Leastways, not since Silas
found his mother cold as ice in her bed that Thanksgiving. After they’d put her
in the ground, he took the last of the money from the ginger jar and headed to
the Panhandle to look up Sara, his sweetheart.
Don’t let the way it looks
fool you. You might go riding by one Sunday and see the house and think it
wasn’t much cared for, but that just ain’t the truth. It was a house built and
filled with love and like many things in this life, it had its time and its
place. It had been made for the time of the Mulligans and nothing else. That’s
the way some things just work out.
Grandpa Mulligan had come
from Ireland by way of New York City. He found that he couldn’t take to a place
with those new fangled electrical lights. It wasn’t natural and it wasn’t him.
He wanted to look at the sky and see it the way God had intended. So he
travelled as far west as his money would take him, except for the little bit
he’d put aside to buy some land. The scrub he bought wasn’t the best of farming
land but it was good enough to raise horses and that is what he knew and that
was what he was good at.
Soon Grandpa had a little
business going on in town. The railroad still hadn’t hit Fort Augustus yet, so
Grandpa was looking after the stagecoach, Calvary and mail horses. He needed a
person back in the office to take care of things, keep the books and count the
money. When he advertised in the local paper, he didn’t reckon on a woman
coming all the way from the north for the job. This turned out to be Grandma.
When a twenty-nine year old half Cherokee beauty presented her self at the
stables, my Grandpa ‘just went stone crazy’.
“I had married your Grandma
by the end of that year. Sweetest woman I ever knew.”
There were some in the town
who didn’t take to a white man marrying a half and half but then in this life
you’ll find folks who don’t take to much - everywhere you go. Grandpa always
said, “some people have to do what they have to do, don’t mean they’re right
and it don’t mean they’re wrong.”
I was never sure if he was
referring to himself or the folks who crossed the street when he and my Grandma
walked through town.
My mother was the first
born, and when she arrived, my Grandpa made a promise that they’d have a big
house on the prairie. He built that place at night and at weekends. He didn’t
get much help since the pastor had told the town’s folk that anyone helping a
Cherokee lover was a sinner in his eyes. I guess the pastor had to do what he
had to do.
My Grandpa’s friend Pete -
who gave no heed to whom a man married - helped him build the house and it was
finished by the following spring. By then my mother had been joined by her twin
brothers.
All in all, the house grew
by seven kids: two girls and five boys. My grandpa called his first boy, Pete,
after his pal and the other twin he called Sean. After his own brother who had
died in the famine back in Ireland. He always said that he would carry Sean’s
spirit around with him as they had promised each other when they were boys that
they’d go to the United States of America together.
Pete used to sit out on the
porch with my Grandpa and tell stories to my Pa about his time in the Civil
War.
“Brother against brother, it
wasn’t right. Won’t be fixed for a long time. South don’t trust the north and
north don’t trust the south.”
Then he’d take a long puff
of his clay pipe.
My Grandpa being my Grandpa
didn’t take well to the motor car when it showed up in town. Sure they were
still using horses but I think my Grandma could see the writing on the wall and
told him to hand the business over to the boys. It was a new century and the
world was changing mighty fast. My Grandpa still shoed an odd horse here and
there, but for all things my Grandpa had retired.
“I ain’t retired,” he would
tell folks. “We’re just making time to
see this beautiful country.”
He’d been to the Chicago
World’s Fair when he was younger and he still had a drawing on the wall of it.
But he’d promised my Grandma that he’d take her to New York City where the
ladies dressed in finery and where folks didn’t care if you were half Cherokee
or not.
It was in New York that
Grandpa met the only other pal, he had. He was known in the family as The
Colonel. No one ever explained why he was called that but everyone took to him
and his greatest asset was that he had an aeroplane. It hadn’t been long since
the Wright Brothers had flown along Kitty Hawk but The Colonel had found out
about it and got himself one.
Soon he was flying from town
to town and performing little acrobatics for folks who had never seen such
magic. When The Colonel first came with my grandparents back to town, the
pastor had tried to tell everyone that it was the work of the devil.
“Only Angels fly,” he said,
“If God had meant us to fly, we too would have had wings.”
But by this time the town’s
folk had grown tired of the pastor and his sermonising and had decided that
flying was a good thing. It was my
father who had really taken to it. He would never leave The Colonel’s side when
he was in town. As a thank you, The Colonel would take him up in the aeroplane.
When my father was fifteen he tried to build his own ‘plane but it crashed into
the barn and he broke his arm and leg.
But let me go right back to
the beginning when my Grandpa was living where the house is now, but back then
he was squatting in a big tent. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, the wild
animals would come in and steal his food, but most ways he was really happy. He
would tend to the horses in town during the day and at night he’d sit by a big
fire and sketch the house he was going to build for his family.
When he had a family - that
was.
When he’d meant the right
woman – that is.
Yet he didn’t have any doubt
that he’d meet the right woman someday and when my Grandma came along, he knew
instantly that this was the soul that he was to spend his life.
She lived in town and
although she would have thought nothing of living with my Grandpa in the tent
where the house was to be built, she felt that she would give the town’s people
as little to talk about as possible. So she lived in a little room above the
stables on Sycamore Street.
One day when the summer
spirits had flown, a man came from the north: a Cherokee, looking for his
kinsfolk. His sister had run away and the stories were being told in his tribe
that she had taken up with a white man.
“I ain’t a white man, I’m
Irish,” said my Grandpa.
But the Cherokee insisted
that if his ancestors were not to be angered, she had to return with him to the
lands in the north. What the Cherokee didn’t realise was that he was fighting a
harder battle, for my grandparents were in love and nothing was going to keep
them apart.
“What you cannot trap, you
cannot change,” said my Grandma to her brother.
So her brother realised that he was losing the battle and
backed down. He said he would be on his way in the morning and my grandparents
seemed happy with that state of affairs. But the Cherokee rose early and on his
way through town he woke my Grandma and forced her to come with him. He tied
her hands and her mouth in case she had any ideas about screaming.
By the time that my Grandpa
realised that the Cherokee had suckered him they were a long way away. That
wasn’t going to stop him trying to get his love back because he could not
change the way he felt and with all his heart he loved her.
The Cherokee rode with himself and his sister on the one horse and was over the Mountains of The Ancestors
by the second day. That night my Grandpa pitched up in a peak overlooking the
Lost Valley below. He could see the fire that warmed my Grandma, but those
folks were a day’s ride away.
On the third day, at Sam’s
Point (so called because an Englishman jumped and survived from there, when he
was escaping the ‘savages’) my Grandpa caught up with the Cherokee and the
woman he loved.
The Cherokee made it plain
that he was under orders from the ancients to bring his sister back to her
family. My Grandpa said he was her family now and that she wanted to return
home with him.
There was a legend in that
area at that time of a bear called ‘Satchmo’. The biggest goddamn bear that
side of the mountains; to most it was only a story. That is, until that day
when it showed up to the party.
My Grandpa shouted that the
bear was behind the Cherokee but until he smelt him, he didn’t believe that the
white man was telling the truth. As the Cherokee turned Satchmo made a swipe at
the man and my Grandpa seeing the trouble they were in, made my Grandma hide in
the trees. He then got the biggest tree branch he could carry and started to
stab at the bear. It looked as if the Cherokee’s days on Earth were numbered,
until my Grandpa stabbed the bear right in the eye. It howled and roared and
probably said a few cussin’ words in bear talk.
My Grandpa dragged away the
Cherokee while the bear got its act together.
My Grandpa then went looking
for my Grandma to see that she was all right, and she was - just a little
scared of Satchmo; but then, who wouldn’t be?
My grandparents hugged and
kissed and just then Satchmo made a run for the two of them. The Cherokee saw
what was going to happen and started shouting at the bear to distract him and
the bear took the bait and started after the Cherokee.
Her brother realised the
only way to save his sister was to tempt the bear to edge of Sam’s Point and
hopefully push him over. But that never happened, the Cherokee got trapped at
Sam’s Point and decided that if my grandparents were to live, then he must
force the bear to jump with him.
And that is what he did. No
one knows if he survived the jump. When my grandparents went down the mountain,
all they found was Satchmo, as dead as any bear could be. There was no sign of
my great uncle, because that is what the Cherokee was – my family.
He was a Cherokee, as am I.
No one else came from the
north to look for my Grandma after that.
Did I tell you? I still miss
her.
bobby stevenson 2013
thoughtcontrol ltd
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