15/10/2025
Years and years ago, Gramma, Nancy Melting Tallow lived in one of those two-room Indian reservation houses with an old leaning outhouse in her yard that always had big scary spiders living in there. So when you needed to use it, you got in and finished up real quick!
I remember Gramma, all dressed up, wearing a colorful scarf with big pretty flowers printed on it and tied up under her chin.
Gramma"s nylons crinkled around her ankles,
looking up from where we played on the kitchen floor around her feet.
She patiently waited,
sipping her cup of Red Rose tea at the kitchen table,
staring out the window,
waiting for her ride to come get her and bring her into town.
Sometimes, sheโd bring us back pop nโ chips as a treat.
Then, sheโd open up a package of raw kidney sheโd bought for herself,
slicing off bite-sized pieces to sprinkle with salt
as a special treat for herself before putting all of her groceries away.
When we were little, we used to lovingly call Gramma "Misses Magoo!"
like the kids" cartoon. She laughed about it too!
Then sheโd say, "Yaww!!, Iโm just married to Mister Magoo!"
Weโd all laugh together some more.
Gramma had a hand pump for water in her yard.
Weโd bring out an old wooden axe handle and tin bucket
from inside her house to operate it.
I was just tall enough then to reach up and pump water for her.
I was proud to help Gramma because
it was a big manโs job, she told me.
But, โI could do it!โ I said.
My feet would leave the ground, and Iโd hang up there in the air,
getting more water on me than into the pail. It was fun!
Weโd bring the water inside, hauling it into her kitchen, spilling some.
Then sheโd hand me a metal ladle, "the Little Dipper," she called it,
to hang up on the side of the pail to scoop out water
for us to drink and make tea.
Gramma has the Little Dipper, Iโd think to myself,
just like the stars up in the sky...
This was before we were all taken away
and sent away for years to different foster homes...
I remember times in my teens,
hitchhiking to the rez and visiting her at her trailer in the 80s.
She"d be sitting there on her bed,
a big smile on her face, her grandkids there with her,
crawling around, playing happily on her lap,
cartoons on her little TV,
just like when we were little!
She was so cute nโ happy.
Sheโd say, "Georgina made stew,
and thereโs bannock, Guh, go have some."
Iโd get her some tea with two cubes of sugar,
like she liked, and weโd sit on her bed.
Soon, the little ones all fell asleep.
Through most of her life,
Gramma never really experienced major health issues.
She never needed to see a doctor. Times when she got sick,
sheโd get herself some Buckeyโs cough syrup,
drank tea with dried and steeped river mint
sheโd picked until she felt all better again.
Years after I left Canada,
running to save my own life,
I lived in New York when 9/11 happened.
Gramma finally, desperately got a hold of me
by phone later on that tragic, horrible day,
"Yaww!," she said, "I was just so worried!,
โLiving down there, so far awayโ.
She told me that she had stood out
on her porch all throughout that day, so worried.
She said that she could see the smoke and ashes
rising up into the sky from the towers from where she stood,
a distance of 2,341 miles from ground zero
to her little trailer on the Rez.
I flew back to Canada a few weeks after 9/11 happened.
I made a special visited to see her.
I brought her an NYPD t-shirt and
a snow globe of Manhattan
with a tiny Empire State Building inside,
Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge,
and yellow taxis going here and there.
She put it in a special spot on her mantle
next to all of her pictures of family.
Most of my life,
I never even knew the depths of trauma
that Gramma had lived through,
Mom, Dad, the trauma they had all lived through
as little kids, the horrors, sadness,
and losses residential schools inflicted on them.
The legacies and scars us kids bore,
even though me, my brothers, and sisters
never set foot inside those schools,
the legacies also reached into each of our own lives and stole from our spirits, killing us too...
Gramma once gave a videotaped interview. Speaking to an interviewer about her experiences growing up in residential school. She shared about times she snuck away and hid somewhere within the residential school with other little Blackfoot girls, facing the great risk of brutal punishment for being caught speaking Blackfoot. Through this act of resisting, she, along with other little kids, were able to hang onto language throughout all her young years spent locked up there. Her brave retelling ensured that future generations of Blackfoot children would learn about how it was then and, to never forget what was done to try to kill the Indian in all of our children.