Showing posts with label Verena Rattler. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Verena Rattler. Show all posts

Friday, July 03, 2015

GALEN ANTHONY UPHAM

portraits by Bob Scriver

It’s been a long time since I came to Browning to teach high school English in 1961.  I had no idea what to expect and wasn’t really prepared to teach English, except that I had a solid grip on grammar.  I was trained in theatre and, as it turned out, that was a fine way to approach a tribe that appreciates performance:  not high test scores but more like fancy dancing.  I found the scripts as I went along.  Here’s a link to one list: they are people but they are also roles.  Many are gone now, but only in this world.


I tend to confuse students.  Over the years Greg Hirst has had to remind me again and again that he is not Mike Hirst, his brother.  I do remember who Charlie Hirst is, since that’s more recent.  He wasn’t a student -- he was the maintenance man for the Heart Butte school bus fleet until he was found dead in a flaming pickup after I left but right in front of the teacherage where I lived.  I was there 1989 to 1991.

Whichever Hirst was actually in my classes was a good student.  So was Greg.  It’s partly genetic and partly memes -- these are mild-mannered people who value learning of all kinds but are careful about how they manage it.  Greg is out at Heart Butte now, though he just retired from a long career in Wolf Point.  He has been solid and contributing for many decades.  When he finally gives it up, he owns a big house in Great Falls.  He needs space for lots of books.

Verena Rattler has been a conscientious historian.

It’s easier to think about people here in terms of family.  There are always outliers, but in the main there are shared characteristics and unless one gets into some entirely different environment that hits all the wrong keys -- which might very well be about success -- then they are doomed.  The white man’s way of keeping track by name through the father doesn’t really work for a culture so recently oral.  There needs to be a circle of old ladies who remember and sit together counting who-is-who-and-how.  For instance, Misty Upham, who belonged to the same descended-from-Heavyrunner family as the Hirsts, was driven over a rain forest pisgun, a buffalo jump.  It's a high price for fame and success.


I’ll come back to Misty later.  What I want to talk about here is the Uphams I knew personally. They are entwined with Hirsts and Kipps and other worthy cousins.



One of the things I do is to cut out all the Blackfeet obits from the GF Tribune and tape them onto cards, then alphabetize.  I don’t date them because what I’m looking for is relationships.  Eva Upham, who died at 97, was the mom for a special person, Galen Upham.  (Also, his brother Dennis, who was a little like him, and some others.)  It’s Galen I want to talk about.  I have a special attachment to Galen, but when I mention it in certain company they get mad, because they think that THEY are the special ones.  His gift was in part giving people that feeling.  He looked like a young Abraham Lincoln.  

Young Abe Lincoln

He’d pull his old rez car into the so-called driveway in my East Glacier years and honk until I came out and sat on the edge of my so-called back porch.   (I called it my "drunk-catcher" because boards were missing.)  He’d stay in the car and we’d visit for a long time.  He was famous for stealing one of the red tourist touring buses and driving it over Going-to-the-Sun road by moonlight.  He was drunk, probably, and if you know that Backbone of the World track, the miracle was not getting away with the theft, but simply staying on the road.


I wrote a script about it:  one of those Outlander time-travel things.  Galen is driving over but he wrecks and ends up in a snowbank which keeps him from being killed.  While he lies in the wreckage, an old-time young man just like him is there on a vision quest, and they talk.  If I were writing it now, I would make the ancient one a warrior -- that pass was a war trail first.


But Galen wasn’t a warrior -- or didn’t think he was.  When he got too far into the alcoholism, he’d be committed to Warm Springs.  A lot of people wanted him to kick the booze.  While he was there, he’d take his guitar over to the children’s building and play for them.  When he was stabilized, he’d be back home.

I ran into Galen and Olivia at Indian Days, walking in the dark evening, holding hands.  In those days the lights were only strung up temporarily -- the only permanent structure was the pump-head for water, a big cement cube alone out there in the grass most of the year.  The young couple was plainly very much in love, well-matched.  Olivia was remarkably beautiful.  One evening she was reading in bed and smoking, but fell asleep and that’s how she left us. There were no dragon’s eggs that hatched.  

Somehow that whole family had a bit of of mysticism in them, I think more from Eva than from “Doc,” who had been a musician in Bob’s High Line dance band in the Forties.  Once when times were good, Doc brought in a deer head to be mounted.  It wasn’t a remarkable specimen -- I think he just wanted to show off to Bob, who was skeptical about ever getting paid, with reason.  For years Doc left it, probably forgot it was there, maybe was expecting Bob to cave in and say, “Here -- just have it.”  In the end Bob needed some glass deer eyes for another mount and pried them out of the head.  After that, mutilated, it was hard to look at, so it was tossed.

I hadn’t realized Eva was a Canadian Guardipee, which is often a Metis name and maybe includes some far north “Cree medicine” genes.  Cree medicine is the love medicine that Louise Erdrich often mentions, but Louise’s white genes are German and Guardipees would probably be French.  Eva had a sense of elegance about her and a sweetness that both Galen and Dennis shared.  March had it, too, and she married Peter Sellars, part of that 8th grade bunch in my first class ever.  He was a high IQ kid, quite balanced, but he got dumped in there because, I think, he played his cards close to his vest.  Never let people know how much you know.

In 1988 when I was the Methodist minister for a year and monitored study-hall for grub money, Galen and Olivia’s son Glen turned up.  He had that same arrogance that became pride once it was backed up with accomplishment.  I had no money at that point (do I ever?) and was wearing cheap canvas slip-on shoes.  Glen looked at my feet and sneered, “Potato pickers’ shoes!”

I’d humor him and even slip him a bit of money now and then.   The kids asked,  "Are you related?"  Sort of.  I worried.  Times had changed and he was one of those who stole needles from home ec class so he could experiment with penetrating the skin on his hands.  It’s drug-related.  But twenty-five years later he’s okay, living up in East Glacier.  He’s not much like his father, maybe.  I haven't gone to look for him.

I still have a story Galen wrote.  It’s about a Blackfeet chief who kidnaps an English teacher and keeps her hostage until she will teach him to read.  Of course, a kid who read as much as Galen didn’t need to be taught even how to write.   He just did it.   Ever since then I’ve searched for what it was I ought to have taught him, the grail that could have saved him.  It’s a searing, flaming thing.  I mean both the search and the grail.

Galen was three years younger than me.  (1942 - 1987).  I was in Saskatoon in 1987.  The next year I came back to the rez, homesick.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

HOPPY BIG BEAVER'S GRAVE MARKER

Cindy Murray

Cindy Murray is a Global Volunteer and a social activist photographer who has been visiting the Blackfeet Reservation over a sequence of summers.  She was looking for info about the rez and hit my online “book” called “Heartbreak Butte,” about the two years (’89-’91) I taught at the beginning of the high school in Heart Butte, a village in the foothills of the rez.  (www.heartbreakbutte.blogspot.com)   She sent me an email note and included a link to her online photo album.  http://socialdocumentary.net/photographer/cindymurray  She had no idea how it would hit me.  I don’t think she realized that had I been in and out of the rez since 1961.  

More than that, I was married to a white sculptor born there who portrayed the nineteenth century Blackfeet by using contemporary Blackfeet tribal members.  Bob Scriver’s father had come in 1903 and founded the Browning Mercantile as a federally authorized trader.  Some feel that the 19th century didn’t end until WWI.  Even when I came in 1961, the people who posed for Bob had been born in the 1870’s and ’80’s -- the Civil War years.  It was the Civil War cavalry veterans who finished the prairie clearances of tribes.  This is not the sort of thing that is always conveyed to Global Volunteers.

The "old" Browning cemetery

The photo that really smacked me was of Hoppy Big Beaver’s headstone, or -- more accurately -- head “board.”  Hoppy was one of “my” kids in my earliest teaching years.  He was a big jolly guy.  In terms of Hollywood casting, he was a little like a baby version of Gary Farmer.  I tell two stories about him.  One was about pulling into the parking lot at the county courthouse and hearing my name shouted:  “Hey, Miss Strachan!  Up here!  It’s Hoppy!  I’m in jail!”  Sure enough, he was looking down at me from up where the holding cells were, waving his arm out between the bars so I’d spot him.  I gave him a big arm swing and shout-out in response.  Since Bob was the city magistrate and justice of the peace in Browning, I knew most of the drunks.  A surprisingly likable bunch.  It's crazy that white people are so scared of them.

Maybe 1963 Indian Days

On another occasion Hoppy was locked up in Browning in the tribal jail, in those days a truly awful place, a small cement building at the bottom of the water tower.  When it got impossibly “grody”, the officers went looking for Ida Cut Finger, affectionally called “Ida Baby” in her street drunk role.  While she dried out in jail, she scrubbed, and she was very good at it.  It was agreed that while Hoppy was serving his time, he should still go to school, but he stunk of vomit and general dankness really bad.  The superintendent of the time, Phil Ward, arranged for him to come up early with a deputy and use the PE showers in the morning.  He was also supplied a set of sweats to be kept in a locker at school.  I don’t recall him being either upset or grateful.  He took life as it came at him.

From here on, I’m quoting a memory supplied by Verena Rattler, who knew Hoppy much better than I did.  For a while she wrote a column for the Glacier Reporter.


Every time I see an Elvis Presley movie or see him sing and gyrate around, I think of my cousin, Vernon "Hoppy" Big Beaver. He would have been around 60 years old now. My Aunt Sarah (Running Crane) LaMott was married to Eddie Big Beaver, and they adopted Hoppy when he was just a baby. He was named Hoppy because at that time Sarah and Eddie were in Washington, picking hops.

When I was really young I remember a lot of people who couldn't find jobs around here, so they would go to Washington to pick apples or hops. Hoppy was a Red Horn. Jackson Red Horn is one of his brothers. If memory serves me right his mom was from the Stewart family of the Crow Indian Reservation.

Anyway, Hoppy was an only child to my Aunt Sarah, and she thought the world of him and therefore spoiled him a bit. Sarah lived in my Grandma Kipp's house at Blackfoot with Hoppy and her husband, Joe Evans. Hoppy's friends (Alfred "Small Fry" Guardipee, Galen Potts and Alvin Monroe, to name a few) frequently stayed with Hoppy at Blackfoot. They were close as brothers to him and were raised together. I and my brothers and sisters used to also go and stay at Sarah's, too.

Hoppy really idolized Elvis Presley. He dressed like him in tight fitting jeans, loose fitting shirt tucked in, with the collar up, and black, sharp-toed boots. He would gyrate around like Elvis and would sing like him. Sarah only had a wood stove, and Hoppy found a really big, long nail and he would heat it up in the stove and have me and Lucille curl his hair on top with it, and he would fix a hank of hair in the front to imitate Elvis. Ho, we really had to be careful not to burn him or our fingers. Then he would put the Brylcreem on so his hair was nice and shiny.

We were raised really close to Hoppy. He was close as a brother to us. Anyway, at a very young age Hoppy started getting in trouble with the law. He ended up in reform school in Englewood, Colorado. He would get out of jail here or there and end right back in there. I guess he was kind of a rebel in those days. Sarah and my mom would be so stressed out all the time, trying to get him out of trouble. My dad would always talk to him, trying to get him to change his ways, but Hoppy was stuck in his ways too much.

At one time Blackfoot, MT. was the end of the Great Northern while the tracks were built through Marias Pass.

He and his friends used to always hitch rides on freight trains at Blackfoot to Washington. Hoppy learned to play the guitar, and he would write me letters all the time from wherever he was and he'd write on them "500 Miles Away from Home." That song always reminds me of him.

Anyway, he got in trouble again and ended up in jail in Monroe, Wash. Sarah passed away around 1970 or so, and the authorities wouldn't let Hoppy come home for his mom's funeral. This really had a big impact on Hoppy because he loved his mom so much. When he got out of jail he came home for a while and stayed at our house in Blackfoot. He later went back to Washington.

I think it was around 1972 or so, and my brothers were riding their horses from Boarding School to town and they were going to let them go home to Blackfoot, down by the old dump road. Our horses really knew their way home. It was blizzarding, and I was waiting below Kicking Woman's in my old LTD and Harold Butterfly pulled up beside me. He asked me what I was doing, and I told him I was waiting for my brothers and I was going to haul their saddles and bring them home.

All of a sudden we just heard a really loud noise like someone was shooting near us. We couldn't see anyone around, though. Then my brothers showed up and unsaddled their horses and put their saddles in my trunk, released their horses and got in. I told them I heard a gunshot.

Verena Rattler

I lived at Last Star homes at the time, and my brothers and sisters used to stay with me in my new three-bedroom house when they weren't in boarding school. Mom and Dad still lived in their old house, waiting for a mutual home to be built.

I drove them up to Mom and Dad's. Dad came out and told us to get down to the jail right away because Hoppy got shot in Washington and he died. At that time, hardly anyone had telephones. Emergency calls were made to the jail and the police would deliver messages. I must have heard the gunshot when Hoppy got killed. Oh, that was so sad. My mom was crying really hard and trying to get in contact with authorities in Washington to bring Hoppy home. He married a girl from up there and had a baby girl, Verna Jo.

The police told mom that Hoppy was killed over a pool game. Hoppy died at a young age, too young. He must have been only about 24 or so. I remember Hoppy as a person who liked to have fun, have friends around him and he could really imitate Elvis. Oh, and did I say he had a lot of girlfriends, too?

His buddies, Small Fry and Galen, were really close to us, too. Small Fry went to the SIPI art school at Santa Fe and also went to Vietnam. He later had a family, raised his children and later died from cancer from that Agent Orange they used in the Vietnam War.