Excerpts from my memoir, True Tales of Whitethorn

Good morning everyone: Today I am going to publish an excerpt from my book, True Tales of Whitethorn.

TRUE TALES OF WHITETHORN
Somewhere near the Lost Coast, California
Circa 1947

Loggers and Indians: Trick or Treat
I was nine years old when this took place.

Although my grandmother, Blanche Doers is half Welsh, I think she looks like the Indian Chiefs you see in those old, faded photographs. She is almost six feet tall, has a long nose, and looks very serious. She also knows how to stalk a deer and is a crack shot. When hunting season comes around, she won’t go hunting with the men. She hikes alone into the hills and always comes back with a deer. If the men should return empty handed, she has a good laugh.

Tonight we are all feasting on my grandma’s deer. My mom has fried deer meat and baked potatoes and opened a can of green beans. She divides the potatoes and beans up between the four of us and places a big platter of lip-smacking deer meat in the middle of the table. Al, my step-father, moves the Coleman lantern to the back of the table to make room for the pile of steaks. I dive right in and fork up a big juicy piece, lather lots of butter on it, cut off a chunk, and wolf it down.

“You’re a great hunter,” I tell my grandmother, as I chew down on the deer meat. “I bet you could even out hunt the Indians that used to live here.”

She flashes a rare smile. “I don’t think I’m as good as an Indian, but I’m a better shot than the lumberjacks who work in the mills and the loggers who cut down the trees.”

“I sure wish I was an Indian,” I say.

“I’ve always told you, you might be part Indian,” my mother reminds me. “Your father still can’t get a drink in a bar, unless the bartender knows him, because of his dark skin, straight black hair, and dark brown eyes.”

“What does looking like an Indian have to do with buying a drink?” I ask, my mouth still working on the meat.

“It’s against the law to sell liquor to Indians.”

“Why?”

“They say Indians get crazy when they drink so they passed a law about not selling to them,” she replies.

“You better hope you’re not part Indian,” says Al, who has been busy gulping down a chunks of meat. “Last Saturday night a bunch of Indians came up here and tried to get drinks at the Bar. They probably thought they could get away with it because we’re so far out in the mountains. But we don’t want Indians up here causing trouble.”

“Were you there?” I ask.

“I was home playing pinochle with your mother. I heard the bar was already filled with lumberjacks and loggers having drinks and playing cards when the Indians walked in. Everybody froze, bottles of beer hanging half way to their mouths. A couple of men stepped in front of the Indians and told them to get out and go back to wherever the hell they came from.”

I feel myself getting mad. The loggers had no right to treat the Indians like this. “Did they leave?”

“They sure didn’t. As they shoved their way up to the bar, big ol’ Mel Turner took a swing at one of ‘em and everyone else piled on and started slugging away.”

Copyright 2008