Easter Sunday the boys and I took a break from a family get-together to take a jaunt on a path a short distance down the steep bank leading down to the Mississippi in St.

Tuesday, April 25, 2000

Easter Sunday the boys and I took a break from a family get-together to take a jaunt on a path a short distance down the steep bank leading down to the Mississippi in St. Paul – below the heavily traveled asphalt path roadside.

We were told by the only other human being we met on the path that about 10 minutes up the trail we would find a path making its way to the bank of the Mississippi. We headed that way and talked about what it must have been like when only the Indians were there.

I asked Skyler what he thought Indians used for a bathroom.

"They sit on logs with holes hollowed out and they surround the hole with leaves."

"They did?" I asked.

"I don’t know," he said, "It’s just my guess."

I told him I thought they dug holes in the ground and then covered them up.

Finally we reached the river below. Once there we felt quite alone with no sound of the busy traffic that hurried by in car and on foot at the top of the hill far out of sight, where the people seemed to pay little attention to the greatest river in America.

To my surprise we could see to the bottom near the shore. There was litter, less than I expected. A few plastic containers here and there. We could see where fires had been. And there were countless names carved in the face of the rock down near the shoreline.

"This is limestone," I told the kids, like they were listening at the same time wondering why we label everything and maybe it wasn’t limestone.

This also shifted my thinking to when I was at Mankato State College – in geography we had to study the type of rock found along the Minnesota River in that area. Perhaps it would have been better to study how so many Indians came to be hung there during Lincoln’s time in office.

I don’t know many Indians personally. I have been to a few of the Pow Wows in Rochester and received an official document from them for being a veteran. The veterans from the audience were invited out onto the floor to be recognized for serving in the military. The boys were with me and they were too young to be left alone so I didn’t get out on the floor. Usually I don’t see serving as a great honor – especially in Vietnam - but I felt different at the Pow Wow, there I would have been honored to be standing alongside "warriors."

The following year at a family based conference I met a Native American who worked with Native Americans in the cities. He was also a ceremonial dancer. He was going to be dancing at the next Rochester Pow Wow coming up – back we went.

He accidentally dropped his eagle feather when I greeted him. I felt bad about that. This isn’t supposed to happen. He quickly gathered it up. Normally, I think, the ceremony would stop and the chief would have to come by and make some ceremonial reconciliation using sweet grass as a link to the Great Spirit.

I had a Indian student years ago when I was teaching in Riverside. We were preparing for Columbus day, I was busy building up class interest preparing them to expound upon his worth. Suddenly Dallas’s hand shot up, he was one who never raised his hand.

"Yes Dallas."

"Columbus didn’t discover America, we did."

Everyone ended up being pretty hard on ol’ Christopher after Dallas’s comment. I attempted to give credit for his spirit of adventure and for probably not having the best crew in the world sailing with him.

A fifth grade teacher at the same school used to tell his classes that Columbus actually sailed over with four ships, catching their attention, "but one fell over the edge."

Later in life I met an adult Indian who grew up in South Dakota. He told me about their peyote spiritual ceremony and when so doing it probably wasn’t the best time for a stranger to happen by.

A few weeks ago I wrote to Leonard Peltier who been brought to the Rochester Correctional Federal facility from Leavenworth for medical assistance. I wanted to visit with him. He has been a prisoner – or political prisoner, depending one’s view- and charged with killing two FBI agents at Wounded Knee.

I couldn’t visit him nor send him a likeness of him I sculpted several years ago out of clay. I did receive word in the mail that he received the letter.

Now, he is back in Leavenworth serving his 25th year.

Read his book. It should be required reading along with Carol Bly’s book "Changing the Bully That Rules the World."

The Mississippi isn’t the only river to explore. When I was a young boy I found a perfect spearhead unearthed when the Turtle Creek was rerouted behind our house. I treasure it.

I treasured the walk with Casey and Skyler and the memories. A nice Easter.