There is nothing that compares with returning to your childhood home; the only thing that would make it sweeter is to share the experience with your siblings. I spent my childhood on the Hoopa Valley Indian Reservation, a small village that is situated along the Trinity River in the extreme northern part of California.
When giving directions to any place in Hoopa, a location is given in relation to the river and it’s tributaries. There are several creeks that empty into the river there in the valley. There’s Tish Tang, Supply Creek, Hostler Creek, Pine Creek and Mill Creek to name a few. Our family place was downriver and up Mill Creek. Up the creek from our house, there once was an old gristmill that was operated by a water wheel. The remnants of the water wheel were still there when I was a kid, the last time I saw it, it was all grown over with moss and ferns and surrounded by huckleberry bushes.
I had seven siblings, four brothers and three sisters. We knew every inch of the hillsides around Mill Creek and the beautiful “flat” above the flood plane is still home to family members. It was there on Mill Creek that we learned the important things in life, things like chopping wood, milking a cow, gardening, canning, horseback riding and raising chickens, pigs, and cattle for food. We all had assigned chores and never ever considered getting an allowance for doing them. We also learned that if we pitched in and helped each other, the work was done quicker and we had more time to play. Most of our play involved time along the creek or climbing the hillsides.
In the summer our mom would send us out with little lard buckets to pick wild blackberries. In the fall, we gathered acorns, and picked wild grapes. We also picked apples by either climbing a ladder or with a long pole that had a tin can nailed to the end of it. The apples, pears, and squash were stored for the winter by burying them in straw in a shed. As I look back, it seems as though we spent most of our time just trying to survive; hunting, gathering, fishing and all that goes into preserving food for future use.
There are many Bluegrass songs that have to do with going home, childhood memories, hard times, family and friendships. It is sweet to remember and some memories are bittersweet. The reason these songs are popular is because most of us can relate to them in some way, especially those of us who are sixty or older.
A few weeks ago, my siblings and I (except for my oldest brother who is having health issues), all gathered together in Hoopa. It was a bittersweet occasion; we had come together to honor the memory of my brother Robert and to bury him on the flat near his home on Mill Creek. The place where he had spent his entire life is now his resting place. Robert had never married but he dedicated his adult life to caring for aging parents and raising several nephews and nieces. He had a way of showing each one of them unconditional love. He also was a cowboy, and loved his horses and dogs. Some of the earliest pictures we have of Robert were images of him on horseback, sometimes with a dog sharing the saddle. Later pictures show him with a nephew or niece holding them up on the back of a horse. I have never known a more generous, self-sacrificial person than my brother Robert.
Losing a sibling was a difficult thing to experience and the only thing that made it easier was to have nearly all my brothers and sisters together to comfort each other and share memories. We spent a lot of time looking through old photos and telling stories, which brought both laughter and tears. It was good for the younger generation to be there to hear some of our stories for the first time or the hundredth time.
Together we walked out into the orchard and picked and ate apples off the tree, just like we did as kids. We walked down the hill to the old swimming hole on Mill Creek and skipped a rock or two. We went out and picked wild grapes on the hillside that was once our playground. We treasured every moment we spent together and were very conscious of the void that was left by our beloved brother. It was only fitting that Robert’s dog followed us around on our little excursions. Humans are not the only ones who mourn.
Going home is a healing balm. Visiting with relatives and old classmates brought back many memories and smiles. Life can be hard at times but as we celebrate the coming holidays, may we be grateful, not only for the bounty on our tables but for the blessing of friendships, families and all that brings us joy. Music is what brings most of us CBA people joy. Share some joy.
