleanor Roosevelt,” she said.

The First Lady had arrived in Vancouver to christen a ship. May let the other women off early so they could get a good seat in the crowd. The crowds grew that morning while she continued her deliveries via motorcycle. She was summoned by a commanding officer, who indicated that someone needed a ride. May drove up to the curb and nodded to man to get into her sidecar. “He was a real fancy dude with a top hat,” she recollected. May drove him up to the gates, where Eleanor was waiting. The man got out and stepped up to the First Lady, turning to wave to May. “Eleanor Roosevelt blew me a kiss,” May pressed her fingers to her pursed lips, and tipped them forward, “just like that. She had a nice smile. She was not as homey as the pictures made her out to be.” After the ceremony, Eleanor Roosevelt’s motorcade drove by May, as she waited on her motorcycle. Eleanor singled out May, as she blew another kiss.

May soon traveled to Spokane, where she was hired by the Air National Guard. “Let me tell you about my good time job,” she grinned. “All the other applicants had finished school. I didn’t think I had a chance. But they picked me, I had the smarter answers!” She smiled, the memory still potent decades later.

May knew that things were done one particular way in the military. But she found her job to be inefficient, especially during an emergency when she had to quickly compile a report from multiple file sources. May changed the filing system to better respond to emergencies. One day, the commanding officers strode into the room. May thought, “Uh oh, here comes the brass, there goes my job.” But instead, they shook her hand and congratulated May on her quick response time. Her filing system was implemented nationwide. Later in life, the Air National Guard recognized May with a Letter of Commendation.

Throughout her adult life, May continued to write poetry, and yearned to finish her schooling. In her late thirties, she achieved that goal and received her college degree in interior design.

At 99 years old, May is still very much young at heart, the embodiment of Emerson’s words, “What potent blood hath modest May.” When complimented on her youthful complexion and air of health, she holds up a jar of Gardners Gardens beeswax skin cream, made in the Methow Valley by David and Marilyn Sabold. (It’s been my long time favorite, too!) May also credits a spoonful of honey every morning, sometimes mixed with peanut butter. From her home in Wenatchee May has a request of her friends, “Bring me some Methow dirt. The good kind, some Methow soil!”

Mae passed away peacefully shortly after this publication on January 8, 2018

Feel your Boobies, and your Prostrate

This article originally appeared in the Methow Valley News, 25 October 2017

One week remains in breast cancer awareness month. The national discussion should be focused on cancer screenings for everyone, not just breast cancer. One in seven men will be diagnosed with prostrate cancer in their lifetimes. One in eight women will develop breast cancer. Of the two most common cancers, 90% of people who receive the diagnosis have no family history of the disease.

Consider this column a gentle reminder to schedule an annual physical and talk with your doctor to decide when to start testing, and how often. Write down the family history of cancer before you go. If there is a history of prostrate cancer in males, there is a higher risk of breast cancer in the female members of the family and vice versa.

I found a lump in my early 30s. After a mammogram followed by an ultrasound, the lump was determined to be a benign cyst. The mammogram provided a baseline for comparison in later years. Whether you feel a lump or not, ask your doctor to schedule a baseline mammogram if you’ve never had one before. For prostrate cancer, a simple blood test can catch the disease early.

Rebecca Meadows had her mammogram earlier this summer, finding an early diagnosis of breast cancer. After a full mastectomy, further treatments - such as chemotherapy and radiation - were not required. She feels very lucky, “the first thing I ask when I see a friend is, ‘when was your last mammogram?’”

The initial diagnosis, for Rebecca, felt like, “a whirlwind, a hurricane,”. Things moved so quickly after the mammogram, she did not have time to think about the big picture or long term. During the midst of it all, someone who has just been diagnosed is often able to only focus on the immediate and overwhelming tasks at hand. She suggests, “take a friend with you to all your appointments, so they can help remember what is being said, and what needs to be asked.” For friends, always offer to take someone to an appointment and sit in the room with them.

“Don’t be afraid to ask questions,” Rebecca suggested. She held up typewritten pages she had just used the day before at a follow up exam. “Do your homework, write it all down,” she suggested, “the American Cancer Society has a list of questions you can take with you to the doctor. Doing your homework makes it less scary!” Rebecca has offered to be a resource to anyone who has questions.

Most often, a cancer diagnosis can be treated. But in some instances, people receive a timeline of life expectancy. What to do then? I can’t tell you what it is like for everyone, but I can share with you my mother’s experience. She was given initially two months to live. My uncle gave me sage advice, “Your role is to help her through this. Let her know that it’s ok if she goes.” For adult kids, spouses, friends – I can tell you that person is more worried about you, than about dying. Let them know you are ok, and keep the focus on enjoying the time you have together.  

One of the last conversations I had with my mom was what she had learned. Her diagnosis, she said, was a gift that gave her time and space to just be.

Take the initiative to talk with your doctor about your own cancer screenings. The more you know, the more prepared you can be for when and if you ever receive a diagnosis. Cancer screenings are not scary, they are simply a fact of life for us all.

Tenacious Crossword

There is a valley character who I call "Crossword". He always has a stack of crossword puzzles that he's working on all over town: in Hank's deli, at the laundromat, at the garage, in the library, at the bakery...

While waiting for my snow tires to be put on, I walked over to the bakery and took up at my customary table by a window with full view of the sidewalk and people coming and going. Crossword was at the table next to me, pencil poised in mid air over a stack of puzzles freshly torn out from various newspapers. As I opened up my laptop, he leaned over conspiratorially,

Crossword: I was over at Hank's and I asked a woman for a hug.

Me: How'd that work out for ya?

Crossword: She said, "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!" Hahahaha! (slapping his knee)

Me: Did you expect a different outcome?

Crossword: Are you kidding me? Hahahahaha!!

He continued to chuckle to himself, his head and shoulders shaking in laughter as he filled in the little squares of the puzzle. After a time, he slowly got up, put on his coat, and shuffled with great effort out the door. Still smiling and waving as he left. I watched through the window to make sure he got where he was going.

Most people passed him quickly, not giving the old bent man a second look as he shuffled along, carefully concentrating on each step. He paused at the curb, and reached out a hand - curled and gnarled by years of work - and placed it on a hood of a car to keep his balance as he shuffled a few steps forward.

A young man took long quick strides for the bakery, passing Crossword. The young man put his hand on the bakery door, pushed it open, and then stopped short as a sudden look of awareness and concern furrowed his brow. He stepped away from the door and turned around, his back to me, and the door now shut. He greeted Crossword, generic words passed between two strangers and Crossword waved him off with one hand, his other sliding along the cold metal of a car hood.

The young man pulled his phone out of his pocket, and frowned down at it, standing on the sidewalk - bakery seemingly forgotten. As Crossword made slow progress, the young man kept discreetly glancing up from his phone. He took small steps that to passerby would look like a distracted movement, but he was keeping a mindful distance between himself and Crossword. As soon as Crossword reached his destination and was inside the next shop, the young man smiled, pocketed his phone, and rushed into the bakery - where he ordered lunch to go and rushed back out.

In a world of name-calling and frustration with everyone around us, it was a gift to see someone stop and carefully consider the level of assistance someone might need. From my vantage point, Crossword turned down help because he wants to stay mobile and independent as long as he has the ability to do so. The young man respectfully gave him space and a sense of privacy - while ensuring Crossword met his goal. Let's all be both of them - tenacious when we are older, and kind when we are younger.

Archaeology Project, MVIC

This article originally appeared in the Methow Valley News, 11 October 2017

Hozomeen Mountain cuts into the sky above the cold waters of Ross Lake. Jack Kerouac referenced this North Cascade National Park peak in The Dharma Bums, "Hozomeen, Hozomeen, the most mournful mountain I've ever seen". In another of his books, Desolation Angels, the author contemplates the questions of life while gazing to the summit, “Even Hozomeen will crack and fall apart, nothing lasts.”

Archeologist Bob Mierendorf studied quarries at Hozomeen Mountain for the past two decades, finding a 10,000 year long record of human activity etched and piled on the landscape. You can learn more about his findings in a youtube video produced by North Cascades National Park, “Hozomeen: A story about chert, identity, and landscape” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uyqjLqJoTWo

Hozomeen chert, a flint like mineral found exclusively in the North Cascades, was used by First Peoples to make very distinctive stone tools. The name “Hozomeen” is an interior Salish word that means, “sharp, like a sharp knife”. Salish is a geographically broad language group in the Pacific Northwest made up from different dialects, including Methow. The placename, “Hozomeen”, is a constant attachment to the place and the resources found there – bringing together social, linquistic, and archeology history. Original placenames are often descriptive terms that connect people and history to a place.

A stone tool made of Hozomeen chert was found at a private residence on French Creek. The owner contacted Rich Davis, Archaeology Advisor for the Methow Valley Interpretive Center (MVIC) and Methow Field Institute (MFI), and generously agreed to allow Rich to study the stone tool as a research effort to document early history in the Methow Valley. The tool is impressive in size and detail. The age has been determined to be at least three to four thousand years old, based on the heavily patinated sheen on the surface of the tool.

Other found objects in the Methow Valley include projectile points that are of the same style found broken off in the thigh of Kennewick Man – the Cascade Willow Leaf style. Tool styles represent cultures that thrived within a specific period of time. Tool styles combined with radiocarbon dates of surrounding layers have dated some sites in the Methow Valley to be 9,000 years old.

In the lower Methow Valley, Rich has compared present day landscape with geological surveys and maps completed in the late 1800s. Using this record, Rich believes he has located “Ballou’s Crossing” on the Methow River that may intersect the Chiliwist Trail, a major trade route through the Cascade region used by the First Peoples. Along the Methow River near this intersection, Rich discovered fire cracked rock and debris left over from the production of chipped stone tools, indicating that section of the river bank was used as a ‘workshop’ to create tools eons ago.

Rich and MVIC and MFI have partnered with Aaron Neuman, archeologist for the History/Archaeology department of the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation (CCT) to create a photo record of Native American artifacts found in the Methow Valley. All we have left is stone tools and oral history to recreate a record of the First People who once lived, thrived, and died here.

Owners of artifacts are encouraged to share valuable historic information by contacting Rich and allowing him to photograph and record found objects. Privacy is assured and no other obligation is necessary. Sensitive information will be kept confidential. 

Owners have the option to keep the objects, loan them for exhibit, or donate the found objects to either the MVIC, or the History/Archaeology department of CCT. Please contact Rich Davis: davisrich@hotmail.com, 509-997-2284