Cherokee Indian Youth

 

A hewed out rock that natives implement for cooking

I shot this on the Snake River

Cherokee Indian Youth’s Rite of Passage—the Legend

When it becomes time for a young brave to prove his manhood, he must follow his father into the deep, dark forest. When the desired place is reached, the father locates a stump. Then, this proven, wise warrior, commands his son to sit on the rough dead wood. He then blindfolds his youth and callously abandons him.

The young brave’s virility is achieved if he survives the night, never moving. He must not peak. He must never remove the blindfold until the rays of dawning light shine through the mask. He cannot cry out for help if danger seems to be lurking, as that would proclaim cowardice—leading to endless shame.

He sits there alone, determined, adhering to the wild noises resounding in this darkened world. He frightfully feels and hears the wild wind waving the grass and earth, shaking him upon his stump. Brutal beasts are surely near! Maybe some enemy is spying and will prance upon him at the right moment to kill—he is unarmed and blinded. What chance has he?

Finally, the sun begins to rise. He thought the endless, velvet blackness would never lift. He pulls off his blindfold and holds it in his clenched fist. He turns his head and peers for predators. Shock consumes him. His father is here, sitting on the stump beside his. His knife in its sheath sewed to his garment and a bow with two arrows, at arm’s length, is lying beside him. He was there the entire watch, guarding his brave from the wilds of the night. What protecting love—what proven love!

Born again believers, are never alone. Even when they don’t know it, their Heavenly Father is watching over them, always sitting beside; Psalm 139—the Bible. When trouble arises, all they need do is reach out to Him, in faith, while standing on the truths of God’s holy, sacred, immutable, infallible and inerrant Word.

“For we walk by faith, not by sight.”
~ 2 Corinthians 5:7 and 1 John 5:10-13 ~

Native American Friend

 

True Native American

My family enjoyed living across the street from a dear neighbor, who was a widower—Ernie, in Portland, Oregon. He was truly a Native American. He was a tall, agile, handsome Indian; actually part Indian, though I can’t remember from which tribe. Since we all relished the outdoors, we would camp together in Oregon’s vast areas of wilderness. When traveling to a campsite with Ernie, we always ventured the back roads. Freeways were not his forte. I never complained of the length of time it took to arrive at our destination as I enjoyed these rural routes of scenic beauty.

Ernie came and visited our home frequently in the evening, being a lonely widower. He lost his beautiful bride at a young age and he never remarried. He had been a friend to my grandmother and father (grandfather died when my dad was a young teen). He had watched my father mature into a man. My grandmother eventually went home to heaven to be with her Savior, Jesus Christ. Through it all, Dad made sure he continued a man to man relationship with his faithful companion.

Ernie was the best handyman. I don’t think there was anything this old gentleman could not perform in this field. One of the ways Ernie implemented his hands on talents was in woodworking. I remember when he constructed a miniature church for my mother who enjoyed assisting in the children’s department of our Baptist fellowship. Our family all admired it. We were not the only ones who took a fancy to it. It also caught the eye of our cute, very young kitten. I am sure he felt it had been designed for him, seeing it was just his size. After looking it over, he slowly stepped in, moving up the aisle.

This pussy had a most lovely face and it decided to peak its darling countenance out one of the many church windows. His cute, little face was perfectly framed. Who could not help but laugh?

After so long, however, it developed into a not-so-cute situation, as the little guy was unable to maneuver his sweet face back into the church building. He tried and tried. We as a family tried too, pushing and shoving, but very cautious of not hurting the little thing. Finally, we gave up in great despair. What a conundrum! What to do? Ernie finally came to mind. He would help without any hesitation. He was a handyman and the crafter of the fine little church. Yes, Ernie was the answer. My mother, along with my two sisters and myself, marched the little church with kitten across the street to his house. Ernie analyzed the situation and implemented his handling talents—lengthy hands and gifted brain—to gingerly maneuver the young feline’s face back into the church. Wow! What a relief. It seemed there was little Ernie could not accomplish. We had been so afraid that the well-designed, petite structure would have to be destroyed. Ernie had placed so much work into it; we couldn’t bear to think of him being hurt by its dismantling.

Over the passing of years, both my parents passed on, but Ernie remained—being afforded many years upon this earth. It came to the place where he could not care for himself and he was moved to a retirement center. My sisters and I visited him a time or two in his new small residence. Later, he moved out east to be with his son and contact was broken. We still think of him off and on as he was a true friend, neighbor, and Native American.

~

Fisherman’s side note:

I never met a better angler. Ernie could catch fish where no one else could obtain a bite. In younger years, he was a great hunter and had climbed skyward into areas that no one else dared for that perfect, prized trophy. We spent many summer nights in the high country, around a campfire, with this intriguing, story-telling Indian.

Val Lee