About a month ago, I wrote here about a love story between a woman and the land in the far south of Saline County that keeps her in touch with her Cherokee heritage. Annette lives in Hensley, and the land is just this side of the county border. It was made available to her through a family that took her and her husband in when they were young and had nothing.

Through MySaline.com, I was lucky enough to meet Annette's sister Yvonne. It is Yvonne who writes the stories about herself and her sisters' excursions, exploits, and the resulting experience. I've included some of Yvonne's scribblings here before, and this time I include her story that resulted from a group going on a day of exploring that Cherokee land. I have to admit that knowing firsthand the high percentage of truth in this tale, I am a little startled to comtemplate that the previous crazy stories could be just as true.

“Sister Twisted Hair,” I heard Sister Nettiebelle laugh over the phone.

“I am not Sister Twisted Hair,” I retorted.

“Un huh”, Sister snarked.

“Nuh uh,” I protested.

“Sister,” Sister nettiebelle said, “you know your hair looks like Einstein’s, don’t ya?”

“Hey, wait a minute..."

“So, you are Sister Twisted Hair. That is your Indian name.”

“Who says?” I shot back.

“Ma.”

“Dadblasted,” I mumbled under my breath.

“What are you bringing to the Indian Hill celebration?” Sister Nettiebelle asked. “I’m fixing the traditional Cherokee potato soup.”

“I’m bringing the traditional Cherokee chicken and dressing,” I said, very pleased with myself.

“I thought it was turkey and dressing,” Sister said.

“I don’t have no turkey,” I said. “But I have sage.”

“Then it ain’t traditional,” Snarky Sister Nettiebelle said. “You know the Indians fed the pilgrims wild turkey and dressing, Sister Twisted Hair, not chicken and dressing?”

“Then just go out and shoot me a wild turkey, why don’t you, Sister Alika-Shoot-Strait?"

"How'd you know that's my Indian name?"

“How did you know my Indian name? Sister asked.

“The little people told me. What is Sister Moses Faye bringing?” I asked.

“She ain’t Sister Moses Faye no more,” Sister Alika Shoot Straight said.

“Then, who the h$!! is she?” I asked.

“Sister Honey and Milk.”

“Since when?”

“Since she moved to the Promise Land next to the Jolly Farm,” Sister Alika Shoot Straight retorted.

“Ok, Sister, then what is Sister Honey and Milk bringing?” I asked.

“The fire.”

Cold, rain, snow, nor sleet stops the Cherokee when they start to march. Saturday, February 28, dawned with the remnants of a front moving through. But, we were moving on. 20 hardy souls gathered at the Jolly Farm to begin our sacred journey. But, first we ate. Traditional or not, we filled our bellies with our shared food and laughed and told stories with friends we knew and friends we had just met. The kids sat on the floor and played with the puppies. It was a beautiful sight.

Sister Alika-Shoot-Straight threw some hay bales down from the barn loft and the men loaded them onto Brother Dave’s trailer which was hooked to his tractor. We shared blankets and jackets.

“Sister Twisted Hair,” Nettiebelle said to me as I tried to get into Dave’s haul, “you’re riding with me in the Tarantula.”
“Why?” I asked, a bit suspiciously.

“Because, that’s where all of the old crones are riding: me, you, Sister Honey and Milk and Sister I-Hope-the-Snow-Makes-My-Daughter’s-Boyfriend-Leave-Cara.”

“Ok,” I said, still a bit suspicious, and thinking that Brother Dave’s grandsons had the best ride of all in the shovel of the tractor.

Sister Alika Shoot Straight took the lead and the Old Crones yelled “Head em up, move em out!” and then whistled Rawhide. The slow procession snaked along, through the rain, and the mud puddles, and the trees, and the fields, and the cow patties. It wasn’t until we started down the first hill that I realized why Sister Alika Shoot Straight wanted me to ride with her.

“Sister Twisted Hair,” she giggled, “put your big old feet out on the ground.”

“The heck you say, I ain’t no fool.”

“But, this here Tarantula don’t have no brakes,” Sister Alika Shoot Straight replied sweetly.

“THE HECK YOU SAY!” I yelled.

Sister I-Hope-the-Snow-Makes-My-Daughter’s-Boyfriend-Leave-Cara said, “For real?”

“For Real,” Sister Alika Shoot Straight said.

I put my big old feet on the ground and my boots were just a smoking. Sister Honey and Milk was laughing and blowing smoke out her nose.

“Doggone it,” I said, “that’s the last time I ride in this Flintstone-mobile!” I yelled.

Sister snorted under her breath, “We’ll see,” she said and drove us through a mud puddle so that I got soaked good.
Even with the no brakes, I guess we fared pretty well. Sister I-Hope-the-Snow-Makes-My-Daughter’s-Boyfriend-Leave-Cara, Sister Honey and Milk and I sang The Cherokee Morning Song to the other group as Brother Dave’s haul got stuck in the middle of the biggest mud hole and had to get out, tread water and mud, and walk the rest of the way to Indian Hill. Once there, the three firemakers built us a wonderous fire.

Sister I-Hope-the-Snow-Makes-My-Daughter’s-Boyfriend-Leave-Cara, Sister Becky and I sang “Amazing Grace” in Cherokee. I could hear it echo out across the slough, hauntingly, slow, beautiful, the first time the song had been heard back there in the native tongue in untold years. We shared stories around the fire, looked for arrowheads, and had a glorious time.

The snow started falling lightly and we gathered up to head back to the farm. As we neared the last hill, Sister Alika Shoot Straight, Sister Honey and Milk, and I sang and hollered out our war cry as a final good-bye to the land and our ancestors, and also as a promise that we will be back.

This column was originally published in The Benton Courier March 17, 2009. See more of Shelli's Columns.