I remember the days before Ms. Brown. That was all before everything, with the snow, the stories, and the grove on Grady Hill. Those were the times when school was the hardest, and the days stretched on like counting down the minutes till New Year’s. But as I flip through film reels reading things like “Mattie’s First Birthday-1945” and “Christmas—1952” those times seem like just yesterday. The winter of 1957 was dragging by just like the last twelve winters of my life had. The boarding house my parents ran was slowly emptying out for the winter, for no one liked spending the holidays in a cold place like Jefferson, Ohio. But just because it was cold, it didn’t mean it was snowing. In fact, it hadn’t snowed in Jefferson for over twenty years. Little did we all know, that was about to change. On a cold day in late November, I was rocking back and forth on the creaky swing on our front porch. All of a sudden, an old lady dressed in a deerskin coat and carrying a beaten-up suitcase appeared out of nowhere. She came up to me and asked in a small, soft voice if there were any rooms for rent. I told her, cautiously, that there were. Then I ran inside to get my parents. She noticed my tears and said softly, “Look at the sky” As it turned out, the lady’s name was Johanna Brown, and she was going to stay with us till late spring. Ms. Brown slid into our normal routine with ease, and we didn’t see her from breakfast till dinner. No one knew where she went, and no one worried. In school, things went the same way they had since my best friend, Sophie, moved to Chicago. I went to school, got teased before the bell, had spitballs blown at me throughout the first half of the day, and then went to lunch to sit by myself. Afterwards, I’d go to the swings and play there. Alone. Why everyone suddenly resented me, I can’t figure out. But sometimes it just felt like no one cared. So a few weeks after Ms. Brown arrived, I was on the swing and all of a sudden, the swing broke. I landed on my arm with a crunch. I looked up and between the stars flying around my head saw Johnny Revere grinning at me from atop the swing set. That grin was enough to bring all the pain shooting through my body to a reality. I heard laughing and turned to see my classmates standing in a huddle, pointing at my now grapefruit-sized arm. I decided it wasn’t worth the pain and humiliation to stay the rest of the day. So I ran away. Not home, but to my secret spot on top of Grady Hill. Ever since Sophie moved away, I’d needed a place of my own. I went on a hunt and discovered this beautiful grove surrounded by firs and pine overlooking Jefferson. I thought I never had to worry about anyone finding it, but this time I sensed someone else was there. Slowly, I stepped out of the trees. “Excuse me?” I asked. “Hello? What are you doing?” I couldn’t tell who it was, but the person was leaning over a fire, throwing stuff in the air and murmuring chants. She turned around—it was Ms. Brown! I had hardly recognized her! I stepped closer. “Hi, sweetie,” she said in that soft voice of hers. I glanced at her face and noticed something I had never seen before. Blended into her gray wisps of hair were strands of solid black. I stared, and between her hair, her high cheekbones, and her solid black eyes, I realized what I should have guessed—Ms. Brown was actually an Indian! Ms. Brown, as it turned out, was performing an old Cherokee ritual. She wouldn’t tell me what it was; she said it was a surprise. But that afternoon, I was introduced to a side of Ms. Brown, originally Daughter of the Snow, I thought I would never get to know. I soon discovered that when she was talking about her Cherokee beliefs and stories, Ms. Brown went from her disguised self to her true form, a lady I began to know as the Snowflake Lady. We developed an amazing friendship, and every day after school we would meet in the grove and she would tell me stories of her childhood on the Cherokee Indian reservation. Sometimes she would make a remedy or do a ritual. One of my favorite memories was when she called a dozen white doves to the grove, and while the Snowflake Lady did a dance and chant, the doves rested on my arms and shoulders. One day, after a particularly bad day at school, I went to the grove crying. Ms. Brown was already there, sitting on a fallen fir overlooking Jefferson. She noticed my tears and said softly, “Look at the sky.” Absentmindedly, I glanced up and let out a small gasp. Hundreds of small, delicate snowflakes were slowly drifting down from the cloudy sky “Snow,” I whispered, “it’s snowing!” The Snowflake Lady whispered back, “There’s an old Cherokee legend that says for every snowflake that chooses you as its resting place, someone out there,” she gestured over the valley, “is making a wish for you.” And as she spoke these kind words, a tiny, perfect snowflake landed gracefully on my arm. The snow continued to fall throughout the night, and the next day school was cancelled for the first time in my life. Next door to the boarding house, a new family trudged back and forth through the snow, carrying odds and ends. My mom stood next to me in the door and suggested we invite them over for dinner. I jumped at the chance for a new friend, and agreed. What I didn’t count on was getting two new friends. The Jacksons had twin daughters, Alice and Helen.
Native-American
Buffalo Hunt
“Look, son. See the way the land is in shadow, even though there is nothing to cast it?” The boy stood, facing the early morning. He let the gentle breeze caress his dark skin and play with his hair as he stared thoughtfully off into the distance. Today was the day of his first buffalo hunt. Today he had a chance to become a man. Ten years old, he had been waiting many months for the time to be right. He had been practicing his aim with his bow and arrows and had been working with his pony as well. He was determined that all would go well and he would be given a name by the end of the day. For the young Sioux warrior did not have a name. He would not be given one until he had proven himself in some way worthy of one. All he had was his nickname, Arrow. His friends had named him such because of his keen eyes and sharp hand. He rarely missed his targets. A nickname such as his was better than none, however. His friend, Wet Grasses, was named for the first time he was sent to gather grasses for the fire. He was not supervised, and gathered and dumped armful after armful of wet grass on the fire, causing the entire camp to be encased in smoke for the better part of the night. At the soft step of his father he turned. His father smiled reassuringly at him and moved to stand beside him. His voice was husky in the early morning. “Look, son. See the way the land is in shadow, even though there is nothing to cast it? That is the buffalo, waiting for us.” He looked down at his son and the boy smiled, letting his excitement show. “I am ready.” The sun seemed to burst up from the horizon at the same time as the camp awakened, men and boys appearing out of tipis with the women and girls not far behind. The happy chatter filled the air as the women sharpened their knives for the skinning of the buffalo. The men painted their ponies with their family’s design and made sure that their quivers were full of arrows and their bows were flexible. Arrow smiled up at his father and ran off to bring his pony to the paint. His father watched him go, a proud smile playing about his lips, for he had taught the boy and was confident in his abilities. Arrow reappeared, leading his pony to the paint. Carefully, he selected the same black and yellow paint as his father. Dipping his hand into the wet, chalky substance, he bit his lip in concentration as he smeared the animal’s haunches in the spots and lines of his family. He glanced to the side of him to see Wet Grasses doing the same thing. Arrow could tell from the sparkle in Wet Grasses’ eyes that he, too, was filled with anticipation for the hunt. Breathing deeply, Arrow dabbed his own face with paint as well, before swinging himself up on top of his pony. He looked over the camp and laughed aloud at the cheerful busyness. He could see his mother and sisters preparing for the buffalo, and he waved to them. Most of the men were not yet finished with painting their horses, and Arrow watched them eagerly. He had been watching them for years now, waiting impatiently for when he would be old enough to join them. It was different, watching from the middle of the action instead of the outskirts. He shielded his eyes against the sun and looked for the younger boys that were watching. He waited until he found them and had to suppress a feeling of pride that this time he was the one they were looking up to. At a cry from the leader the rest of the men mounted their horses, yelling and cheering as the horses gradually moved out of the camp to the open plains. Arrow felt a clamor of joy well up in him as his pony’s muscles bunched beneath him, moving into a comfortable canter. Arrow sat tall on the warm back of his pony and whooped. Wet Grasses was riding beside him, and he too yelled out. They were riding in the middle of the pack, real men helping to feed the women and children. They nearly pulled their horses up short, though, when they saw the buffalo. Arrow drew in his breath at the sight of them. Never in his life had he seen a live buffalo before. He had only ever seen the dead ones that the women skinned after the hunt. A surge of energy filled him and he grinned as he urged his pony on. They were downwind, so the buffalo had not seen them yet. He wanted to be right at the front, where he would be one of the ones to actually startle the buffalo into fleeing. He felt for the bow slung across his back. It was still there, in a position where it would be easy for him to reach when he needed it. His arrows, too, were hanging in a tube from his waist. He fingered the feathered tips, longing to pull one out and shoot—but the time was not right. The buffalo were beginning to sense them now. They lifted their heads in uneasiness, then, as they caught sight of the horses, they broke into a run. Like a stream of water they cascaded down the gentle slope. Arrow leaned down over his pony’s neck, forcing him into a gallop. He could sense the other men doing the same. With Wet Grasses beside him, his father somewhere behind him, he surged into the center of the herd. The thundering of hooves was in his ears, and he looked around himself. The completeness of the buffalo was all around him. He was alone. Not truly alone, for
A Night of Fire
A gloomy hole sheltered the shivering cardinal during a raging thunderstorm. The hole was an incomplete snake house, burrowed with consummate skill. The cardinal knew he had to get out before the hole filled with rainwater. Ever so carefully, he worked his way up the shallow passage, his gorgeous red feathers now streaked with dirt. He chirped desperately; he was stuck, as water started to fill the shelter. The cardinal used his last shred of energy to try to push his way out, but it was no use. As thunder boomed and lightning cracked, the cardinal knew he was done, knew it was all over. Just a few seconds later, a branch broke off the nearest tree, crashing to the ground beside him! The cardinal opened one eye, but the limb had not widened the hole on impact with the ground. The branch was no help to him. But he was wrong! A child had heard the branch fall as she was running home through the storm with drinking water for her family. The limb blocked her path, and as she bent to move it the stranded cardinal caught her eye. He looked up at her, up to his neck in water, and took in the girl’s appearance. She was tall, with deeply tanned skin and a jet-black braid down her back. Her eyes were a liquid brown, kind, yet reserved. She had on moccasins and a deerskin beaded dress. “I am Jessica,” the girl solemnly spoke. “I will help you.” She gently helped free the bird from the earth and rain. Noticing how filthy he was, she sprinted into a nearby cave, lightning flashing all around her. In the cave, she sacrificed her family’s drinking water to clean him. The brown streaks finally gave way and revealed a brilliant red coat of feathers. As he flew away, he seemed to set fire to the trees Jessica stared at the now sleeping bird, transfixed. Huddled in the cave, she waited out the storm. When the cardinal woke up, it did not move. “I will name you Fire, for the wings on your back and the glimmer in your eye,” Jessica said. Worriedly, she gently lifted Fire. He simply perched on her hand, gazing at her steadily, trustingly. She tossed him in the air. He flew around her head, made a loop-de-loop, and sat back down on her shoulder. She giggled. “Show-off.” Together, the improbable pair sat in the cave, and Jessica fed Fire some jerky, until he was comfortable enough to come over again, grab the meat, and eat it sitting right on her head. Even so, the little night of fun was bittersweet, for Jessica knew she would have to let Fire go when the storm let up. As soon as it was over, she murmured a little goodbye to him and set him loose to go back to his family. Jessica watched the sun make dancing rainbows on the wet cardinal’s wings. As he flew away, he seemed to set fire to the trees. Jordan Dunaway-Barlow, 13Houston, Texas Megan Knizak, 13Georgetown, Massachusetts
