Wiigwasimakakoon Birch Bark Baskets

Excerpted from Lois Beardslee’s forthcoming book of poetry titled “We Live Here.” Past excerpts by Beardslee in the Glen Arbor Sun are from “Not Far Away, The Real Life Adventures of Ima Pipiig” (AltaMira Press), which is due out in September.
Curiously, the individual who was chosen by the Great Mystery to accurately share the secret of basket making with Ojibwe women and girls.
Was the offspring of an adolescent girl and the west wind, was raised by a cantankerous grandmother, and had a character as fickle as the circumstances of his birth.

So he selected only the most discerning of Ojibwe women and girls with which to share this useful and artful knowledge-gift
And he wrapped his gift carefully in a bundle of long, hot summer days tied up with basswood fibers using very special, very difficult, tiny knots that he himself could not untangle.
It was only by virtue of her ingenious knack at disentangling superfluous knots and her extremely good looks as well as her reputation as a good cook and seamstress
That my grandmother was courted, actually stalked, at the age of twelve or thirteen, by the instructive basket maker himself.
It was with nimbleness of fingers and strong-armed foisting-off of handsome and not-so-handsome men that my grandmother practiced and honed to perfection her skill
At completely peeling the skin off of unsuspecting birch trees on hot, summer afternoons, when she really should have been taking her children or grandchildren for a refreshing swim.
Victimized by my own small stature and my status as a genetic and mental receptacle for all things cultural, as well as my ability and eagerness to paddle a canoe at a very young age
I was subjected to lengthy lessons on the proper means of hunting the elusive perfect birch tree, as it crept, silently, deeper and deeper into the woods, as far as possible from our dormant canoe.
Upon our safe return — paddling into the wind for hours, maybe days, on end—with a vessel-load of cool, wet bark, appropriately weighted down with deadfall trees, antler sheds, firewood, a couple of fresh trout, and maybe six or seven rocks for some project she intended me to accomplish in my free time
Ninooko spread her goods out before her and sang sweet songs, peeled roots, snipped, stitched, punched, sewed, folded, manipulated, realigned, configured, reinforced, scraped, enhanced, and imbued with beauty large stacks of winnowing baskets and storage packs for sugars and meats
While I sat by quietly, in amazement, eating wild rice and sipping sweet tea.
Manoominikgiizis
Ricing Moon
An uncle on my father’s side
laughed
when we brought home
handfuls of rice
from that small back bay pond
Said he was gonna
“show us how to do it right.”
The next year
he came back to stay all summer
and tended that rice.
He pinched that rice
he spoke to that rice
he bundled it up just so
so it would ripen the way
an old man knew it could ripen.
Then he took us out
in an old flat-bottomed boat
made us tap tap tap
those smooth cedar poles
made us tap tap tap
With cedar rice poles
Snorted
when the chaff went up his nose
rinsed his fingers in the lake
then took a drink.
He took us
through channels
he’d contrived
with the determination of a nuclear physicist
over mud-flat shallows.
We’d rise up on the gunwhales
rest on our hands
to shift our weight
after the man with belly fat
got his end stuck in shallow muck.
Every time we complained
he’d have a story
about each complaint
that he told in detail
until we threatened to jump into the lake.
We’d sigh out,
“No more, no more, no more
the mysteries
are all about these snow-free hillsides.”
But he said, “Not in shallow back bays.”
Not on late summer days
when self-centered boys
should learn from old men
what real ricing is about.
“This is not even the hard part yet.”
We still had to parch the rice
we still had to husk the rice
we still had to winnow the rice
we still wanted peanut butter sandwiches for lunch
we still had to be little boys.
We saw
a big snapping turtle
big enough to nibble off
all of our toes
but the old man just laughed.
I saw three big pike
close to the shore
waiting patiently for just the right minnows
so I threw a handful of rice
but they were too smart.
So I threw rice at my uncle while I sang out,
“Some for the ducks.
For wooorms and snails and buuugs.
For the faaamily.
The rest for the bottom of the lake.”
Abinibiikaa
When the Water is Warm
One summer
Some boys were diving from a cliff into Black River water
Just before the tannin-hue dispersed into Lake Superior
And my mother took off her flowered black summer sundress
Right in front of those white boys
Because she knew she was beautiful.
Then she jumped right off that cliff with them.
And every year after that for the rest of my childhood
My father waded into the river, dove down in that very spot
To make sure that the Ice People had not moved any boulders during our absence.
Then we pulled off our clothing
And dove into the Black River in our underclothes
Because we knew we were beautiful.
Even dogs followed us over that cliff
Flew after us in clinging dependence and love
Barking with every leap and laughing with every leap
We took turns holding each new baby
Until he or she was old enough to jump into a late summer river too
Somewhere in respite between
Working for nothing and working for everything.
We were like fat fish looking for lovers
Before an autumn of harvest
Swelled our bellies and made us eager to sleep.