Author Archives: Haven

The Day I Met Coyote.

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He came into my life the same way he departed, mysterious and quick.

Monday night Bingo at thee Pe Ell Pub.

Monday night Bingo at thee Pe Ell Pub.

Last night on my way home from Bingo, a light flashed on the side of the road, I slowed and looked to see it was a hitch-hiker. He was an old looking chap carrying a plastic garbage bag with clothes and various other implements of living… I asked him where he was headed.. “Home”, he replied.. I asked, ‘Where is that”… ‘I dunno, but Raymond would work.” he replied in a slow southern drawl. He got in the car and introduced himself as Robert E. Love and that he served in Vietnam. He said he was ‘leaving his ol’ lady because she like the needle and bottle more than life itself’.. and that he could not save anyone.. “I am not Jesus, Right?”… he was from Arkansas and was headed back home after not seeing his family for 20+ years, and when he spoke, tears streaked his weathered face. I drove him all the way to his Sisters front door.. he told me, ‘live life fully, because, before you know it, it is too late’…. I asked if we could sit and have coffee before he left for Arkansas. He said, ‘yes, come on back tomorrow and I will tell you some stories.”

Artist unknown

Artist unknown

I showed up at the Senior housing Apartments in Raymond and proceeded to apt. 206, where Robert E. Love told me he  was staying with his sister. I knocked and could hear the slow stopping creak of a rocking chair behind the thin apartment door. I felt excited to meet his family and hear some more stories. The handle slowly turned and opened. There stood a spritely old lady named Mildred, I said..’Hello Ma’am, my name is Si and I am looking for a man named Robert E. Love, he said you were his sister and that I should come here to have coffee with him..”.. there was a silence that ticked in slow seconds with the metronome of the grandfather clock behind her short stature.. and then said, “I don’t know no Robert Love, and why are you looking for him.” I told her the story of picking him up after a game of Bingo in Pe Ell and driving him to Raymond, the whole time telling me stories of strife and love and the want for Home. She said, “I wish I did know a Robert Love, he sounds like a most interesting fellow.” I nodded, and told her if she heard anything about this man to give me a call and then gave her my card.

I picked up Robert E. Love at the very place I always spot Coyotes and last night they were a howling, and have been since that first night I met Robert E. Love. Maybe I was tricked?

CameraZOOM-20131015170036315So long Robert E. Love, may the wind always be at your back and may the path rise up to meet you where ever you end up. I hope you find your Home. I have learned many things from the most craziest of Prophets and I am grateful for the lessons… even if it was Coyote. So, remember, always be in the moment and ‘live life fully, because, before you know it, it is too late’. Thank you Robert.

The Company I keep. Part I

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It is a Motley Crew, this company I keep. A rag-tale expose of story and dirt. Blood and experience.  Romance and bullshit. All swimming in their own distinct universe. A crew of the utmost integrity and filth. The outer edges stained in tobacco smoke and smelling of Busch Light. Yes, this company I keep. I never dreamt this to be my life, always wrapped in my own esthetic pre-reg’s and identity façades. The circle is complete now.

Chris and Alan

Chris and Alan

The land of my up bringing is no longer my physical home, but a sinister shadow of spirit has followed me here. Not the Spirit of gloom I made it out to be.. no, a new Spirit. I find myself among the family I grew up with and around.  A family camouflaged in hunter safety orange  and tales of Hercules, heroes of a quiet journey and Brothers in arms.

Oh damn, the Stories that are told by the company I keep.

“I grew up in a storytelling culture, a tribal culture, but also in an American storytelling culture.”  

Sherman Alexie

stoplight

One light town.

It is this Americana that follows me like a bad habit, this company I keep reek of it, like a musty cologne. I found a new bond here in the woods of the Willapa Hills as if glued by an old memory. The single flashing light. The general store and the gas station that makes no apologies for it’s price gouge as hunters stop to re-fuel big Americana Diesel. I forgot how the rivers of stories flowed in those check out lines, sometimes with evidence of the kill, other times.. just story. But a good story none the less. I listen and nod and smile. Sometimes I find myself in the check out line with nothing but a desire to hear a good story.

IMG_20131118_142458

Hunting Stories told here. Truth not required.

As a child I remember all the wonderful stories my uncles would tell. All the tall tales that made them seem larger than life itself. The stories of bravery and stupidity and depravity and being scared. The way the men searched for Ceremony in the code of the myth. It was always and has always been on our lips, these stories. I am no longer lost in the deeper veils of it’s meanings. This is my family. This is the company I keep.

Unknown Soldiers: In Honor of Veterans.

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In observance of Veterans Day, I would like to take a moment to share two stories of two Warriors who served their country in the Vietnam War. Two people who lives were transformed forever after their experiences of war. Two people who are very different but share one common thread, one of pride, the Marine Corp. The first interview and segment is about a dear old close friend who passed away several years ago named Bob Cupit and the second segment is about a new friend, Jim Campbell. I will be posting more Vet related stories in the future, because, their stories need to be heard. Thank you to all those who came before. And Thank You Brothers for your service!

Bob Cupit.

Bob Cupit.

I first met Bob Cupit in 1996 at a local open mic at the Side track Tavern in North Bonneville, WA. We became instant friends and he told me some great stories over the years. He was a grand song writer and poet. The Vietnam war had left a mark on him forever, and he wore his Marine Corps career upon his sleeve. The war had awakened him to the unjust ways our government does war, pushing him into being pro-militia. His politics were infused deeply in his writing carried through with wit and sarcasm. Bob passed away in a car crash in 2010 near Parkdale, Oregon. He will never be forgotten!

Unknown Soldier
©Bob Cupit

The old Regiment regroups
as the evening shadows fall,
on a dead end street underneath the Burnside bridge.

Where they talk like ghost and whispers,
about some battles they recall,
and some friends they left out on some nameless ridge.

And they have learned to keep their distance,
and they have learned to keep their peace
as they meet out on the lonely outpost on the brink.

Where the man down at the pawn shop
has been taking Silver Stars,
and a purple heart won’t buy a man a drink.

Chorus:
And there’s no marble monument for the wasted, walking, wounded.
We offer them no glory or acclaim,
Some folks call them heroes once,
and some folks call them bums,
but nobody ever calls them by their name…
and they’re the Unknown Solider just the same.

Verse II:
You can see them on the corner
of almost any city street.
To proud to beg
and still too strong to fall.

Look how people turn away
afraid their eyes might meet
those of man whose name belongs up upon the wall.

And what could they know of men,
of such pride and discipline,
that they paid the price and never asked the cause.

They just don’t seem to know,
that a Solider just can’t go,
Home, until after the war is won or lost.

Chorus:
And there’s no marble monument for the wasted, walking, wounded.
We offer them no glory or acclaim,
Some folks call them heroes once,
and some folks call them bums,
but nobody ever calls them by their name…
and they’re the Unknown Solider just the same.

Verse III:

On the rolling green of Arlington,
a hundred thousand strong,
White crosses glistening in the morning sun.

And on the hillside a bugle boy,
plays that sad old song,
for the mother weeping for her fallen son.

And yonder stands a statue
of a man in uniform
forever guarding his eternal flame.

And standing at the flame,
are Veterans trying to stay warm,
No, we don’t treat all our Unknown Soldiers just the same.

Chorus:
And there’s no marble monument for the wasted, walking, wounded.
Who gave up more they could ever claim,
Some folks call them heroes once,
and some folks call them bums,
but nobody ever calls them by their name…
and they’re the Unknown Soldiers just the same.

Jim Campbell.

Jim Campbell

I have just recently met Jim, but it feels as though we have been friends for a bit. He is a soft spoken fellow who moved here to Pe Ell, Washington a couple years ago to homestead and live self sufficient. He, like Bob, was greatly transformed by what he saw in Vietnam and it has shaped him for the rest of his life. I wandered over one rainy day to his homestead to ask him about his experience.

Skookums and a search for God

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Skookum stories are found among the Natives of the Pacific Northwest. The legends existed prior to a single name for the creature. They differed in their details both regionally and between families in the same community. Similar stories of Skookums are found on every continent except Antarctica. An Ecologist argues that most cultures have human-like giants in their folk history: “We have this need for some larger-than-life creature.”

My family had no shortage of Skookum stories growing up. My Grandmother, Shirley Amos, would often tell this story as my neck hairs stood on end, hanging on to her every word.

As a youngster, I would roam through the woods near my home, with my bow draped across my shoulders, my ears perked and my nose to the path, on edge, looking for Skookum. My Uncle, Gary Amos, had a similar but different story he would tell of the Skookums and the call it would make… once again, my neck hairs would stand on end as I hung on to every word.

Artist unknown.

Artist unknown.

This need for some ‘larger-than-life creature’ has always fascinated me. I grew up a jehovah’s witness and was fed the ideology and imagery of a ‘larger-than-life’ God from the time of birth. A god of fire and brimstone, but it all seemed so mythical and scary to me. Something that kept me in line because of fear. I would hear these stories of Skookums (ironically told by strict jehovah witnesses), and for some reason, that felt more like God to me. It was a tug a war of spiritual information when I was a child. My Grandmother would tell these Ghost stories and Stories of the Land, but in the same breath, tell us that they were wrong and did not have jehovah’s guidance. This always confused me. How could we have forsaken this land and it’s rituals for some imported mono-theistic ideology, yet I felt a guilt for thinking such thoughts. Then something happened to me on May 18th, 1980 that would change my life forever.

Loowit, May 18th 1980

Loowit, May 18th 1980

I was six years old and bewildered by what I saw and felt that day. I could hear so clearly the call of my Ancestors and the Call of the Land. This was God, this was the true power of God. On this day, I became an Animist. But what was I to do with this new and powerful Spiritual knowledge. Where was the Ceremony? I spent the next 20 years frantically searching for my ‘Ceremony’ in every portal that would open. I became the Volcano, I became the calm and I became my own Skookum. I had to listen for the Ceremony, I had to learn to accept that the Ceremony was right underneath my feet and I had to learn to accept the Skookum inside of me.

These stories I would hear growing up, seem at times, like a code. A code for living that would end up having profound teachings to me. I had to stop and listen long enough to hear what my Ancestors were telling me. I had to stop and listen to what the winds were telling me. I found God here.

All My Relations.

The Hunt Part I

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I grew up with hunting. It seems to be in my blood, although I have been disconnected from the Ritual for sometime now. As a child, I remember cruising around in my Grandpa Bob’s Cadillac with my Uncle Les. The smell of coffee, cigarettes and bullshit hunting stories would fill the air as the guns sat next to them in silence urning for their chance to be fired. Their eyes would dart from left to right like an Owl in search of prey. Chain smoking filterless cigarettes, shapeshifting talking sticks sharing stories. Oh, the stories they would tell.

As I got older, hunting became less of a ritual until it was absent from my life all together. When I was 15, I became a self righteous vegetarian and proclaimed the evils of hunting to the world, which my family would laugh at and tell me I would be back. Well, I am 39 and here I am.

CameraZOOM-20131022190357478I have welcomed the ritual back with open arms and loaded guns. I dream about the hunt and wake up each morning before the sun peeks it’s head from behind the fog lined mountains I call home. I awake and journey out onto this beautiful place to hunt and be reminded of a primordial ceremony. As I sit in the cold damp and wait for the elusive Deer to offer it’s self to me, I am reminded how sacred this ceremony is and has been for my family since time immortal. I offer up Offerings to the Hunt and to the animals for which we are surrounded. The Ceremony has changed, that is inevitable, but the core value of taking care of one’s family will never change.

This season, I will be hunting with guns and soon diving into archery. I have been archiving and collecting stories with different people while hunting as of late and will be posting those with other installments. Stay tuned.

Journey Home

Posted on by under Poetry

A place of neither time or space-
Where you hear the teenagers song
& smell them getting pregnant-
Around the alley on Poke St.-
Next to the local pawn shop.

 

A place where the cats eat the meat
of last night’s decadence-
Morality of a scavenger
Feasting on forgotten values
in man’s wasteful church.

 

A place where the homeless eat metaphors
of others good intent-
Around burning barrels the dance
the dance of lost dreams
to the drums of empty bottles & schizophrenia.

 

A place where wet pavement smokes dry ice
steaming like a dragon in Chinatown-
On side streets that are paved but never plowed
stands castrated angels in the mist of cold smokey air-
Grounded til the fog clears.

 

A place where shadows play hide-n-seek with the eyes
then are lost forever behind concrete.
& underneath the skyscraper canopy
that blocks out the sun-
You can see the yuppie in his Lexus car.

 

A place where the bombs of absurdity
explode in the ears of scabbed medicine men,.
In a land converted to asphalt (distant from ancestors)-

 

& medicine bags that carry rigs
to ride a black tarred hi-way to nowhere-

 

but somewhere I remember.

 

I remember the smell of rain after a storm-
I remember the winds that howl-
and I always knew I would end up here somehow
with hope on my tongue
and years on my feet-

 

I make the Journey complete.

Coyote and the Columbia

Posted on by under Folklore

Coyote and the Columbia

From the Sahaptin/Salishan Tribes

retold by

S. E. Schlosser

One day, Coyote was walking along. The sun was shining brightly, and Coyote felt very hot.

“I would like a cloud,” Coyote said.

So a cloud came and made some shade for Coyote. Coyote was not satisfied.

“I would like more clouds,” he said. More clouds came along, and the sky began to look very stormy. But Coyote was still hot.

“How about some rain,” said Coyote. The clouds began to sprinkle rain on Coyote.

“More rain,” Coyote demanded. The rain became a downpour.

“I would like a creek to put my feet in,” said Coyote. So a creek sprang up beside him, and Coyote walked in it to cool off his feet.Gorge from sternwheeler dock

“It should be deeper,” said Coyote.

The creek became a huge, swirling river. Coyote was swept over and over by the water. Finally, nearly drowned, Coyote was thrown up on the bank far away. When he woke up, the buzzards were watching him, trying to decide if he was dead.

“I’m not dead,” Coyote told them, and they flew away.

That is how the Columbia River began.

Legend of the Lost Salmon: A Yakama Legend

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This story is about when the people ignored the directions of the Creator about caring for the salmon, the salmon disappeared. All of their attempts to bring the salmon back failed until Snake used his powers to revive the salmon. The people were not fooled by Coyote’s pretentious effort to revive the salmon.

Wishram Fisherman. Edward S. Curtis photo

Wishram Fisherman. Edward S. Curtis photo

The Creator taught the people how to care for this food which was created especially for them. He said, “Do not neglect this food. Be careful that you do not break the rules in taking care of this salmon. Do not take more than you need”. He told them if they observed these rules, the salmon would multiply several times over as long as they lived.

At first the people diligently obeyed the rules, and they lived happily without problems. All along the river there were different bands of people living in their fishing villages, busy catching and drying their supply of salmon.

But one day something strange happened. The people became careless and they neglected to follow the instructions made by the Creator. They became greedy. They did not take care of the salmon. They let them go to waste when they caught more than they needed for their families. They would not listen to the advice from those who were trying to follow the rules. Suddenly the salmon disappeared.

When the salmon were no longer coming up the stream for the people to catch everybody frantically searched the rivers, but all in vain. There was not one salmon left to be found. Soon they became hungry, their little children were crying and the old people were forced to beg for food.

One day, while they were searching the river, they found a dead salmon lying on the bank of the river. They stared down at it in disbelief when they realized what had happened. They began to cry out in shame and lament their mistakes, “If we are given one more chance, we will do better. If only we could awaken this salmon, the other salmon might come up the stream.”

Hanford Reactor. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanford_Site

Hanford Reactor. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanford_Site

The people called a council and they talked about how they could give life back to the salmon. In legendary times those with supernatural powers could revive a lifeless creature by stepping over it five times. The people tried to use their own spiritual powers to revive the salmon. One by one they each stepped over the salmon five times, but to no avail.

There was a recluse named Old Man Rattlesnake. He never went anywhere always staying off by himself. He was very ancient and all the people called him “Grandfather”. Somebody said, “let’s ask Grandfather to help us! He is a powerful man. Let him revive the salmon!.” A messenger was sent. “Oh Grandfather, would you come and help us revive the salmon. Everybody has failed.” Old Man Rattlesnake listened and said, “What makes you think I am capable of reviving this lone salmon after everyone else has failed? I am an old man, how do you expect an old man like me to possess powers to do the impossible!”. The messenger was sad. “You are our last hope. Please help us, Grandfather”. Finally Old Man Rattlesnake agreed, “I will do my best”. He was so old it was very painful for him to move fast. He moved ever so slowly and it seemed like such a long way for one so old.

While Grandfather was on his way, Coyote tried desperately, using all his wily skills to convince the people he possessed supernatural powers. He was thinking to himself, “If I revive this salmon I will be a very famous person.” He stepped over it four times, and just as he was stepping over the fifth time, he pushed the salmon with the tip of his toe to make it appear as though it moved. He announced loudly, “Oh, look, my people, I made the salmon come to life. Did you see it move?” But the people were wise to the ways of Coyote and they paid him no attention.

Wishram Grandmother preparing Salmon. Edward S. Curtis photo.

Wishram Grandmother preparing Salmon. Edward S. Curtis photo.

Finally, Old Man Rattlesnake arrived. Painfully he crawled over the salmon four times. The fifth time something magical happened! Grandfather disappeared into the salmon and the salmon woke up and came back to life and the salmon came back to the rivers. The people learned their lesson well and took care to protect their salmon from then on.

Today when you catch a salmon, and you are preparing it for eating or preserving, if you break the spine you will find a white membrane inside. That is old Man Rattlesnake who gave life back to the salmon.

We did not know all this by ourselves; we were told it by our fathers and grandfathers, who learned it from their fathers and grandfathers. No one knows when the Great Chief Above will overturn the mountains.

But we do know this: the spirits will return only to the remains of people who in life kept the beliefs of their grandfathers. Only their bones will be preserved under the mountains.

The Legend of Tsagaglalal (She Who Watches)

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A woman was chief of all who lived in this region. That was a long time before Coyote came up the river and changed things, and the people were not yet real people. After a time Coyote, in his travels came to this place and asked the inhabitants if they were living well or ill. They sent him to their chief who lived up in the rocks, where she could look down on the village and know what was going on.

Coyote climbed up to the house on the rocks and asked, “What kind of living do you give these people? Do you treat them well or are you one of those evil women?”

“I am teaching them to live well and build good houses,” she said.

Edward S. Curtis photo.

Edward S. Curtis photo.

When she expressed her desire to be able to do this forever, he said, “Soon the world will change and women will no longer be chiefs.”

Being the trickster that he was, Coyote changed her into a rock with the command, “You shall stay here and watch over the people and the river forever.”