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Isabelle Effinger Johnson |
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Isabelle Effinger Johnson |
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by Patricia Johnson Parhad
One of them, a brown wrinkly faced squaw, revealed to my mother that she was called "Lizzy" - in English and my minds-eye still retains the sight of her even though I could not have been more than 5 years old at the time. Within weeks after the warm spring winds melted Lancaster's snowbanks, then sent them gently seeping downward into the rich black earth, summer arrived - complete with fresh grass and poplar trees which were a vivid contrasting sight complimented by the black farmland fields. My little friends, Aldora, Gerane and I, were now of sufficient age to secure tiny bits of freedom to investigate our interesting environment. While searching for thick sweet Juneberries in a woodland east of town, we soaked up the hot sun and turned tan, healthy and ever curious, loving life. Loud of voice, fast of limb, we excelled in boisterious games of Run-Sheep-Run, slid flat stones to play Hopscotch and spent every available penny at Minnie and George Dahl's local cafe, but most of all we waited for the Indians to ride in. And come they did those years, driving rickety old open cars piled impossibly high with mounds of used clothes, kitchen utensils, old rakes, shovels and sometimes, a small chair or table. Atop these precariously balanced heaps perched black haired children of all ages who, with their parents, returned our curious stares with unflinching black eyes encased in stoic faces. Always, we wanted to wave to them, to make contact, yet cowardly we would dash home quickly to seek our parents familiar comforting presence.
I remember old Lizzy approaching our backdoor, the shuffling old feet which carried her across the grass, and always she supported a very young Indian baby encased in a ragged traditional cocoon and suspended from her bent shoulders. My mother always wondered WHOSE baby that really was, yet she never asked.
Now my mother had black hair with brown eyes and was of much darker complexion than the majority of her Scandinavian friends, so maybe that is why Lizzy felt comfortable with her. They established a quiet bond of empathy, a friendship without words because mother was always telling us later, that nothing ever seemed to vanish from our garden or back shed after the suffering, impoverished Indians left town. Mother saved many things all winter to give them, unused clothing, my outgrown ones, useable old shoes, a blanket or two and when Lizzy finally did come, several big brown bags were waiting and ready. It was then also, that Mother scrambled quickly about her kitchen to find extra bread loaves, homecanned foods and once, I remember it well, she presented Lizzy with a crisp $5 bill even though my Dad commented later he did not think that was really necessary. It was that year Lizzy mumbled "Thak-ya Mis Isabela" and mother wondered how in the world Lizzy discovered her name. Before that, it always had been Mis Johnson, but something else happened too. Perhaps Lizzy instinctively realized (As Indians seem so capable of doing) that very shortly they would be placed to live their lives on government reservations - and maybe that is why while shuffling away, Lizzy remarked ............ "Goodbye Mis Isabelle". Mother was highly complimented and questioned herself about it out loud for a few days after the Indians left but soon, the incident was forgotten.
I don't remember if the Indians ever came back, but I doubt it. They and their old rickety cars piled high with fruits from begging seemed to disappear, yet Lizzy had unknowingly foretold an event which none of us would ever have dreamt could happen, for not only did the Indians disappear forever but not too much time transpired before my mother was gone too. Isabelle M. Johnson died in 1932.