Photo: Cousins, from left, Pat Browning, Beth Ridle, Doug
Yarholar, Tom Lucas, Carolyn Smith
Grandpa was Scots-Irish, and illiterate. Grandma was
full-blood Muscogee Creek, educated in the white man’s mission school. They
lived in interesting times, on a farm at Greasy
Creek, Oklahoma.
I’d like to say Greasy Creek got its name because oil ran
under the land, but I don’t want to start another family fable. More likely,
the name came west with the Creeks who were removed from their ancestral
homelands in the southeastern United
States.
The Creeks are great storytellers. As my cousin Doug said,
they can be a little windy. Take the legend of Grandpa, the illiterate
Scots-Irishman with a reputation for reading the Bible, speaking French and
curing sick horses.
At a family birthday dinner I sat with my brother Tom, who
loves those old fairy tales, and my Cousin Doug, who could probably recite
family history in his sleep. Tom heard this story from an elderly relative who
merely smiled when you caught her in a flight of fancy.
The story goes that Grandpa was fetched to treat a horse
lying prone in a barn. Grandpa said a few words in French, read a few Bible
verses, and “laid hands” on the horse. Then he went up to the farmer’s house
for a hearty supper. After supper, lo and behold – Grandpa found the horse up
eating hay and swishing his tail.
Tom later double-checked the story with an aunt, who said,
“That’s absurd. Dad couldn’t read or write and the only languages he spoke were
English and Creek.
We had a good laugh. “So much for his fluency in 28 Indians
dialect,” I said.
Tom’s wife, who was half-listening, said, “I heard it was
nine.”
I did hear a couple of true stories. One concerned my
great-grandfather, Old Frank, who was some kind of deputy marshal when Indian
Territory outlaws were tried in federal court at Fort Smith, Arkansas.
The judge there was Isaac C. Parker, the famous “hanging judge.”
Old Frank was either a volunteer or appointee who
transported non-Indian miscreants from Indian Territory to Fort Smith. Since there was no jail in his
neck of the woods he kept the prisoners in his home. It’s said that he let them
borrow his rifles to go hunting while they waited for the trip to Arkansas. When it was
time to go, Old Frank chained them to the horses and away they went.
Indians had their own tribal courts and tribal police for
Indian lawbreakers. In the Creek Nation, a tribal member of a violent crime was
given a year to put his affairs in order and make arrangements for his family.
At an appointed time, he appeared before the council and chose his one-man
firing squad. It was usually a friend, or a marksman who could make one shot do
the job.
Shortly after the birthday dinner I went to a family wedding
on the hottest day of the year, low 100s in the shade. I arrived drenched in sweat. Fast-forward 50 years. A
little kid says, “Grandma, tell us about your wedding and the old auntie who
stood up and took off all her clothes when the preacher said, ‘Who gives this
woman?’” A family legend is born. Didn’t happen, but who will be around to say
so?
The truth is, the wedding was lovely. The chapel was once a
dance hall, designed like a Spanish hacienda, with ornately carved doors and
massive furniture. The ceiling was draped with twinkle lights and Japanese
lanterns. The couple wrote their own commitment vows, including this great
line: “I promise to love you as you are, and not as I want you to be.”
Five generations occupied the pews, from babes in arms and
little girls with flowers in their hair and glitter on their shoes, to a couple
of old cowboys wearing straw hats. The bride’s friends had arrived earlier with
trays of homemade hors d’oeuvres. After the ceremony there was a rush to the
bar. Guess who got to the food first. That’s right. You’re looking at her.
And I was home before dark. Families, God bless ‘em, fables,
foibles and all.
