From the Selfish One by Kathryn Magendie

Dear Father Sky,

Though I know today is Election Day and I should be thinking about our country, I feel my selfish ways prick against my skin. I have entered the huddle of my cove and cried. I have placed my feet upon the ground from which your children from the sky have walked (for, after all, all things originated from Sky). I have touched the dry Mother Earth; I have bent to the curling leaves, I have cupped water from the creek as I watched it struggle. I have stood in this cove and heard the sounds of men; and Father Sky, I know it is wrong to let my selfishness rise up out of me as a hungry beast, but I do not like the sounds the men are making below. Tearing sounds. Sounds of trees falling. Sounds of big machines ripping up earth. Even the sounds of traffic have cupped in the cove and hummed here, trapped from the changes in season and the poor creek's song low low. Father Sky, I am asking for rain for this area. I am not asking for a leader to be chosen in the way of my thinking, for what will be will be and I am here in my cove on my little mountain and the outward earth seems far away today, yet very very close when I hear the roar and the crash below. Yes, I am selfish today.

Father Sky, perhaps you do not hear my appreciation, for the days have been lovely and the colors wild and bright. I give thanks every morning when I rise, every day when I walk outside to the new day, every afternoon as I sigh into the treetops, every evening as I eat my supper, every night as I lie down in my bed and let out an old dog sigh—perhaps I have not been thankful enough? Perhaps my selfishness keeps you from hearing me, for after all, many must call out to you for many things, especially on a day as today in the America Land? But Father Sky, we need the rain. The ground thirsts, the critters’ movements changed, the creek—oh my creek!—does not sing joyous but is instead sick and low. Father Sky, send rain to our mountains, to our valleys, to the hollows and hills. The leader will be chosen and the Earth will spin. The people here will find the rhythm to the new. But, I, I want the cove like the old ways. Perhaps there are reasons for the lacking rain as things turn as they will for Mother Earth. But I am selfish.

In the case you do not know the thankfulness I feel from being here because of my selfish ways: Here. Right here and now, I raise up my voice and I raise up my hands and I call out to you, Father Sky, in happy thanks for the beauty I walk upon. But, please, send Rain to these droughted regions. Send the snow this winter to melt and fill the creek. As you will, I will receive. As you can’t, I will accept. As you know best, it will be. Thank you, Father Sky.

Save me from the Touridiots by Kat Magendie

I’m not feeling very grateful right now. In fact, I’m feeling irritated and annoyed. With spring break near, it is time for visitors to our mountain. Some have already arrived, including the people above us, who have left their dog on their deck while they go touring. The dog hasn’t stopped yelping for almost two hours now; and who knows how long the tourists will be away, either oblivious, or uncaring, of what their visit has brought to our quiet little cove. I stomp about my little log house. I turn up the television (so that while I am writing this, Rachael Ray is also yapping excitedly right along with the dog). I try to tune it out, but doggie only becomes more frenzied, as no one is there to let it know it hasn’t been left for good.

“Touridiot,” I mutter. I’ve meanly named the people who visit our beautiful mountains and disrespect it, and us. The touridiots who decided to hold a screaming drunken party at two in the morning. The touridiots who threw their fast food empties along the road. The touridiots who left a bulging sack of garbage by the side of the road, too lazy to take it to the nearby garbage disposal site. The touridiots who shot firecrackers during a drought, and even onto our neighbor’s roof.

I grit my teeth. I grind out, “Tourists go home!”

I take a deep breath. I was once a tourist to Western North Carolina. A good tourist, a reverential one, a respectful one. Good tourists do exist: The phantom bagpipe player whose mournful sound filters through the mountain mists and calls to that part of me who is Scottish. The young men who played their acoustic guitars while singing with lilting voices. The family with children, who I heard laughing and playing while building a little fort by the creek; what nostalgia to remember my fort-building days. The older couple who waved to us, the happiness evident on their faces; joy and reverence. I feel calmer. Funny thing, just as I wrote those positive things, the dog has stopped—this isn’t a metaphor or analogy or “moral ending,” the dog really has stopped right at the moment I wrote: I feel calmer. I decide to be grateful while it lasts. The family will return. The dog will calm. All will be as it was, or how it will be when it isn't; either way, I live in paradise. Yes, I do. Ahhhh.

Tracks, by Kathryn Magendie

The snow shows me things on my mountain. And I want to believe, if I will be pardoned by those who matter, that my great great grandmother, a full blood Blackfoot, watches over me, teaches me how life pulses and throbs on Mother Earth. I imagine my ancestors walking softly through their woods, just as the Cherokee walk these Western North Carolina Mountains I am fortunate to live within. I step upon ground that thrums with stories ancient and true. I notice how without thinking about it, I am now walking from outside my foot to inside, a rolling motion—is this my great great grandmother’s way? I say, “Show me, Kip a ta ki, (old woman). I have lived too white! My pale skin, my white ways.” I can hear her laugh, as if to say, "You are who you are meant to be. Your blood is red. Your heart beats. Your lungs take in the same air."

I tread silent, as I don’t want to break the spell. Bear tracks, kiaayo, along the road above my log house. There are feline tracks, too, and I crouch to touch one of them—a big feral house cat? Or the Bobcat, natayo, I once saw racing across my driveway and up the incline of what is my “backyard.” I step off the road, and bend again to study the larger track. It is bear. I think, if Bear and I meet, if she isn't threatened in anyway, Bear will mostly likely run away—same as Bobcat did that day (my Bobcat sighting was rare and beautiful—I feel honored). I have respect for wild things—the respect of care and distance, not of personification of human idealization.

I finally call out, “Hey, Roger. Looks like bear tracks, and these must be a big cat, too small for Bobcat.” He comes over to look. The dogs sniff eagerly. The wind blows. The snow sparkles. The mountain, miistak, gives and takes away. I am filled with thanksgiving. The gratitude of a life full of promises, both ancient and new. I am who I am. My great great grandmother breathes warmth on my cheek, prepares to leave me, “Pookaawa, sokapii (child, be good).” I answer, “Wait! Forgive me my stumbles—on the land, on the language, on life.” She makes the branches rustle, a wave. Is gone. I walk home. I am home. The mountain accepts me.


Black Bear facts
The Bobcat
NC Museum of the Cherokee
The Blackfoot