A Bug's Life — And Death

Who’d of thunk it? A 50 year old memory sparked by an upside down bug on the concrete. I had passed this large bug for two days straight, morning and evening on the way to my car. I thought it was dead and  dismissed it without emotion as a “circle of life” episode. I fully expected it to be carried away by a larger carnivorous species but on the third morning, it was still there. I realized it was upside down, I personally didn’t think that was a good way to go so I stooped and flipped it over. It’s antenna’s started moving first and then it’s trembly little legs wobbled. I sat in the car and watched as he slowly regained his faculties and grinning,  pulled out of my yard.

That silly little bug made my morning, that is so crazy! Then as I was driving on down the road, it came back, just as real as it had been 50 years earlier. I recalled a memory crypt neatly filed under the heading teacher and bug.
   
When I was in second grade, I had a teacher named Miss Joy. And, what a joy she was, both to me and my classmates. I remember lot’s of smiles and fun projects; role playing our way through the Dick and Jane book series, counting with found objects, egg shell art (you can’t do this today, because of the threat of salmonella.) Everything was an adventure in her class.

When she announced the Christmas classroom door decorating contest, we were so excited. Our work was praised as we painted and glittered our individual contributions for the entry. Our art went to the door just as it was on our table, a  mish mash of of creativity. Miss Joy’s addition was a garish silver tinsel border. We were proud, but then we started looking around at the other door’s down the hall. I remember thinking that ours was definitely NOT going to win. There were some beautiful foil wrapped, bowed and blitzed doors down that hall that looked more like Macy’s window creations rather than those of the classmates.

On the day of the judging we were instructed over the intercom to close our classroom door and stay inside until summoned. Hall judges caroused the corridors, we were quiet as mice. Miss Joy, stood at the door with her ear to it and grinned while holding up her shush finger. It seemed like age’s but finally the principal came over the intercom to announce that the 3 winner’s had been picked. He asked that the students come out to see if their door had a ribbon, congratulate the winners and then come quietly back to their classroom. We walked out to my foretold expectation of a prize-less door while shrieks of glee came from several of the gallery worthy classroom’s.  We congratulated and filed back into our class. I remember wondering about Miss Joy, why is she still smiling? And — she’s passing out bags of candy to each of us with a ribbon tied to the bag that says “Winner.”

We were too young to understand her logic even if she had tried to explain it, and she didn’t. But now I do understand her. We really were winners, and not in the sense that “Everyone’s a winner.” We did what was instructed. Our teacher supplied materials and we each individually created the door. And — we had fun!!  
 
Life moves forward and winter turned to spring. I don’t recall anything about Miss Joy until the last day I saw her. We started each school morning by lining up single file on the cool concrete wall until the teacher arrived to open the door at the ring of the bell. One morning as we walked into our classroom Miss Joy found a huge dead  palmetto bug on the floor. She was an expressive teacher and I remember that she was sad. She reached into her pocket book and brought out a box of matches. She dumped the matches out and scooped the dead bug up with a piece of paper, put it into the matchbox and closed it.
At the recess bell she asked us to stay with her for a moment as we exited the double doors into the playground. She reached into her pocket and brought out the matchbox. We followed her over to the edge of the playground near the fence. She knelt and dug a hole in the sandy dirt and placed the roach coffin into the dirt and covered it. Then we were excused to go play. I remember stares from other teachers as we left the fence.

The following morning as we filed up to our classroom door, another teacher opened the door for us and the next day, and the next. The class by now wants to know where Miss Joy is. The principal came in one morning and leaned back onto the desk and called us to attention. “I know that you are wondering where your teacher is. Miss Joy has become ill and won’t be returning.”

Days later one of the girls in the class told me at recess that her mama told her that Miss Joy was excused from her job because she had a mental breakdown. I didn’t have any idea what the word mental meant at this time, I did know breakdown could be anything from the furnace to the car. So, I was in limbo, with most of the rest of the class I am sure.

Later I learned what a mental breakdown was. But I have to say that IF, she was indeed “insane”, she was by far more sane than what I had encountered so far at that age in the “normal” world.

When I came home, sure enough the bug was gone. I don’t want to know if a raven swooped down for breakfast, an irony not impossible after it’s 3 day suffering while looking up at the world, but I am satisfied that he was upright and alive when I left him.

Now I was too young at the time to know if there were other signs that suggested true mental illness, but I do wonder if this dear teacher was classified as mental because she didn’t fit protocol.
Friedrich Nietzsche: And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.

150 Year Old Sioux Medicine Man's Headdress returns to it's rightful home

About 15 years ago I walked into an art gallery in the quaint town of Germanton, NC. As the heavy door closed behind me so did the bright October light outside. When my eyes adjusted to the soft light and beauty, I felt I’d slid down an exceptionally nice rabbit hole.
Bottles of wine laden with award winning medals beckoned me to their counter but it was only 10 o’clock so I sashayed through the aisles of local and world renowned art while listening to beautiful Celtic & Indian music.

David Simpson peeked out of the back with a Cheshire cat grin and welcomed me to his Wonderland. It was the first of many visits to Germanton Art Gallery. I would pop in periodically over the years to check out the latest art, buy a bottle of wine, or just talk. We have similar interest - his Lumbee Indian heritage, my Cherokee and — a mutual love of history.

David and Judy Simpson own Germanton Art Gallery, established in 1981. They are lovers and creators of art, gentle activists of the land who advocate preserving the earth’s resources and — they grow some mighty fine grapes.

We moved back to Charleston 6 years ago, but I still keep up with David via Facebook and visit when we are in the area. I love to share his jewel in the hills and took a friend with me on a return trip 2 years ago. David was piddling around and getting ready for an art show, possibly their annual Plein Air exhibit.

Per usual as we browsed David filled me in on the dispositions of various artists’.
While doing so his eyes lit up and he said, “You need to come look at this!” He led us to his frame shop in the back and stopped. “It’s a Lakota/Sioux medicine man’s war bonnet.” he told me pointing to a full Indian headdress cascading off of a frame. He smiled when he saw my mouth drop. I was totally awestruck. Buffalo skull cap, eagle feathers affixed to a French fur trader blanket, U.S. Calvary buttons sewn onto the blanket and tied to right horn, intricate bead work across the front band and lastly, Porcupine quills spaced between the two horns which means it was worn in battle.

“Where in the world did you get this?” I asked him.
“I frequently displayed paintings of my friend and painter Gordon Phillips. Gordon was a painter of all things American west and later in life - depictions of Civil War life. Gordon actually lived with the Sioux Indians on their reservation in South Dakota for a time, he painted tribal members and depictions of the Sioux lifestyle during that period. Because of  rising crime on the reservations elders were hiding and selling many artifacts to keep them out of the hands of thieves. This headdress was a trade during this time of his life with the Sioux. Gordon had quite a historical collection at his home. Gordon noticed how fond I was of the headdress when I was visiting him once and told me that if I sold a significant piece of his work that he would give it to me. I didn’t think anything more of it. Well, apparently a piece that I’d shown a friend sold a bit later.
Not too long after Gordon died, my shop door opened and his son walked in with a box. He placed the box on the counter and said “My dad said this is yours.”
It was this headdress. Judy and I kept it at the house for a while but discussed returning it to the Sioux nation. We have taken road trips every year and decided this year the headdress was going to return to it’s native home.
I contacted Aileen Maxwell at NAMU Smithsonian to help up research the headdress’s origin. They in turn passed the information on to Emil Her Many Horses who is the Senior curator at the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington D.C.

We can’t thank Emil enough for the research and helping us to find out where the headdress came from. Emil Her Many Horses called one day to tell me that they identified the headdress as belonging to the Sioux nation and then helped us arrange contact with the Heritage Center at Red Cloud Indian School in  Pine Ridge South Dakota.

We enjoyed our annual road trip out west with the headdress in the vehicle. It felt so good to hand over this important piece of history to Mary Maxon. It will be restored at the Heritage Center and remain there for exhibit.”

David sent me an update to the story, the forensic analysis of the headdress! It is determined to be about 150 years old. Check out the link below.

David & Judy Simpson, thank you! I hope your story becomes part of it’s history. You’ve made the world a better place for me and I hope that the Heritage Center will consider the trail from NC back to South Dakota as part of it’s history.

As Hurricane Matthew whips up the coast tonight, I finished this essay. I tapped it out slowly throughout the day, savoring gratitude —both mine and possibly of spirits long since gone. It’s kind of staggering to think of the twists and turns in life forged years ahead that allowed me to be in the art gallery at this exact time to participate in this historical event.

I look forward to seeing David and visiting the gallery once again. I hope to take him a signed copy of Charleston’s own Josephine Humphrey’s, “Nowhere Else on Earth.” He will love this story and it’s reference and history to his own native Lumbee heritage.

Preservation of heritage isn’t separatism, it is survival —  unique to each culture.    .