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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required There were seven Indian Government schools. All built alike. The one I'm writing about is Spring Creek. He Dog, Soldier Creek and White River, Grass Mountain, Two Kettle, and Black Pipe were the other schools. The Headquarters for these schools was at Rosebud, South Dakota. On some summer evenings we were able to talk our mothers into hiking to the lookout tower. We followed the ankle deep sandy trail road to the cliff north of the school., A canyon lay at the foot of the tower but we climbed the bluff. I don't know why we didn't explore the canyon unless it seemed dark and sinister. The footing was better once we reached the summit. The closer we got to the tower the taller it grew and standing at the foot of the steps looking up was easier than getting to the top and looking down. My mother didn't usually make it to the top because she didn't like heights. But she didn't mind being left behind this time. We never could get into the building at the top because it was locked, but we could climb the steps to the very last one. Even my little sister managed to elude mom and followed us to the top. From the bluff we could look down on the garden. My aunt grew a huge garden and canned the produce for the hot meals served the school children. We kids didn't work in the garden very often, but we looked for the arrow heads and fossils. Which, I suspect the adults probably considered the best place for us. At the end of the road, living in shack, was Old Lady Grease. I have a vague recollection of seeing her. Tiny, frail, wrinkled and gray headed is all I can remember. In spring and fall we were in school in Kansas. It's Christmas now. Cold and usually snowy. We were in a winter wonder land. I'm standing at the fire escape window. The ghostly pale full moon is illuminating the naked arms of the trees as they shiver in the wind, swaying to and fro as if dancers in a ballet. I listen to the winter sounds. The frigid air enhances their sharpness. The ax's thud echoes up the canyon as one of the Indians across the river chops another supply of wood. One of his peers beats on the drum. It is one-thirty a. m. but the thin walls of the tents do not keep the cold out. Day or night this chore must be attended to for survival.
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