Grandmother Lizzie

She was born at home
Not really a reservation
But a distant land
Where few traveled
Except Karuk Indians and gold prospectors.
She was a beauty then and smart too
But her desire to learn
Cost her much more than her cultural history.
Boarding school horror
A school still in existence
In question to this very day.
Long before modern techniques
Long before automated safety devices
Long before adequate medical care or antibiotics
A young girl lost so very much.
I am told she was just a girl of 12
When the laundry machine at which she toiled
Sucked in her hand and crushed it.
Did she get good medical care?
Who knows?
When all was said and done
Her hand was gone!
What a high price to pay to
Learn to read the Bible.
And cook and clean for
Nice white folks.
With grace and beauty she carried on
Teaching Indian children back home
Until a surveyor's eye she caught
Who married her and made some babies.
But he took her away from her Indian people
To a desert grim and pale
Where she died an early death of heart attack
Some say a broken heart.
When at last she came home
To her green and verdant valley
Next to the great Klamath River.
She was but ashes in a jar.
Her remains scattered by the flood of '64.
How can I know this history
How can I know the truth?
This woman whom I knew barely
Called to me home, led me to my roots.
Like a ghost she haunts me
Whispering to me in dreams
Touching my heart
With her Mona Lisa smile,
Knowing home is where I needed to be.