TRUE TALES OF THE REAL WEST:  SALLY RAND, AGAIN AND AGAIN;  COMING OF AGE INTO THE RED [A SYCAMORE MEMOIR]; ROBERT CARR FOR MAYOR OF WINSLOW ARIZONA   [HUNTER BEAR,  OCTOBER 13 2005] UPDATE STUFF

 

SALLY RAND, AGAIN AND AGAIN  [HUNTER BEAR, OCTOBER 13 2005]  UPDATED 12/11/07

NOTE BY HUNTER BEAR:

Our large Hunterbear website continues to grow, serving among many others, high school and college/university students who are always, at this point in the academic year, struggling to put together ostensibly academic papers. Often they write me directly and, within the bounds of professorial propriety, I help them as best I can. [I'll go as far as suggesting outlines -- but I do not, of course, compose a draft.] But the website, [if you count our trial balloon called "Red Wobbly," 1999], Lair of Hunterbear, has now been around for a fair number of years. Long ago, it had proceeded far and away beyond its original self-defense purposes generated by the not-always-friendly-forces in such places as Idaho and North Dakota. Its growth, which greatly transcends student desperation, is steady and its consistently increasing number of clients appears to be generally with us for the long pull.

I always take a good look at the stats and related info provided by our server, interested in our trends. I was a bit surprised to note that the subject of this slightly older brief post is suddenly getting considerable attention. Given the sober-sided and often impassioned discussions on our lists in the immediate past, it strikes me as an appropriate greeting for the day. H.
 

From the turbulent Redbadbear List of October 12:

NOTE BY HUNTER BEAR:
>
> Miers come through as not only a full sycophant of Bush -- but a
narrow puritan as well.  I say resurrect Sally Rand and put her on the
USSC.  H
>
> I'll take good ole puritanism.- CJ

Hunter Bear Again:

Well, with all due respect to good Cornet Joyce, I'll take Sally Rand and Her
Wild and Wooly Times any day [or saloon night] to the contemporary
sanctimonious prudish deserts -- which, by the way, piously and
hypocritically overlay in this country what is, in actuality, the very
antithesis of puritanical puritanism.  For those who came 'way late, Sally
Rand [1904-1979], was better known than Marilyn Monroe over a broader
geographical area for a far longer time. [It was never in her to commit
suicide.]   What did she "do"?  Let me tell you -- with my only
qualification being that it would take a Big Book indeed to do Sally full
justice. She was a renowned and justifiably great strip tease artist and fan
and feather dancer whose basic turf stretched from hell-roaring Seattle and
Tacoma into and across the northern and central sections of the
Intermountain West to  Denver and the Black Hills.  But hardly limited to
that vast expanse, she was a major star in much of the rest of the country
as well -- including the World's Fair at Chicago in '33.

She was married for a good while to the colorful Turk Greenough [1905-1995],
a genuinely top cowpuncher and rodeo guy  -- much in the tradition of Bill
Haywood's brother-in-law, Tom Minor of Nevada, who was also a top cowboy and
rodeo man.  [During the Haywood frameup trial at Boise in 1907, successful
defense lawyer Clarence Darrow made certain that Tom Minor and the rest of
that extremely obvious Western family were conspicuously present.]  In north
central Arizona in the '50s, I knew Turk's brother, Leo, who was running a
dude ranch near Cottonwood and specializing in fleecing Easterners whom he
regaled with tales of hunting "saber-toothed tigers" in the rough Rim
Country.

But Turk Greenough was real -- and so was Sally.

And her legend shone far and wide.  She and It kept things loosened up.  And
remember, if you can, that there was no television at all during her high
water epoch.  The current and often prim and ostensibly "proper" crowd in
the big cities who look down on us Real Westerners, as well as the sin-concerned  venomous
Bible-shouters in some other parts,  may not appreciate these things, but
scratch the surface of most folks even today and you'll find plenty who do.

By the time I came along, Sally's heyday -- the latter '20s through the '30s
and into the '40s -- was slowly on the downslope. it was too late for me to
directly experience Her.  But I heard an appreciative lot about her that cut
across all sorts of racial/ethnic and social class and most ideological
lines: in fire and cow camps in the Northern Arizona pine forests; cattle
and sheep towns like Rock Springs, Wyoming; mining camps like Jerome and
Bisbee in Arizona; Butte and the Coeur d'Alenes for sure; and the old-time
Skid Roads and Wobblies of the Pacific Northwest -- whenever her name came
up, men and even many women smiled with nostalgia for a Time which, for all
of its vicissitudes, was in the afterglow of the "frontier", still Wild and
Free.

Yours, H


HUNTER GRAY  [HUNTER BEAR/JOHN R SALTER JR]   Mi'kmaq /St. Francis
Abenaki/St. Regis Mohawk
www.hunterbear.org
Protected by Na´shdo´i´ba´i´
 and Ohkwari'

For me, it's the Time of my Coming of Age Bear.  And if, from here on out, I
do little more [and I hope I do a great deal], I plan to shoot, respectfully
and ritually so, a Final Big Bear who will join the First --as my special
companions for the eventual journey into the Fog and Deep Canyon, up over
the High Mountains, and Far Beyond. [Hunter Bear]

In our Gray Hole, the ghosts often dance in the junipers and sage, on the
game trails, in the tributary canyons with the thick red maples, and on the
high windy ridges -- and they dance from within the very essence of our own
inner being. They do this especially when the bright night moon shines down
on the clean white snow that covers the valley and its surroundings.  Then
it is as bright as day -- but in an always soft and
mysterious and remembering way.  [Hunter Bear]

COMING OF AGE INTO THE RED:  A SYCAMORE MEMOIR  [HUNTER BEAR]

Comment by John Salter [son Beba]:

This is as good the second time around as the first.  I think you've also hit on something that's really missing in our world today, and that is simple rituals for young people--ceremonies.  Joseph Campbell, in The Power of Myth, laments on how this lack is weakening our culture.  Solid, sacred rituals have been swallowed by negative, ugly rituals--boys joining gangs and getting beaten up as an initiation ceremony.  This is a needed ritual but it is happening in a perverse way.  Not everyone can go hunting but we need to find ways to help young men and women BECOME men and women.


NEW INTRO BY HUNTER BEAR:  OCTOBER 11  2005

I wrote and posted this piece a few years ago.  Some have seen it, many have
not.  When some things of mine are finally published as a print book, this
will certainly be high on the pine.

It's Fall in the West.  Here in the higher altitudes of the Mountain States,
the air is living-crispy during the days and the nights call for our wolf
robe or at least my colorful Pendleton blankets.  Occasional rain and some
snow are slowly bringing deer, elk, and moose down into the somewhat lower
winter ranges -- not far at all above us right here -- accompanied by lions,
bobcats, coyotes, even an occasional wolf. Bears are doing their final
fattening up for their long den-sleep -- which will carry them far
feelings-wise from oncoming cold weather with its cutting winds and
inevitable snow.  But now, the sky can be as blue as turquoise, the mornings
always promising good luck, and the slowly dimming early evenings with their
fading sunlight and faint haze and creeping chill have a strangely appealing
and mystical feel.  The nights can be downright witchy.

For me, it's the Time of my Coming of Age Bear.  And if, from here on out, I
do little more [and I hope I do a great deal], I plan to shoot, respectfully
and ritually so, a Final Big Bear who will join the First --as my special
companions for the eventual journey into the Fog and Deep Canyon, up over
the High Mountains, and Far Beyond.


COMING OF AGE INTO THE RED: A SYCAMORE MEMOIR  [HUNTER BEAR]

His old Stetson pulled hard down just above the eyes in his weather-lined
face, Frank took a stick and drew three circles in the sandy soil on the
edge of our greasewood campfire -- its low, dancing flames keeping at bay
the chilly winter cold of that semi-desert Arizona night.

"Lenin saw it this way," he told me.  "These are the things that strangle
the people.  Capitalism. Government.  Church."  And he then drew a complex
of intricate, interactive lines between and around the Circles.

And, just a few yards to the west of us, we could hear in its little gorge
the rushing water of the Verde River, just joined by Sycamore Creek which
came down from the north out of that massive, splendid and vasty wilderness
area called Sycamore Canyon -- my own great traditional hunting region.

And only a few miles to our west loomed Mingus Mountain on which blinked the
lights of the old copper camp of Jerome. Now -- with the ore just played
out -- it was headed toward ghost and artist town status. But it was once
the hell-blasting scene of legendary Wobbly and then other class war
struggles -- some of which went well into my own Teen years.

I was a young Native -- 18 -- when that campfire burned on the Verde that
winter night.  And I got a very thorough lesson in class struggle
ideology -- not from a college
prof-type in a suit -- but from a Levi-clad cowpuncher turned artist because
of a back broken from a horse throw.

He was, of course, a great deal more than that.  Born in 1913 in upstate New
York, his father a construction engineer who later did contract work in the
developing USSR, Frank Dolphin had briefly attended Syracuse University and
then went with his parents to live in a small town in Southern Arizona.
While his father worked abroad in the Red East, Frank drifted into
California, labored in the "Factories in the Fields,"  became a militant and
Left farm workers' organizer during the great waves of  Red strikes in the
Imperial Valley and the San Joaquin.  Framed up on a murder charge, he left
California, went into the Teton Basin country of Wyoming, established a
small ranch, married and had a couple of kids -- boys.

Sometimes things -- even things in as beautiful a setting as the Tetons --
just don't work out.  The War was coming on fast. Pearl Harbor was still to
occur but  Canada was now fully embroiled. Frank joined the RCAF, rose to
the rank of First Lieutenant, serving in the New Hebrides.  After the War, he
drifted back into Arizona, working for various cow outfits in the northern
part of the state.

And then he was thrown by a spooky horse.  And he broke his back.

He never rode again.  For awhile he worked as a cow camp cook -- a major and
very important vocation.  But even that was tough.  Horses and wagon, rough
country, long hours, heavy weather.

In time, he came to my home town of Flagstaff.  There he became an  art
student of my father -- who was the first Native hired as a professor at
Arizona State College.  And Frank was, even then, a damn good artist.

That's when we joined forces.

For my part, I was entering a Critical Transition.  I was very much -- as a
friendly and complimentary reference on my behalf later given the Army by a
top U.S. Forest Service official said -- "a nature boy."  I spent a lot of
time in the woods -- as much as I could -- and had ever since I could button
my Levis and pull on my engineer's boots.  My parents were permissive but
grade school and high school were, to me, prisons -- and some teachers and
all administrators seemed to see me  as one of the guys for whom God had
especially designed punishment.

My best high school memories were not classes.  They were our match-winning,
champion rifle club  -- of which I served as president -- and our very
wide-ranging hiking club. In each case, the faculty sponsor was an effective
teacher -- and eminently kind -- and a friend.

In the woods -- and as the years passed I went into ever more rugged and
remote areas -- I could be my own person.  I was always hunting, sometimes
trapping.  Claiming to be the legal Federal work age of 18, even as I was
actually some years younger, I worked very capably indeed over several
consecutive seasons  for the Coconino National Forest as a firefighter and
as a  remote fire lookout/radio man.

Early on in forest fire fighting, I saw, first-hand, virulent anti-Black
hate and violence in a fire camp  -- and years later I wrote an
award-winning short story about that, "The Destroyers."  But in other such
camp settings, coming in from the fire lines to eat and drink coffee and
catch some sleep, I heard talk -- very interesting talk -- about the work
situations in the nearby metal mines and lumber camps.  Favorable talk about
militant unions, like the old Wobblies, and some of the newer radical ones.

Things -- Big Things for me -- were happening.  Flagstaff, a rough and
racist mountain town bordering Indian Country, was being challenged on
the human rights front by my parents and others of
conscience in a very tough crusade. And that effective and long-enduring
struggle included people from all Native tribes of the general region and
other ethnicities as well.

There was a new War -- and a Red Scare.

There was a lot of talk about "Communism."  In the final semester of my
final year of high school, our English teacher, essentially a nice guy,
brought men from the American Legion to our class to warn us about That.  We
were told It was in the unions -- and that It was also, through something
called the American Friends Service Committee, trying to agitate the
Navajos in our very own setting.

I grinned on that one.  The young AFSC couple, Quakers starting work in the
vast and very adjacent Navajoland, were living temporarily -- at that
precise moment --  in our house on the far edge of Flagstaff.  There, they were
meeting  many Navajo leaders. They also met other activists such as Chicano
leaders -- and, too, Wilson Riles,  principal of the small Black
elementary school, whose graduates then went into the fully integrated
Flagstaff junior high and high school complex.

I was at virtually the end of high school when I read a copy of The
Communist Manifesto that an older academic friend of our family lent me at
my request from his own vast library.   I was surprised at how it stirred my blood,
planting seeds for sure.

So too and very much did Granville Hicks' excellent biography of Jack Reed
stir and plant, that next fall when I started in as a freshman at my
hometown Arizona State. [John Reed:  The Making of a Revolutionary,
Macmillan, 1936.] Mother had suggested I hunt up and read that one.  The old
Anglo Mississippi-born lady who was college librarian  looked suspiciously
at the book and  then at me.  But I was an Indian and so was Dad who, of
course, was a  professor as well -- and she said nothing, at least not to
any of us. The book had not been checked out since 1938.

And then, in due course, Frank came into the picture as an older student of
Dad's.  And he arrived just before I completed my young life-long Mission:
to kill a very, very large bear.

That was mandated from almost the Hatch onward.  It didn't come easily. It
took a super long time indeed to accomplish.  And then, one warm October
mid-day, well off-any-road and far, far down into the huge and remote and
heavily forested eastern slope of the Sycamore Canyon wilderness,  I came to
a rare wonderful  spring of pure water emanating from the rocks in an aspen
grove. Flowing in a small stream two hundred yards down a leisurely slope
through the yellow pines and scrub oak and even some red maples, it
culminated in a kind of level clearing  -- a "park" as we call it in the
Southwest -- which was about 20 yards across. There the water gathered,
surrounded by and mixed with  green grass.

And there in the mud I saw the many fresh tracks of a huge black bear.

And so, under a scrub oak tree, surrounded by its fallen acorns mixing with
old needles from the pines, I waited.  Hour after hour  deeply into the late
afternoon.  My 30/30 Winchester lever action with the long octagon barrel
and the curved metal buttplate leaned against a low oak limb, right handy.

And then, looking once again at my Hamilton wrist watch -- the high school
graduation gift from my folks -- I saw that it said 5:10 p.m.  And I looked
up, across the clearing.

And there It was.

It was a huge black bear,  a male, walking smoothly on its fours just inside
the timber along the edge of the clearing, its massively long arms reaching full out and
moving back and then forward again in easy, flowing  graceful coordination with its
huge back legs.

Still seated, I cocked my 30/30 rifle, aimed and fired.  The bear, not
mortally hit, turned and ran directly away from me.  Standing tall, I now
fired by pure instinct -- one of my best shots ever -- hitting It in the
back area.  It turned, snarling and pawing, and I fired five more shots into
It.

I had killed it. A huge bear.  I was now a Full Man.

The sun was dipping far down toward the western rim of the Great Canyon as I
cut the throat of the bear and drained the blood, then gutted him.  Propping
the body cavity open with sticks in order to quickly cool the meat, I also
covered the area with my sweat-stained and human-odorous shirt in order to
discourage any scavenging critters from getting too close.

Then, literally covered with the Red Blood of the Bear, I climbed out of the
Canyon in the darkness and, eventually reaching my vehicle, made it back to
Flagstaff on the remote woods roads.  It was very late. But my parents were
fully as pleased as I.

My father and I and one of my two younger brothers -- and Frank -- left
very early the next morning with bedrolls and three day's rations for
Sycamore and the Bear.  It took Dad and I several trips and every bit of
those three days for us to get all of the bear meat -- in several huge hunks -- out of
the super steep Canyon.  Green blow flies laid maggot eggs in the bloody
hide and we had to abandon that -- save for several furry strips which I cut
off.  During this back-breaking struggle  -- hundreds of pounds of meat from
the huge bear whose live weight was estimated as being at least 650
pounds -- Frank cooked for us, assisted by my little brother.
And that's where I got to know Frank Dolphin well.
And he certainly came to know me.

After that, a lot happened fast in my life.  Frank told me many things --
radical and militant organizing accounts and sagas and organizations and
movements. On things like Wobblies and Communists he had some pithy advice.
"You ride one horse," he told me,  "and, when it goes down, you find another
and  ride it.  Keep going always, full ahead."

It wasn't all Revolution and such.  One hilarious account involved his
spending six weeks in a brothel at Elko, Nevada painting appropriate murals
on every wall.  During that extensive, strenuous period, in which all his
needs were attended to much more than adequately, he never "saw the light of
outside day -- neither the sun nor moon."

Even at the time of the campfire on the Verde, the Army loomed in my future.
So at 18, I finally volunteered. Before I left, Frank carefully painted an
excellent oil portrait of me -- seated and wearing my Levi jacket -- and
caught so very well the stubborn Native nuances in my still-searching face.
"This is for your family," he said, " Especially for your mother."  Pausing,
he then he went on, "in case something  should ever happen."  Again he
momentarily hesitated, "If or whenever."

He was a realist but I've been lucky.

When I came out of the Army, an epoch later, with an honorable release from
a full stint of active duty, much indeed had flowed together in an
irreversibly committed River of No Return.  I was a Red. And I've been one
ever since.

I went on to many, many radical social justice activist things all around
the Land. And I saw Frank, who kept on painting fine stuff, over the many
years to come.  In various news media, he sometimes saw me in all sorts of
colorful and strenuously challenging situations -- and he also heard all
sorts of accounts from my family. And he had no hesitation
about telegraphing me once  from a Montana jail for funds to pay a large
fine for whatever Sin -- and I sent it all and more by return wire.

Frank died in early 1973 at a wide place in the road called Dolan Springs --
far out yonder in extreme Northwestern Arizona and close to the Nevada
border.

The oil painting he did of the earnest 18 year old Native who was struggling
so hard to find his bearings in the high winds turbulence of the very early
'50s hangs now from the wall of our Idaho living room. And it's on our very
large social justice website, Lair of Hunterbear
http://www.hunterbear.org/this_oil_painting_of_me_was_done.htm

All of the bear meat -- rich and strong -- every single bite of it, was
eaten by my family and close friends over several years.  When I returned
from the Army, I resumed my eating.  It lasted for a very long time.

And His skull, with feathers attached and the salvaged strips of furry hide
dangling, hangs always wherever I am. It looks down from my wall, right here
in Idaho.  It looks at Frank Little, Cherokee Indian, and  Wobbly martyr
lynched at Butte  by the copper boss thugs in 1917. It gazes at a photo of
Jack Reed at his typewriter.  It looks at a sketch my father gave me in my
baby crib of the Mohawk leader, Joseph Brant [ Thayendanegea] burning out
the Anglo settlers in up-state New York in the 1770s.

And the Skull sees a bust of Lenin -- and his 45 volumes. And sitting right
alongside those great works are several splendid books from my special
Saint, Ignatius of Loyola -- founder of the Jesuits.

They all look at the Essence of the Bear -- the Skull.

And They all go together.  All of Them.

Now and then, I can close my eyes and  smell the greasewood fire and  hear
the Verde in its gorge. For a moment, I see the creased and friendly face
under the old Stetson.

And then, as I Fight On, I draw three circles in the dust and sand.


HUNTER GRAY  [HUNTER BEAR/JOHN R SALTER JR]   Mi'kmaq /St. Francis
 Abenaki/St. Regis Mohawk
In the mountains of Eastern Idaho
 www.hunterbear.org
Protected by Na´shdo´i´ba´i´
 and Ohkwari'

Check out this significant honor: my 2005 Elder Recognition Award from
Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers and Story Tellers
http://www.hunterbear.org/elder_recognition_award_for_2005.htm

In our Gray Hole, the ghosts often dance in the junipers and sage, on the
game trails, in the tributary canyons with the thick red maples, and on the
high windy ridges -- and they dance from within the very essence of our own
inner being. They do this especially when the bright night moon shines down
on the clean white snow that covers the valley and its surroundings.  Then
it is as bright as day -- but in an always soft and mysterious and
remembering way. [Hunter Bear]

 

ROBERT CARR FOR MAYOR OF WINSLOW, ARIZONA  [OCTOBER 10 2005]

Comment by Bill Mandel:

Hunter: When I get posts like this I tape them to my study
walls. I'm glad there's no space left.
Congratulations,
Bill Mandel

To Hunter from Robert Carr -- student and long-time friend from the Old Days
at Navajo Community College, Tsaile, Navajo Nation [now Dine' College.]
Robert is once again running for Mayor of Winslow, a tough and mostly Anglo
town bordering the Navajo res about 60 miles east of Flagstaff. He is a
popular guy in Winslow.  Let us wish him very well indeed!  H

Greetings! My Good ole Buddy,
I just thought I'd give you all a holler and to say a cheerful "hello" to
you and your family there up in Pocatello, Idaho. For me, I am again running
for Mayor in the City of Winslow, Arizona in the special election because
the current is being recalled. The election is on November 8, 2005 and is a
mail-in ballot type of thing, so I'm pretty sure that is gonna to be a major
upset. Last year, I pretty much done everything on my own. My major setback
was I came up really short financially for my campaign ads.  . . . I really
appreciate the time you were my instructor back in Tsaile, Az. because since
then you were my "mentor".

You are a truly a fighter for equality for all natives and I am really proud
to have been a student of yours. You have paved the way for me to continue
to fight for all Native Americans. Give my regards to Maria.

God Bless Always!

Robert Carr

Winslow, Arizona

For me, it's the Time of my Coming of Age Bear.  And if, from here on out, I
do little more [and I hope I do a great deal], I plan to shoot, respectfully
and ritually so, a Final Big Bear who will join the First --as my special
companions for the eventual journey into the Fog and Deep Canyon, up over
the High Mountains, and Far Beyond. [Hunter Bear]

In our Gray Hole, the ghosts often dance in the junipers and sage, on the
game trails, in the tributary canyons with the thick red maples, and on the
high windy ridges -- and they dance from within the very essence of our own
inner being. They do this especially when the bright night moon shines down
on the clean white snow that covers the valley and its surroundings.  Then
it is as bright as day -- but in an always soft and
mysterious and remembering way.  [Hunter Bear]

WHEN I WAS SEVEN YEARS OLD . . . .[HUNTER BEAR]  10/22/05

NOTE BY HUNTER BEAR:

I appreciate very much David McReynold's long and thoughtful, often
experiential, and thoroughly interesting discussion of the situation in
Southeast Asia a generation ago and some American Left reactions thereto --
stimulated by a strange and not friendly personal remark by Michael Pugliese
who is, though apparently not a member of SPUSA, appearing with increasing
frequency on its lists.

My oldest son, John Salter [who, unlike me, has maintained the Salter name],
was born in 1965 at Raleigh, and used to have as a very small child
indeed -- after we left the South in 1967 [in which we had lived  and worked
since '61] -- an interesting and colorful little epic anti-KKK account which
started off with, "When I was a baby down in North Carolina . . ."  Beba, as
we call him, was considerably more political as an immediate post-baby than
I was even at seven. [This was of pleasantly intriguing interest to our very
old and dear friends, Nat [Jewish and now a retired USMC colonel] who was
best man at my wedding with Eldri; and his wife, Helen [a top clinical
psychologist.] My oldest daughter, Maria, born earlier at Jackson, had much
the same impression of the turbulent times.

 Apropos of this typically snide remark which appeared the other day from
Michael Pugliese, I was in 1941, at seven years of age, interested in
getting a good Milky Way candy bar, a bottle of Nesbitt orange soda, and a
copy of the newly issued Sparkler Comic book mag.  I was also interested in
avoiding some teachers and all school administrators who perennially
threatened my well-being as a rebel kid through my whole K-12 epoch.
However, at seven, I did have my powerful Iroquois bow -- and I was given a
fine .22 Winchester pump action [1890] by my much older cousin, Jimmy, who
was himself soon to be in the sanguinary world of the South Pacific War
Zone.  I should add that I get along pretty well with most folks in the
relatively main-line American Left of today -- as well as many nice people
who aren't even on the Left at all.  H


This was posted the other day on some lists by Michael Pugliese:

"Tom Scribner, a legendary Santa Cruz, Ca. character (he could play
a mean saw at music festivals) who had been a Wobbly in his younger
radical days, and then spent decades afterwards in the CPUSA, once
told two of us NAM members over a beer or three that, "Stalin didn't
kill enough of you Trotskyites!" That my comrade and I, though
sympatico with Trotskyist analyses of the USSR, weren't
Trotskyists...oh well.
   Would Hunter Bear have agreed with the CPUSA in 1941 that A.Phillip
Randolph was a, "Fascist."? Paul Robeson called the SWP during WWII a
Fascist Fifth Column,
http://www.wpunj.edu/~newpol/issue25/finger25.htm "

COMMENT BY JOHN SALTER [BEBA] 10/22/05:

And I thought you came out of the womb as a well-read adult!



HUNTER GRAY  [HUNTER BEAR/JOHN R SALTER JR]   Mi'kmaq /St. Francis
Abenaki/St. Regis Mohawk
www.hunterbear.org
Protected by Na´shdo´i´ba´i´
 and Ohkwari'

I am honored -- humbled -- by the 2005 Elder Recognition Award of Wordcraft
Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers. This particular, rarely issued
honor is one of several awards voted by the Caucus [board] of this
organization of writers, storytellers, film makers, and journalists.
http://www.hunterbear.org/elder_recognition_award_for_2005.htm   Regularly
updated.

In our Gray Hole, the ghosts often dance in the junipers and sage, on the
game trails, in the tributary canyons with the thick red maples, and on the
high windy ridges -- and they dance from within the very essence of our own
inner being. They do this especially when the bright night moon shines down
on the clean white snow that covers the valley and its surroundings.  Then
it is as bright as day -- but in an always soft and
mysterious and remembering way.  [Hunter Bear]
 

previous

index

CONTINUE