by Bernice Loafer

Home was a small frame house which my dad built on his land when he and mom got married. Over the years, with his family growing and no money for the upkeep of the house, it began to gain what I like to think of as 'character.' The porch was sagging in places. Two of the front windows were broken, with old clothing wadded up and stuffed in where the glass used to be.

Outside, the yard was bare with long boards lying here and there; a reminder of summer rains and the mud they created around the front of the house. They were placed in strategic places to walk on. Three mangy looking dogs kept to the shade of the house.
Last time I had been home there were only two broken down cars out back, now there was one more. On the rez (slang for 'reservation') most families own land but have no way to work it. There are no utilities, and often the plots are land-locked.
Because of this one of the only ways to make any money on the land was to lease it to ranchers for grazing. Lease checks came once a year, and could be anywhere from a few dollars to a few hundred.
Lease checks in hand, people would travel to Rapid City to buy a car that was within their budget. Because these were always used cars many times they didn't even make it back to the reservation. Even when someone got lucky, the car would often only last for six or eight months and then die during the hottest days of summer or during the long cold winters. So, like ours, many of the homes collected a few junkers over the years. This cycle is as active today as it was forty years ago.

My name is… just call me Joe. As I think back, I can remember the 1960's. I was 18 years old, 6'2 and 190 lbs of muscle. Raring to join the service. The war in Viet Nam was raging. I was the oldest, with two younger brothers, one younger sister and my parents. There used to be an older brother. Like most Native Americans, our family had a strong history of military service. A good part of the money we lived on was from a small pension awarded to my father for a wound he had received in the Army.

I remember rushing in to tell my parents of my decision to join the service. There was absolute silence, as if they were both in total shock. My mother was the first to come out of it. She walked to me and hugged me, followed by my dad, who shook my hand.

We were a family of dancers. Ever since I could walk, by dad painstakingly taught me the intricate steps of fancy dancing. I always wondered where he got the patience. Perhaps he knew idleness causes mischief or worse.

My mother did all the beading for the outfits, all the while telling me the origins of certain dances and what to do and what not to do. My dad made the bustle and roaches for me, and sometimes made outfits for other people, in that way supplementing our income.

All this came to a complete halt when my older brother, who had volunteered for the marines, was reported M.I.A.

When my parents were notified they called us all together to give us the news. My sister, with a gasp, ran to my mother. The two younger boys and I looked at each other in disbelief. Dad gathered my little brothers to him, and I moved across the room and held onto them all. Part of me kept saying that he was only lost and would be found.

The next few weeks were like living in limbo. My dad stayed glued to the radio, following news of the war. I couldn't seem to concentrate on anything. I didn't go out with my friends when they came around. Every time I saw a car coming my insides tightened up. The hardest part was waiting and not knowing.

On Sunday August 24, 1965 my parents had just returned from church services when the news we'd all been dreading arrived.

My parents were devastated. I can still hear the heartbroken cries of my mother that night when the younger kids were asleep. I heard the keening sobs of my dad outside. I wanted so badly to go to him and put my arms around him. After that my mother moved around in a daze, while the many friends and neighbors took charge. I can still hear the drum at the burial procession. My brother's complete dancing outfit was buried with him.

Two years later, I woke to the sounds of my mother in the kitchen. Dad was awake, too. I could hear him groan once or twice and knew his wound was acting up. I remember lying still for a few minutes longer than normal in the bed I shared with my little brothers. I remember thinking this would be the last time I got out of this bed, and later that day I knew I would begin the first real journey of my life. To other people our home might have looked shabby, but I was born and grew up there and I loved everything in it. From the cut out pictures on the walls to the plastic plants on the floor, it was my home. I can recall doing crazy things with my friends, some that I regret and others I am ashamed of. I knew I would be leaving my boyhood behind. Thinking of the coming years, I realized that I wanted to be just like my dad.

I've heard people say that when you leave the rez you cut all ties to your family. That when you return you have a hopeless feeling. Not me. The rez will always be my home. It's where my family and friends live. It's where my grandparents and great grand parents lived, died and now rest. My brother died defending it. It is the backdrop of my childhood memories happy and sad.
When I think of my parents, I think of them as heroes. They lived with poverty and despair all around them and came through it whole. Now that I have children of my own I tell them of their grandparents with pride. As I'm teaching them the steps of the fancy dance or the stories my mother told me over her beading, I hope to teach them of my parents' bravery. That they were able to lose one son defending this country and all Americans, yet were strong enough to send another.

Other stories by Bernice:
In their footsteps
An excerpt from her upcoming book "Apple"
Modern day warriors

Watch for Bernice’s book “Apple” coming late 2005 or early 2006 to a bookstore near you.